“Charlie-that your husband?” he casually asked as he watched his fingers work their way from the base of her palm to the incredibly fragile bones of her wrist. He told himself it was to get her mind chewing on something else besides the pain she was in.
But it was hard to overlook the way he felt when she replied, with a funny little snort of laughter, “She’s my coach.” He felt light-headed and sort of goofy, like he wanted to smile but knew he shouldn’t.
“Well, she’s right. You should listen to your coach.” He crooned the words with a perfectly straight face. But inside, his heart was singing like a set of jakes on a downhill grade.
She shook her head rapidly, emphatically. Her eyes were closed and he could see that she was in that other place now, the place he couldn’t go, concentrating hard on the breath she was taking. The hand he was holding had gone limp and boneless and the other appeared to have relaxed its grip on the edge of the mattress, so he kept his mouth shut and rode it out with her. Which was all he could do.
“It’s going,” she whispered on a long exhalation, slowly rocking herself back and forth. And finally, “There.” And she smiled and opened her eyes. “Gone.” She looked triumphant.
He noticed then the nightgown she was wearing, the outlines of her body clearly visible beneath the cartoon character on the thin T-shirt material-the fullness of her breasts, the pert little button of her turned-out navel. Her bare arms and her feet swathed in his thick white socks looked oddly defenseless, almost childlike.
“You warm enough?” he asked her, lightly brushing her arm with the backs of his fingers, frowning when her skin suddenly roughened with goose bumps. “Let me get you somethin’ to put on…” His voice thickened in his throat.
He loosened his hand from hers in a hurry, heart thumping, and got up to rummage through his closet. He found a plaid flannel shirt, one of his favorites, nice and soft with some blue and green in it that he thought would look nice with her hair.
“Here you go,” he muttered, the words crowding his chest, getting mixed up with air he seemed to have forgotten to exhale. “Put your arm in here.”
It smells like him, she thought as she pulled the shirt around her. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she took in his scent, letting her mind drift, free to follow paths and currents of its own choosing. She saw-no,
“That’s good,” she heard him say softly. “You’re relaxin’ better already.”
She felt his fingers on her forehead, on the spot between her brows where the tension knot would be. And for some reason his touch made her face ache and her sinuses burn with an overpowering urge to cry. She let the breath out abruptly and pushed herself erect, compelled by a confusing combination of fear and birthing instincts to stand, to move, to flee.
“Let me out-I want to go to the bathroom,” she said, querulous and demanding, knowing she was being unreasonable. And not caring.
A chuckle came from close behind her, near enough to stir the hair behind her ear. “You’d freeze to death out there, dressed like that. Come on, now…settle back down here.”
His hands brushed her upper arms. She pulled away from him like a contrary child, insisting, “But I have to
“No, you don’t. You just think you do. You just went not ten minutes ago, you know that?” His voice was gentle, patient. “Wait a little bit. Then if you want, I’ll wrap you up in a quilt and take you.”
“You’re not going to carry me!” Mirabella rounded on him, raw and furious. “I’ll walk, or I won’t go at all.”
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. And to her added fury, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a dimple.
Suddenly she felt smothered, as if she was being buried beneath an avalanche of emotions. Confusing, conflicting, overwhelming emotions. “How am I supposed to do this?” she demanded, gesturing wildly. “I can’t do this!”
“What is it you can’t do?” Jimmy Joe’s eyes were soft, his voice tender. She wanted to hit him.
She hardly heard her own words, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t what she wanted to say anyway. She didn’t know the words for what she was feeling-frightened beyond imagination, utterly overwhelmed by what was happening to her; and not just to her body, but to her heart and soul. And the most incredible thing was that Jimmy Joe seemed to understand it all.
“Shh,” he said. And again, “Shh…hush, now.”
And she felt his arms come around her, wrapping her in his own special scent, his warmth and comfort, just as in her vision. She felt his heartbeat thumping against her cheek and his hand stroking her hair, and the trembling and fury inside her cleared away like storm clouds before a fresh spring wind. She felt her breathing calm and time itself to his…she felt warm again, and safe.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“I know…I know. It’s okay.”
“I’m not really… This isn’t your fault. I know it isn’t. I’m just being…” She paused and gave a small, liquid laugh. “I suppose this is normal, isn’t it?”
His chuckle rumbled softly against her ear. “I imagine it is.”
“I guess you’ve been through all this.”
“How’s that?”
“With your wife.”
“Oh.” He coughed, and she felt him jerk slightly; his hands moved restlessly over her back. “Yeah… well. To tell you the truth…”
It was coming again. She could feel it. Feel it lurking like something dark and terrifying just beyond the reaches of her consciousness. It was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Jimmy Joe, it’s starting again.”
How calm her voice was. But he knew. He could tell by the way her muscles went rigid beneath his hands and her breathing suddenly seemed to drag as if even her lungs had stiffened.
“Don’t tense up on me now…
He clicked his stopwatch, then cleared his throat and asked, “You want to lie down?”
She shook her head, too busy coping with the pain now to answer. He took a breath. Closed his eyes. “Okay.” He heard himself sigh. “Hold on to me now. Let it come…let it come.” And he felt her weight come against him and her breathing time itself to his, while he held her and rode it with her, all the way up the long, dark climb…and down the other side.
All the time he was thinking, Oh God, how am I gonna tell her? Here she was depending on him, counting on his knowledge and experience. How was he going to tell her he was as much a novice at this as she was? God knows, he didn’t want to tell her; she was scared enough as it was. But he knew he had to, because sooner or later he was going to let her down. Better now, he figured, than later, when she was apt to be going to pieces anyway.
“It’s going,” she said on an exhalation, telling him what he already knew.
Then for a while neither of them spoke. He felt her skin quiver beneath his hands and her breath flow warm and easy against his throat, and he thought how much like the aftermath of sex it was; the sweet, fragile time when bodies grow quiet and whispers of secret fears, drowned out by the drums of passion, are heard from again.
Presently she stirred and said, “They’re coming faster, aren’t they?”
He nodded without looking at his watch. Faster, longer, harder. Just like it was supposed to. He wondered how much time they had-half of him wanting things to hold off as long as possible, preferably until help arrived; half wanting it to be over so she wouldn’t have to hurt anymore. He just wished they had some way of knowing. In a hospital, he knew, they would have ways of telling how far along she was. But he didn’t, and all he could do was stay with her and try to make her as comfortable as he knew how, and when the time came, pray to the Good Lord to help them both.
