Another contraction squeezed Raji. The pain leaked through the epidural, drilling through her.
After a moment, she panted, “We’d better do this soon.”
Reverend Yaa asked, “Would you like music?”
A dozen people wearing pale blue choir robes peeked around the doorway into Raji’s delivery room.
“I beg your pardon?” Raji grated out.
More faces popped through the doorway.
Reverend Yaa explained, quietly, “One of our choir members concluded a long battle with brain cancer this evening, and the choir was here to sing her out. When they heard I might be performing a marriage ceremony for a couple who were bringing a baby into the world, they wondered if you would like some music to celebrate. They’ve had a hard day. I think they would love to contribute and witness you two starting your lives together.”
Peyton asked, “Raji?”
“Are they going to freak out that I’m in labor?” she asked the minister.
“Oh, no. They’re Unitarian-Universalists. They’ll be fine.”
“They’d better get in here quick,” Raji said, “and then they’d better get out of here quick or else they’re going to witness something they might not have bargained for.”
Reverend Yaa brought the choir in and ushered them over to stand behind Raji’s head so they wouldn’t be looking directly into her yoni while they were singing. While the choir sang softly behind her—and Raji had to admit that their voices were soothing as she fought her way through another contraction—the minister began saying something about the importance of marriage and the beauty of (she consulted the marriage license) Raji Kannan and Peyton Cabot declaring their love to each other and before these witnesses.
One of the choir members stopped singing and asked, “Peyton Cabot? Of Killer Valentine?”
“Alisha!” Reverend Yaa snapped. “Sanctity of marriage and the beauty of new life. Focus!”
“Sorry.”
The choir sang a lovely, wordless song, a happy harmony of voices.
Another contraction ripped through Raji, and she clutched Peyton’s hands, grunting and trying not to cry in front of the several dozen people in her delivery room.
When it ended, Peyton said to her, “All right, my delicate flower. We’re going to have you hold onto my forearms here,” he moved her hands up, “instead of my fingers. Musicians are funny about their hands. Now, you just squeeze there as hard as you want to.”
Reverend Yaa started preaching again and was just saying that she would ask the bride and groom to recite their vows, when another woman wearing blue scrubs bustled into the room.
“Hello, Dr. Kannan,” Dr. Tashi Nyima, whom Raji knew from seminars and such, sat at the foot of the exam table and took a quick glance at the circus surrounding Raji. “Let’s see where you are. Up in the stirrups, please.”
Reverend Yaa asked, “Do you want us to leave?”
“Just hurry up!” Raji told her. “Ask us the vows!”
Reverend Yaa asked Raji, “Do you, Raji Kannan, take this person, Peyton Cabot, as your lawfully wedded spouse—”
Dr. Nyima told Raji, “You’re at ten centimeters, full dilation. You can push any time you want to. Do you feel the need to push?”
“—to have and hold, to love and cherish, in sickness and in health, as long as you both reside on this Earthly plane of existance?”
Raji nodded. Another contraction swept over her, and she gripped Peyton’s forearm as her muscles spasmed.
Reverend Yaa asked, “Raji, do you take Peyton as your spouse?”
“Yes!” Raji screamed.
Darkness took over her.
The contraction receded, and Raji panted.
The minister asked, “—as long as you both reside on the this Earthly plane of existance?”
Peyton said, “I do. Raji, could you pry your fingernails out of my arm, please? Yes, Reverend. I do.”
Reverend Yaa said, “By the power vested in me by the Unitarian-Universalist Greater Los Angeles Rainbow Congregation and Reformed Coven and the State of California—”
The choir’s voices swelled in song, reaching a crescendo for the wedding ceremony.
Dr. Nyima said, “Okay, Raji. Push with this one. Here it comes!”
The choir behind Raji sang a full-throated Hallelujah! refrain.
“—I now pronounce you married as husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
“Push! You can do it!” Dr. Nyima called.
“Hallelujah!”
Peyton’s lips touched Raji’s forehead. “I love you, my wife.” He gripped her hands while the pain swept over her, drowning her. He fiddled with her left hand and slipped her wedding ring down next to the ornate engagement ring. “I love you.”
A tiny, soprano cry joined the Hallelujah chorus.
Dr. Nyima said, “It’s a girl!”Chapter Forty-EightBeth and MomPeyton leaned over the pillow, trying to curl around Raji, his wife—his love and his life—and his child.
When he had seen that terrible article in the magazine, every cell in his body had been desperate to get to Raji, to protect her from the reporters and Xan’s counter-spin, even if she might reject him again.
Seeing Raji and their child had multiplied his protective instinct a thousandfold. A simmering rage waited just outside his soul, ready to unleash on anyone who threatened them. The energy vibrated within him.