U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

The two were left alone in the patient bay with the curtain pulled around it for privacy. Greg didn’t see that they had any choice but to call his parents and ask for help. Shelly pitched the same fit she always pitched. Greg tuned her out. The hospital notified the obstetrician on call and he was there within the hour. There was a murmured conference at the nurses’ station before the doctor came into the cubicle. He introduced himself as Dr. Frantz. Greg was asked to wait in the hall while he did a pelvic exam.

Greg went back to the waiting room to check on Shawn, who was watching television, an activity ordinarily forbidden. Greg returned to the admissions desk and asked to use the phone. He called his parents and told them what was going on. Patrick asked to speak to the admissions clerk and he apparently convinced her that all charges would be covered, saying he and his wife were on their way down. Greg returned to the curtained cubicle where he could hear Shelly shrieking at the doctor, telling him where he could stick his fucking finger in his fucking rubber glove. A nurse at the far end of the hall turned and gave him a look. Greg closed his eyes. He wished, just once, she’d act like a normal human being. Everything was a fight. Everything was a major uproar. He was exhausted by the strain of trying to soothe and contain her fury.

The doctor pulled the curtain aside and asked Greg to come in. Shelly’s feet were out of the stirrups by then and she was sitting on the gurney with the sheet pulled around her and tucked under her arms, so furious she refused to look at either one of them. The nurse busied herself, studiously avoiding Greg as well. Dr. Frantz told them the presentation was breech, buttocks first, legs folded in front. He suggested a C-section, but Shelly was vehement about a vaginal birth. It was her right. Nobody could tell her what to do. The doctor was carefully neutral, his face blank. He acceded to her wishes “for the moment,” as he put it. Shelly said, “Ha ha ha!” to his back. Greg thought the guy would turn around and punch her, but he continued down the hall, his heels clicking smartly on the polished tile floor.

She was admitted. After the nurse attached her hospital band she put Shelly in a wheelchair to take her upstairs to the labor and delivery unit. Greg accompanied them as far as the elevator and waited until the door closed before he returned to the waiting room. The quiet was a blessing. Deborah and Patrick arrived. By then, Shawn was curled up asleep on a plastic chair in one corner. Patrick took him back to the house while Deborah went up the elevator with Greg and sat with Shelly for the next four hours. Twice the doctor managed to turn the baby, but the baby flipped right back. Deborah had to give Shelly credit for the fact that she endured hard labor without uttering a peep. Of course, she was putting both herself and the baby at risk.

After thirteen hours, when little or no progress had been made, Dr. Frantz laid down the law. Deborah was allowed to remain in the room while he explained the impasse. If the fetus was born bottom first, there was a possibility the body would fit through the mother’s pelvis, but the baby’s head would most likely get stuck at the level of the chin. With this condition, known as a trapped head, the possibility of injury was high. Once the baby’s body emerged, the umbilical cord would cease to pulsate, which would cut off the oxygen supply. With the baby’s head still inside, the infant wouldn’t breathe on its own. Without surgical intervention, there was a better than even chance the baby would die.

It seemed clear to Deborah there was only one choice. She wanted to shake Shelly until her head rattled, the answer was so obvious. Even Greg was in favor, urging Shelly to consent. By then, she was too worn down to protest. They prepped her for surgery and rolled her into the delivery room. Patricia Lorraine Unruh was born on July 14, 1963: six pounds, four ounces; twenty inches long; and bald as an egg. Greg and Shelly called her Rain.

Deborah went home and had a stiff drink.

Shelly and the baby were in the hospital three days. Greg spent most of that time at her side while Deborah was left to cope with Shawn. At first, whatever Deborah suggested, he would voice the doctrine according to his mother, reciting her tenets as an article of faith. It was nearly comical hearing Shelly’s sentiments coming from a six-year-old. Deborah moved ahead without argument and soon Shawn was sharing lunch with her. The two of them had adventures—the botanical garden, the beach, the Museum of Natural History. The boy was not only bright but interested and quick to learn. Deborah revised her view of him and began to enjoy his company, especially once he went back to wearing clothes. He had a sense of whimsy she hadn’t seen before.

Shelly came home, still in pain, incapacitated in the aftermath of the cesarean. Deborah offered her the use of the guest room while she recovered. Shelly was fragile and her defenses were down. She moved into the house without putting up a fight while Greg and Shawn remained in the yellow school bus. She withdrew, staying under the covers with the curtains in the room pulled shut. She seemed to be suffering postpartum depression, but Deborah realized it was something else altogether. She was humiliated, not angry so much as silenced now that Nature had betrayed her and she had nothing to boast about. How could she espouse her many closely held convictions when she’d failed something as elementary as the natural delivery she’d anticipated with such confidence? She’d had the wind knocked out of her sails. In the absence of dogma, she was strangely deflated. Deborah looked on from the sidelines, wanting to reach out but not daring to do so. Any gesture on her part would signal a compassion that Shelly was ill equipped to receive.