“You thought that before.”
“Yeah,” she says, “but my water just broke.”
*****
“Breathe!” Christine yells. “Come on, now! It’s not that bad!”
Not that bad?
I hold my hand against my chest and wonder if I’m having an actual heart attack. I’ve never felt such pain before and almost wish I were just sewing up another gunshot wound.
I’m going to be a father.
“I…I…I can’t!”
“Goddammit, Falk!” Christine pulls back and slaps me across the face. “You get your shit together, man! That baby is going to be born any minute now!”
The shock of her hitting me has the same effect as being shocked with a defibrillator. My heart starts beating again, and I finally draw breath.
“I can’t handle this shit,” I tell her.
“You get your ass in there, Falk Eckhart!” Christine hauls back, this time with a closed fist.
“All right! All right!” I head back into the bedroom where Hannah is on all fours with Katrina poised behind her like a World Cup goalie.
“Almost there, Hannah,” Katrina says softly. “Just a few more times!”
I can see the baby’s head, and I almost throw up. I start to turn and run out, but Christine is right there, a fist at the ready.
I go back to the foot of the bed where Hannah is kneeling and crouch down beside her. She looks over at me, her face red with sweaty hair hanging in her eyes. I push a few of the strands off her forehead.
“I love you, Hannah,” I say softly.
“I kinda hate you right now,” she replies. She squeezes her eyes shut and her arms begin to shake.
“One more big push, Hannah!” Katrina calls out. “Come on!”
“You got this, Hannah.” I lay my hand on the back of her neck. “You’re the strongest woman in the world.”
She shifts her hand and places it over mine on the floor, gripping it ti
ghtly. She takes in a big breath, holds it, and her face practically turns purple.
A moment later, I hear a cry.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Katrina is squealing. “It’s a boy! Hannah, you have a little boy!”
Holy fuck, she was right!
“Is he okay?” Marco and Sam ask in unison.
“He’s perfect.” Christine kneels next to Katrina with a pair of surgical scissors to clamp and cut the cord. “Falk, give me that blanket.”
He’s got all his fingers and toes.
He’s wrinkled and streaked with blood and yellow mucus. His eyes stay closed, but he keeps opening and closing his mouth. The cries that come out of him are barely audible.
“Falk—the blanket!”