Page 108 of The Last Train Home
I laugh. This is mental. ‘Samantha couldn’t wait to get an epidural. Practically put it in herself.’
‘Samantha’s his wife,’ a drowsy Abbie tells the midwife.
‘Oh,’ she says and gives me a curious look.
‘Ex-wife,’ I say. ‘Sort of. We’re not divorced yet. Separated, though.’ Stop talking, Tom. Too much detail.
The midwife looks between us, trying to work out what’s going on here.
‘We’re just friends,’ I say quickly. ‘Abbie and me, I mean. Not Samantha and me. Although—’
‘Shut up, Tom,’ Abbie shouts and clenches my hand. ‘I need to push.’
‘Not yet, Abbie,’ the midwife says. ‘Soon, but not yet. I’m just going to go and get a colleague.’
‘Why is she leaving?’ Abbie looks at me desperately. ‘Why is she leaving?’
‘It’s OK,’ I tell her, but I don’t know if this is a lie or not. This feels wrong. When Samantha’s contractions were this close together, the midwives told her to push. Why isn’t she dilated enough?
‘I need to push,’ she says conspiratorially. ‘Can I push?’ She wants me to say yes.
‘Don’t,’ I tell her. ‘Not yet. It’ll be OK.’
Another midwife enters the room, bright and breezy. ‘Hello,’ she says, drawing out the word. She snaps on a glove, dives right in. ‘I need to see what’s going on up here.’
Bloody hell. I wince again. Abbie winces, her eyes boring into mine to make it all stop. I’m totally out of my depth here. I have no control over any of this. ‘She’s in a lot of pain,’ I say unnecessarily, because Abbie screams again as a contraction hits.
‘They’re too close together, aren’t they?’ Abbie screams through her contraction.
The midwife doesn’t comment.
‘It’s been hours,’ I say. ‘I know it’s supposed to take a long time. But … is this right? It feels all wrong.’
‘What?’ Abbie asks. ‘Why? Why?’ I wish I hadn’t said that out loud.
‘You’re not dilated enough yet, Abbie,’ one of the midwives says.
They talk in hushed tones. Her contractions are coming too fast for how many centimetres she’s dilated.
‘Don’t let them take me for a C-section,’ Abbie begs. Her green eyes bore into mine. ‘Tom, please. Help me. Don’t let them put me to sleep. Promise me.’
‘I can’t promise you that,’ I say. ‘You need what’s best for the baby and for you. But it will be OK.’
‘Stop saying that,’ she cries and then tears mix with sweat down her face and I wipe her red cheeks again. Her fingers wrap around my hand. ‘Please, Tom,’ she says weakly.
‘Oh God, Abbie.’ I hold her hand in return. ‘We need to do what we’re told and we’ll be OK.’
‘We?’ she questions and then closes her eyes, briefly. ‘Tom?’ she says and her eyes ping open.
I nod.
‘Why don’t we talk any more?’
She’s delirious on gas and air. ‘We’re talking now,’ I say.
‘Why didn’t we see each other for all that time?’
‘I’m here now. We’re here now.’ I brush hair from her face.
