Chapter 22: Labor

The first real contraction came at two in the morning, in the kitchen of the cottage, over a bowl of cold pasta.

I put my fork down and held the counter.

"Benton," I said, calmly. "I think it's tonight."

He had the car keys in his hand before I finished the sentence.

By six I was walking the hall of the maternity ward in a hospital gown and my own wool socks.

The nurse said walking helped.

I was five centimeters along, which she told me twice.

Benton walked on my left with my arm over his, and he said nothing, and he took my weight at every contraction.

Odile sat in her chair outside the room, wrapped in her grey shawl.

She had refused to go home.

"I have waited seventy-nine years to see a baby born in this family who is wanted," she said. "I'm not leaving at five centimeters."

The elevator at the end of the hall chimed.

I looked up, and Dalton stepped out of it.

He had a travel coat on, creased from a plane, and a bunch of white roses in one fist.

His face was thinner, and he had shaved badly.

For a moment nobody moved.

"Hallie," he said. "I came as soon as I heard. I'm her father."

"You're forty feet from the delivery ward," I said. "The judge said five hundred."

"I flew in from Phoenix. I only want to see her."

"No."

"I have a right."

"You have a probation officer," I said. "Do you have your permission to leave the state?"

He faltered.

Benton stepped forward, and I put my hand on his chest.

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