Chaos breaks out. Everyone is all over me and El, saying so many things at once. The smile sitting on her face disappears. Tears fill her eyes, her nails dig into my shoulders so hard I’m sure it will leave a mark.
She is hurting.
Annika is speaking so fast, asking about the baby things. Mother is telling everyone to calm down. El is crying, she doesn’t want to go to the clinic with a wet dress. I don’t know what to do. I wasn’t present for the first pregnancy. Mother pushes me aside and helps El to her feet. I almost scream. Is she allowed to stand? What if our kids fall out?
I rush to El’s side. Mother guides her through a breathing exercise as what she calls a contraction hits El. It must have really hurt. She balls my shirt and makes a pained sound that stops everyone in their tracks. More than six pairs of worried eyes pin her in a stare but she focuses on only me. My baby.
“I’m okay,” she whispers.
Liar.
The ride to the hospital is a blur, I cradle her in the backseat while Joshua drives. Each time her contraction kicks in, I die a little more on the inside from my inability to help. We both made the baby, she shouldn’t suffer alone.
We arrive the hospital in no time. A wheelchair is brought out to whisk El away. I follow behind into a room while the rest of our family stays in the waiting room. I am careful as I help her to the bed. God, I am so scared. What if this goes wrong?
The doctor attending to El is smiling like we are at a comedy show. I honestly don’t understand what he finds funny about this situation.
“We have to time the contraction,” he tells El. She seems to understand what he says because she nods. Throwing her legs slowly over the bed, she grips the edge, takes a deep breath that has me crouching beside her. Her pinched smile does the opposite of reassuring me, I panic when she starts undoing her cornrows. I hold her hands to stop her but she pushes me. The doctor steps in by saying, “You can take a walk.”
I do a double take. A walk? What walk?
El groans as she tries to stand, I help her to her feet and she snatches her hand from my grip. I pay no mind to that. Our boys will be here soon.
A whimper escapes her and she gasps out a breath. The doctor does nothing. Instead, he brings out a pen to write on his notepad.
What the fuck is wrong with these guys? Can’t they see she’s in pain?
“Alright. So the first contraction started at seven, we will keep an eye out for the next.”
El offers him a teary smile. Nothing for me. She continues to the end of the room and stops. Her palms flatten on the white wall, she shakes her head while I rub random patterns on her back.
“Another one,” she breathes out. Another what? “Time it,” she snaps.
The doctor comes to my aid again. He is beside us in a jiffy. “Ten minutes.” I am clueless and at a loss of words. “Let me know when it reduces.”
“To what?” El asks. She leans on me and I am all too glad she is finally seeking comfort from me.
“Three minutes.”
The door shuts gently behind the doctor. I turn El to face me. “Everything will be okay,” I say to make conversation. She squeezes my hand. We circle the room and stop at the door. “Do you want to go out?”
“Okay.”
She winces again when another bout of pain hits her. We step into the corridor to see almost everyone here. Joshua. My parents. El’s mother. The girls and Sophia. They stare up worriedly at us.
The girls are careful around her. Bren palms her belly through the ugly hospital gown. El ruffles her hair. The twins hold her hands while she walks the length of the corridor. My gaze never leaves her.
Annika stops beside me. “She’s a strong one.” True but I’m still worried. I might have done some research on the mortality rate during pregnancy. The numbers were a bit high in the case of black women. “You have to be strong for her. She will be okay.”
“She must be okay,” I add. El stops at the door of the corridor, she leans forward with her hands on her knees. “Is that normal?”
Her mother nods. “The contraction is to prepare the baby.” Her explanation makes little sense to me. Labour is already a painful process, why is this also painful? “It’s like this with other women.”
I nod to her statement, then excuse myself to join my wife. Sweat rolls down her forehead, she tries to smile but it comes off as a snarl. The twins run off to give us privacy, El moves closer to the plain white walls and rests on it for support.
Joshua stops in front of me with a cup of coffee and a bottle of water for El. I nod my gratitude and he pats my arm before leaving. I finish the coffee in a few gulps, El refuses her bottle of water so I leave it at her feet.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask El.
“You can carry the babies,” she says with a forced laugh. My lips twitch. I would if I could, if only to ease her pain for a while. “Hey.” She palms my face. “I’m okay. It’s fine.”
I should be the one telling her that. Resting my forehead against hers, I whisper, “I’m scared.”
Her eyes shine with tears. I don’t know if it’s my words or the contraction that’s making her teary.
“Contractions are normal,” she says. I nod. But I must not have been convincing. “Tell me a happy story.” Pain flashes across her face, she bites her lips. She shakes her head to stop me from touching her. I don’t like this. “Please. Just say something nice.”
“Something nice,” I say. A ghost of a smile flits across her lips. “The first time I saw you at our wedding, I thought you were the most beautiful lady I had ever seen.” She giggles. Her grip on my hand slacks. We plan to have a vow renewal after the babies are born. We will do everything right this time. “You’re my beginning, my always and forever, El.”
A tear rolls down her cheek. She sniffs. “Baby, you’re going to make me cry.”
“Tears of joy, I hope,” I say with a wink. I peck her on her forehead, she links our fingers together. I spare a glance at the corridor. Mother and Annika are seated with the twins’ heads resting on their laps. They are going to be big sisters. It hits me differently now. A smile lifts the corners of my lips. “We are going to be parents again, El.”
For some reason, my eyes water and El catches my tears with her fingers.
“You remember when Bren swapped the sugar with salt?” she says.
Thinking of that day makes me smile. That terrorist thought it would be funny to swap it and I ended up having salt in my coffee.
“What about that one time Wyn tried to hide in your box,” I add. El bursts out laughing.
Kids are wired differently. How Wyn thought no one would notice still baffles me. She didn’t want her mother to leave so hiding in her box seemed like the best idea. We continue exchanging anecdotes about our kids. About us. Her contractions become more frequent, when the time between each contraction changes, we return to the room.
Our doctor comes into the room soon after, he asks some questions. Talks some more about the contractions which are happening too fast and for shorter intervals. The more he talks, the more I want to punch him. The nurses with him are of no use if they can’t make El’s pain go away. I don’t like them.
They adjust the bed so one end is slightly tilted and El is no longer lying flat on her back. He asks if she is ready and El swallows so hard I hear the sound. The doctor walks out of the room and returns with his gloves and bonnet on. He stands at the foot of the bed and El folds her legs at the knees. I think it’s time.
El grabs my hand. “Brandon, I’m scared.”
Me too. “Don’t be. I’ll be here every step of the way.”
“Promise?” I nod. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Pecking her temple, I murmur, “I won’t.”
The doctor orders her to push. Her head falls back and the veins in her head pops out as she tries to obey. I don’t lose my grip on her hand. Even when she squeezes it to the point I lose feeling in my arm, I keep holding on to her. The doctor’s voice is gentle, coercing her to keep doing it. I join him to encourage her.
“Shut up,” she cries out. Tears drop to her cheeks. “You put them inside me. Tell them to come out.” The doctor opens his mouth to say something and she cuts him off. “I’m pushing. I’m doing my best.”
He must be used to this. His hands remain on her knees, not once does his composure cracks. “I can see his head, Mrs Stark. Keep going. You are doing a great job, Elna.” And she does. “Don’t stop.”
“You’re almost there,” I whisper into her ear when it feels like she’s about to stop.
“I’m tired.” She looks to me. “Baby, I’m tired.”
A look of alarm passes the doctor’s face, he shakes his head. “A little more push, Elna.”
“Baby, you can do it,” I add. “You’re strong, you’re a fighter. You’re my superwoman. I love you with my life. The twins love you. You can do this, baby.”
El lets out another cry. The doctor is frantic with encouragement when the baby’s head comes out. My goodness. I see him too. El pushes again, harder this time and the rest of his body comes out.
Oh, my God. He’s so tiny. And slimy and bloody. The doctor hands him over to one of the nurses. His head bobs as he begs El to keep pushing for Brandon’s junior twin.
Seconds, maybe even minutes later, Brendan is out. My chest sags with relief. I am exhausted. Thankful but exhausted. El blinks sleepily at me, I kiss her briefly on the lips.
“I feel cold,” she whispers.
As soon as the words are out of her lips, a nurse comes over with a blanket for her.
“Much better?” I ask.
“Yeah.” I kiss her again. For being so strong for all of us. Her smile is tired. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
The doctor hands one of the babies wrapped in a shawl to me and the other to El. He offers a pair of scissors to cut off the umbilical cord and a tremor rushes up my arm. I gulp hard, hands shaking as I sever the cord.
They pry the babies from us again, El yawns and I laugh. She smiles at me. “We did it.”
I press a kiss to her knuckles. “We did it.”