Page 100 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Thirty-five weeks.’
She takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘And how far apart are your contractions?’
‘They were every twenty minutes, but I think the last one was only fifteen.’
‘Mr McLaughlin? You’re to ring an ambulance, do you hear?’
‘I don’t think I need an ambulance, it’s quicker if we drive. The hospital is only—’ my breath is taken away, a knot in the elastic holding me still, ‘twenty minutes from here.’ The pain slides away. ‘I’m OK. We need to find Samuel, he could be hurt.’
‘Sophie love? Our Sammy was out of me like a bullet from a gun, I went from fifteen minutes to no minutes at all in the time it took Mr McLaughlin to put his shoes on. Now unless you want to risk my daft husband fumbling around in your nether regions . . .’ Mr McLaughlin’s face loses its colour at this, ‘you’ll do what I say, love, OK? You get in that car. Better to be safe than sorry.’
‘But Samuel—’
‘I’ll do all that from here, you just take care of my grandchild. Mr M? Give me the number of that taxi firm and I’ll start calling the police and the hospitals.’
He does what he is told and passes me a scrunched-up cotton hanky. It has a small horse embroidered into the corner and smells like cough sweets and fabric softener. I take it from his hands and realise that I’m crying. He taps my hand. ‘You’ll be grand, love, just grand.’
Week Thirty-Five
Contractions Twenty Minutes Apart
Samuel
Our progress is slow. Each step takes time to negotiate and is rewarded by the agony of my ankle; each step could be taking me further away or closer to the end. All I have to guide me is the gradient of the hill, and the odd beam from a headlight. Another car passes, the lights swallowed by shadows and burning through the darkness with each twist and turn of the road, like the warning of a lighthouse. This car banks to the right once it reaches the base of the hill. I call out, but my voice is snatched away by the wind, played with like a game of hot potato. I tear a piece of my shirt off and wrap it around the palm of the hand that is holding on to Michael the Second. Both my hands feel bloody and torn, a far cry from the hand that would sign contracts and tap away on keyboards. Part of me wants to tear off a piece and wrap it around my head like Rambo.Get a grip, Michael tells me.
I trip again.
‘Fuck’s sake, Michael,’ I say under my breath as I drop to my knees.Sorry, he replies,I’m new at this.
The ground beneath me feels like sponge and I sit down, rotating my foot, sharp pains careering through my joints, making my face contort with pain with each rotation. My head feels light; my mouth is dry. I need to get out of here. I’m dehydrated and soon I won’t have the energy to drag myself up this hill.
The car below seems to make a U-turn and charges off in another direction. I look up towards the moon that is pushing through the clouds, the beam reaching out towards me like a rope. I grab it, pull myself up, and let it lead me to the summit.
Week Thirty-Five
Contractions Two Minutes Apart
Sophie
‘Sophie? Sophie? Listen to me. You need to inhale the gas and air only up until the peak of the contraction, all right?’ The midwife tries to take the hose from my hand, but I glare at her.Just you try it, woman, just you try to take this away from me.
‘If she wants the air, she has the air,’ Mr McLaughlin says.
‘Pethidine,’ I say as I take the mouthpiece away. ‘I want pethidine.’
‘Ah now, Sophie love . . .’ Mrs McLaughlin’s voice filters through the speaker phone and the ripples of the waning contraction, ‘you don’t want that – made Sarah as sick as a dog, didn’t it, Sarah?’
‘Yeah, Sophie, stay away from that if you can, you’re almost there. Da?’
‘Yes, Sarah love.’
‘Make sure you’re not holding her hand, Da.’ Mr McLaughlin looks down to where my nails are digging into his palm. ‘Worst thing, Sophie, is if you’re tensing your muscles. Keep them nice and relaxed, you’re doing fine.’ I can’t believe I have the entirety of Samuel’s family as my labour partner.
‘Wendy, how’s my grandchild doing?’ The midwife looks at the printout and nods happily. Why is she happy? Nothing about this process is making me feel happy.
‘Right as rain, Mrs McLaughlin. Heartbeat is nice and steady.’
‘Perfect.’
