Chapter 22: The Delivery Room

Rodrigo's POV

The labour ward smelled of antiseptic and warm towels, and a clock over the bed said ten past nine.

Valeria's mother stood at the head of the bed, a tall grey woman who had flown from Madrid in the spring.

She and Valeria had not spoken for a year, until the spring.

They did not speak about that now. She held her daughter's hand, and wiped her forehead with a cloth, and that was all that needed to be said.

I stood at the other side, in a paper gown, with my hands useless at my sides.

"Rodrigo," said Valeria, between two breaths.

"I'm here."

"Hold my other hand."

I took it.

She gripped so hard that I heard a bone shift, and I did not say a word.

For four hours she did what she had done in operating theatres for fifteen years.

She breathed, and counted, and gave orders to the midwife as if the midwife were an intern.

"Not yet," she told the midwife at eleven.

"Dr. Quiroga, it's your body."

"It's my body and my schedule. I'll tell you when."

Her mother laughed, a short dry bark, and Valeria glared at her, and then both of them were laughing.

It was the first time I'd seen them do it.

At a quarter to one in the morning, Valeria turned her face toward me, grey and soaked with sweat.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"I can't, Rodrigo, I can't do this."

I thought of every cardiac patient she had ever walked into a cold room to tell the truth.

"Vale. Look at me."

She looked.

"You are the bravest person I have ever met. You told a full board you were wrong. This is smaller."

"This is not smaller!"

"It's smaller than that, and you did that in a white coat."

She stared at me, and then she screamed, and pushed.

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