Rachel Schmidt
One More Day, Baby
A cramping pain in my lower back wakes me to the sound of thunder. The house is quiet except for the effects of the storm. Even my daughter, Greta, two years old and still waking every few hours each night, appears to be asleep. Another contraction squeezes the rounded mass of my belly and I groan, throwing off the blankets and shifting as if this is only a matter of positioning.
It feels like I only just fell asleep.
Already my mind is back to where I was before bed. An anxious spiral about Patrick’s latest flight delay that fanned the panic from the previous four canceled homecomings. The scab-pulling thought cycle of where-the-fuck-is-my-husband and why-isn’t-he-here? I don’t even want to check my phone, an act so habitual that I’m forced to purposefully avoid it now. Because I don’t want to hear that his flight to Dublin isn’t just late but worse, not happening. That once again, he’s not on a plane like he’s meant to be.
I’ve been so annoyed with each new date, each pushed out reunion, that we’ve stopped Facetiming. The only communication I want is news that he’s actually begun the journey home. I don’t want to hear about how much his tent sucks. I don’t want his impersonations of the other Airmen in his unit, especially not his version of the old civilian contractor whose voice is hoarse from years of cigarettes and sandstorms. Even Patrick’s promises to take over all the childcare as soon as he’s home, to change every diaper single-handedly, don’t mean anything when I’m thirty-eight weeks pregnant and he’s still not back.
The window rattles, rain smattering the glass under a gust of wind, and I worry that I’m about to get an alarm for another tornado warning. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and pretend that I’m home in Bangor. That my best friend isn’t overseas and that all of my family is only a few blocks away. That I’m not stuck in the sticky south with its claustrophobic humidity and calligraphy Jesus-merch tee shirts.
I breathe into the next contraction. It’s false labor, been happening for days. No reason to panic. With Greta, I had to be induced after forty-one weeks. And the OB checked me not even four days ago. One centimeter dilated, putting me on the same course as my last pregnancy. A late delivery.
And Patrick will be here. He will. He should already be en route to Dublin, where he’ll hang out for a few hours before the next long leg. He’ll make it in time to help me deliver our second born. And Mom’s flight comes in three days. She’ll be able to stay with Greta.
I rally myself by tracing each eyebrow with the edge of my thumb and then check my phone, hopeful that this time will be different. That this time there won’t be an apology message, or some ill-advised plea for flexibility and patience. Instead, there’s only a black screen. The unlock button is unresponsive. It makes no sense that the phone is dead, it’s plugged in. I bend further away from the bed, checking the wall. The USB male connection lies on the floor. The female connection attached to the wall an empty, bottomless canal that mirrors the hollowing between my legs. My center of gravity is shifting all over again.
Another wave of tightening and I grit my teeth. I need to walk this off. To move.
Once the pain becomes a manageable soreness, I swing my legs to the edge of the bed and push off. Maneuvering my belly around the table, I plug the cord into the wall charger, reuniting male and female and thus, the closest thing I’ve had to sex in months. It takes a moment for the green power indicator to flicker on.
After it does, I stretch, leaning from one side to the other.
The rain abates as I make my way to the main portion of the house. Away from the windows, the house is silent except for the background hum of the air conditioning. My toes spread against the cool, hard tile. A welcome and yet unwelcome reminder of my swelling feet.
I walk until I reach Greta’s room. She sleeps starfished across the small mattress, her Daddy Doll, a bullet-shaped pillow with Patrick’s photo printed onto the soft canvas, peeking through the rails of her crib. I consider leaving him stranded there but then tuck him closer to her. I wish I could lay down next to her. To somehow push the curls off her forehead without waking her, breathing her in and fusing our bodies together once more. Both my babies a part of me, all three of our heartbeats thrumming in time together. Before I disturb her, I back away, closing the door behind me as gently as I can manage.
I don’t make it far before another contraction hits. Steadying myself on the wall, I count as if trying to determine how far away the storm outside truly is. One Mississippi, inhaling and exhaling long and slow on each -iss. Two Mississippi. Thunder rattles the house, mocking my attempt at control.
If this is labor, then the biggest issue will be deciding what to do about Greta. At the last prenatal appointment, after the OB had checked for dilation and measured my belly, she had gestured toward her.
“What are you going to do with this one?” the doctor asked. “She can’t be with you during the birth. Not without supervision. And even then, I don’t recommend it.”
“My mom’s coming into town,” I said. “And my husband is coming home soon. He’ll watch her if the baby comes early.”
“You’d give birth alone?”
I shrugged. As long as Greta was taken care of, I’d do what I had to.
“And what if you go into labor before your mom arrives, and before your husband returns?”
“That won’t happen.”
“Say it does.”
“Then I’ll call a friend.”
I’d said it simply, like that was the most obvious answer. As easy as picking up the phone and dialing. If the doctor noticed that my cheeks were flushed, my voice too wavering to be sincere, she didn’t say. She probably thought I was just growing flustered at the thought of going to the hospital alone. Worried that my husband might not get back in time. How was she to know that her question was salt on the wound of my isolation? How was she to know that the military community pictured in films, wives gathering daily, people introducing themselves with baskets of baked goods, all of it, is actually a product of luck and not routine?
And I haven’t been lucky here. I’ve had to smile and pretend to relate to women who bless my heart after I tell them I wish I was working. Who try to convince me that time flies too fast to spend it worried about the three-year gap in my resume. That this is time with Greta I’ll never get back.
When we bought our house, the realtor called the neighborhood military friendly, and I hoped we’d meet other young families. But after living here a year, the only other uniform we’ve seen is the cop’s across the street. And friendly extends to our next-door neighbor whose eye darting, lip-licking hello initially prompted me to scan the local sex-offenders listing site for his photo.
Sometimes I drive Greta to base around dinnertime for another walk around the track. My husband assures me that with the cop across the way it’d be safe here as well. But I don’t feel comfortable walking Greta alone when, as soon as the sun begins to set, our neighborhood is perfumed by pot. The house responsible for the smell is frequented by a steady exchange of cars whose subwoofer beats pound behind my eyes, setting my teeth on edge.
Another contraction takes hold and I brace myself against the archway leading into the kitchen. It has to have been at least five minutes since the last. That’s good, in bed they had seemed much closer together. And by now, my phone should be charged.
Wind makes the maple tree out back groan, loud enough that I can hear it beyond the walls of the dining room. I pause, breathing out, trying not to let my imagination run wild. Lightning turns the kitchen windows into squares of light before a boom rattles them back into darkness. A click and the green digital clock above the stove goes out. The faint hum of the AC stops. Silence.
And then another contraction. Surely, my phone has some charge to it by now. I need to call someone to help with Greta. Gripping either side of my lower back, kneading as if I could simply massage the pain into submission, I walk back to the room.
Worst case scenario, I’ll have enough battery life to call for help. I can drive myself to the hospital after I call the commander’s wife. Leadership is always obligated to help. And although I don’t know her super well, Patrick likes her husband, quick to tell me how much he respects the man’s leadership. If he trusts him, I can trust her. At least for the day that I’d need her. Because Patrick will be home to take over tomorrow. He will. He must.
Twice, I stop to breathe through the pain, holding my belly and moaning. By the time I reach the nightstand, it’s like I’m straddling a beach ball. I’m sure the contractions are less than three minutes apart. I reach for the phone. My battery is at five percent.
Before I can do anything with it though, I need the bathroom. It can’t wait. I furniture surf through the darkness, hugging the wall and blinking away the image of giving birth over the toilet. The rain returns with a vengeance, pounding the roof.
Back in the room, the phone is down to four percent. But at least Patrick has texted, reporting that they boarded the military flight that would take them into Dublin. Celebratory GIFs featuring champagne bottles pop and froth across the screen. In another, sports fans sink to their knees in the bleachers, fists raised in tear-streaked gratitude for the win. I try to take heart in his optimism.
Tightness redoubles around my middle. Animated texts continue to flash across the screen. I close my eyes and consider my options. I’ve handled everything all by myself for so long. Too long. I don’t want to have to do this alone too. I don’t want to get into the car and risk giving birth in the dirt on the side of the road, Greta screaming from her car seat because I woke her up the one night she finally decided to sleep. I don’t want to call a near-stranger to come to my house and care for my baby. I don’t want to do all of that just to find out that labor is going to last thirty hours like last time. Contractions punctuate every single one of these thoughts.
I breathe out, long and slow, giving myself one more minute to dwell in the misery of my decision fatigue. When I open my eyes, I message Patrick back without pictures or fanfare, without the accusatory language I’d like to use. Only the truth. I’m having a lot of contractions.
The text stays marked as delivered. Not yet read.
My eyes burn and I gulp my next breaths. Typing it is easier than saying it aloud. I think I’m having this baby. I don’t say what I want to say. That he’s supposed to be here. That as the father, as my partner, he’s obligated to be here.
The screen goes black again.
I’ve wasted what little battery life there was. Now, I’ll have to wait until the power returns to call for someone to watch Greta.
I don’t know what will happen if I just skirt the rules and bring her with me. I’m confident it’d be illegal for the hospital to turn us away. But what if they did?
Pelvic pressure forces me to arch my back. My cheeks are hot. I’m not prepared when the sob rips out of me. A loud wail that I put my hand to mouth to stifle. Greta is still asleep in the next room over. I bite into the skin of my knuckles. When Patrick and I had given ourselves a narrow window to try for this pregnancy, it was specifically to avoid this.
I want Patrick here, like we planned. I want my mother. Any of the people that are supposed to help me, care for me, love me.
Several clicks sound and the HVAC turns back on, the house groaning as air begins to pump through the ductwork in the walls. I sit beside the bed, propped over my phone, watching, waiting, for the lock screen photo of Patrick and Greta reading together to reappear.
“Please,” I say. “Please.”
It takes three minutes and two contractions.
As soon as the phone lights up, I call the commander’s wife. No answer. I hadn’t told her that I might be calling in the middle of the night. No one agreed to be available, to be on standby for a desperate, late night call. I’ve been cavalier with my snobbery and independence.
I call her again. Nothing.
I call another of the officer’s spouses, this one a working spouse. We bonded over both being in the medical field. Then she found out that I’m now a stay-at-home. A dependa with only baby stories to talk about, just like all the other Bless-Your-Hearts. I’m sure she would never be caught in a situation like this, with limited options for people to call, and no one on hand two weeks before a due date. She’s self-sufficient, confident. Probably flush with friends from work. I hang up before the voicemail message ends.
There isn’t anyone else I can think of.
A pop at the very base of my belly, an overcurrent that sizzles, sweeping my body, silences my worry. It takes an extra second to recognize that my underwear and shorts are soaked, water snaking down my leg and puddling on the floor between my feet.
The next contraction is torture. I lean into the bed, waiting for it to relent before I position myself so that my elbows rest on the mattress, my pregnant belly hanging above the ground. My knees wobble. I fight through it to remain upright because I have to find someone to take care of Greta. But how can I do what’s best for both my babies?
If I dial 9-1-1, will the EMTs deliver me at home? Allowing Greta to sleep until her usual six-thirty wakeup time? They’d want to take me to the hospital after though, and I’d still be forced to find a place for Greta to stay. Someone to come pick her up.
Desperate now, I call the squadron commander’s wife again.
Before I hear a ring, everything mutes and all I can think is that I need to push. My body is beyond my control. I lower to my knees and drop onto my butt, scooting until I am against the wall and facing the bed, rocking back onto my hips and inching my feet so my knees point upward.
The need to push ebbs. I drag myself back to the bed on my side, pulling the comforter down until it hits the floor, the section that wraps around my phone falling with a loud thunk. I call emergency services and, gritting my teeth and crying out, pull the comforter between my legs. I tug the bottom half of my clothes off.
“I’m having a baby,” I say to the cool-voiced operator. “My water’s broken and I’ve got to push. I’m pushing.”
The operator keeps talking but I drop the phone. Their voice is tinny from the ground. I grab behind each of my knees, pulling my thighs into myself and bellow, an animal on some nature documentary.
“Patrick!” I cry his name between breaths. As if he could somehow hear me, up in the air and flying over Belgium, the Channel, across the belly of England to Dublin, where he’ll land and have only the one Guinness, wanting to break the half-year enforced sobriety, but assuring me that despite the long layover, he’ll be level-headed and available the second he lands. He should be here now. Available now. He’d said he was coming home days ago. Weeks ago. Eyes blurry from crying, my nose running and mirroring the sticky release from between my legs, I call out for him again.
“Mama?” Greta’s voice carries through the house. “Mama?”
“I’m okay,” I sob. “I’m okay.” I grunt into the next push, demanding myself to stay quiet, desperately hoping that my toddler will go back to sleep.
The phone buzzes against the floor.
I fumble, pawing along until I find it. It’s the commander’s wife, calling me back. I manage to answer, repeating my address and some nonsense that sinks into puddled pleases.
A pounding on the door. Muffled voices shouting to ask if anyone is home. Greta’s cries transfer to the background when the world kaleidoscopes behind the back of my eyelids. I focus on the tunneling need to bear down. I scrunch my face and hold my breath, squeezing my abdominal muscles with all the force I can muster. Mashing my stomach as if I can accordion myself in, and the baby out.
A ripping crack from across the house and now the voices from before are loud. Calling out. Asking where I am.
On the next release, I’m aware that the bedroom lights are on. A man is kneeling in front of me, his head blocked by my contorted belly.
A searing sensation stretches me. I throw my head back. Gloves snap.
“Nearly there,” the man says.
“My daughter,” I moan. “My husband’s deployed. He’ll be home tomorrow.”
“The baby’s coming,” he says.
I push and shout as my face bunches. My teeth chattering.
“Greta is in her crib,” I say. “She’s awake.”
“My colleague is with your daughter.”
A cramping force detaches my mind from me. I float above the whole scene. My body is below, blood and shit staining the comforter that we’d bought last Christmas, the EMT’s hands cupped before my stretched vagina. Made full and solid by my baby’s crowning head. Another EMT takes readings from a blood pressure cuff wrapped round my right upper arm and taps onto a handheld iPad. I want to leave this behind. To get to Greta and make sure that someone really is with her.
Pain wrenches me back to myself. I’m dizzy and increasingly aware that I can’t do this. Not alone. Not without Patrick. “I can’t.”
“You can,” says the EMT.
I set my jaw, grinding my teeth. Fixated on his mouth. A small circle forming the word, push.
“Now,” he says. “You’re almost there.”
I do. Without any more thought of Greta, whether she is okay, or whether I can carry this alone, I lean into what is required of me. I push, cleaving myself from my doubts, one body into two, leaving all else behind but the matter at hand.
“This story started as a simple what-if from when my husband was deployed and I was heavily pregnant with our second child. However, while writing, I found myself needing to use the worst-case situation to reflect my frustration with the disparity between the label, dependent, or worse, dependa, and the independence, sacrifice, and resilience of so many of the military spouses I’ve had the honor of meeting and befriending.” —Rachel Schmidt
Rachel Schmidt is a registered nurse and military spouse. She holds an MA in Writing from Johns Hopkins University and has been published by Bath Flash Fiction with work forthcoming in Winged Penny Review and Flash Fiction Magazine.