"That's what I've been doing at the library when I have a few extra minutes. I think I've read everything you've written, and, I don't know, I guess I just don't want you to stop. And if living here is what's stopping you, I can't ask you to make that sacrifice."
"It's not a sacrifice," he protested. "I wanted to come down here. You didn't force me."
"No, but you knew where I stood. You knew I never wanted to leave. And I don't, but I will." She met his gaze. "You're my husband, and I'll follow you, even if that means moving to New York if you think that will help."
He didn't know what to say. "You'd leave Boone Creek?"
"If that's what you think you need to write."
"What about Doris?"
"I'm not saying I won't visit. But Doris would understand. We've already discussed it."
She smiled, waiting for his response, and for an instant Jeremy considered it. He imagined the energy of the city, the lights of Times Square, the illuminated outline of the Manhattan skyline at night. He thought of his daily runs in Central Park and his favorite diner, the endless possibilities of new restaurants, plays, stores, and people...
But only for an instant. As he glanced through the window and saw the whitewashed bark of cypress trees standing on the banks of Boone Creek, with the water so still that it reflected the sky, he knew he wouldn't leave. Nor, he realized with an intensity that surprised him, did he want to.
"I'm happy here," he said. "And I don't think moving to New York is what I need to write."
"Just like that?" she said. "Don't you want some time to think about it?"
"No," he said. "I've got everything I need right here."
After she left, he started straightening up his desk and was just about to shut off the computer when he noticed Doris's journal near the mail. It had been on the desk since he'd moved in, and he realized he should return it. He opened it and saw the names on the pages. How many still lived in the area, he wondered, and what had become of the children? Did they go to college? Were they married? Did they know their mothers had gone to Doris before their births?
He wondered how many people would believe Doris if she appeared on television with her journal and told her story. He guessed half the audience, maybe even more. But why? Why would a person believe something so ridiculous?
Pulling up to the computer, he pondered the question, suggesting answers as they came to him. He made notes about how theory influences observation, how anecdotes differ from evidence, how bold statements are often perceived intuitively as truth, that rumors seldom have any basis in reality, that most people rarely require a burden of proof. He came up with fifteen observations and began citing examples to make his case. As he typed, he couldn't shake the feeling of giddiness, of amazement, that the words were flowing. He was afraid to stop, afraid to turn on the lamp, afraid to get a cup of coffee, lest the muse desert him. At first, he was afraid to delete anything, even when it was wrong, for the same reason; then instinct took over and he pressed his luck, and still the words came. An hour later, he found himself staring in satisfaction at what he knew would be his next column: "Why People Believe Anything."
He printed it and found himself reading the column once more. It wasn't done yet. It was rough, and he knew he needed to edit it. But the bones were there, and more ideas were coming, and he knew with sudden certainty that his block was over. Still, he jotted down several ideas on the page in front of him, just in case.
He left his office and found Lexie reading in the living room.
"Hey," she said, "I thought you were going to join me."
"I did, too," he said.
"What have you been doing?"
He held out the pages, not bothering to hide his grin. "Would you like to read my next column?"
It took a moment for her to process the words before she rose from the couch. Wearing an expression of disbelief--and joy--she took the pages. She scanned them quickly, then looked up at him with a smile. "You just wrote this?"
He nodded.
"That's wonderful!" she said. "Of course I'll read it. I can't wait to read it!"
She moved back to the couch, and for the next few minutes, Jeremy watched as she perused the column. Lost in concentration, she was twirling a strand of hair with her finger. It was while staring at her that he gleaned an inkling of what had been causing his writer's block. Perhaps it wasn't that he lived in Boone Creek; rather, it was that--subconsciously, at least--he felt he could never leave.
It was a ridiculous notion, one that he would have dismissed had anyone else suggested it, but he knew he was right, and he couldn't stop smiling. He wanted to celebrate by taking Lexie in his arms and holding her forever. He was looking forward to raising his daughter in a place where they could catch fireflies in the summer and watch the storms roll in from the shelter of their porch. This was home now, their home, and the realization led him to believe that the baby was going to be okay. They'd been through so much already that she had to be okay--and when they got the next ultrasound on October 6, the last they would have before delivery, Jeremy learned that he'd been right. So far, Claire was doing just fine.
So far.
Nineteen
When he finally realized what was happening, everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus, but since he was dreaming, he supposed that could be excused. All he knew for sure was that the first word out of his mouth that morning was "Ouch."
"Wake up," Lexie said, poking him again.
Still groggy, he pulled the sheet higher. "Why are you elbowing me? It's the middle of the night."
"It's almost five, not the middle of the night. But I think it's time."
"Time for what?" he grumbled.
"To go to the hospital."
Once the words registered, he bolted upright, flinging back the sheet. He wiped the sleep from his eyes. "You're having contractions? When did they start? Why didn't you tell me? Are you sure?"
"I think so. I've been having Braxton-Hicks, but these feel different. And they're more regular."
He swallowed. "So this is it?"
"I'm not sure. But I think this is it."
"Okay," he said, taking a long breath. "Let's not panic."
"I'm not panicking."
"Good, because there's no reason to panic."
"I know."
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other.
"I need to take a shower," he finally said.
"A shower?"
"Yeah," he said, getting out of bed. "I'll be quick, and then we'll go."
He wasn't quick. He took a long shower, long enough to steam the mirrors to the point that he had to wipe them twice in order to shave. He brushed his teeth and flossed, then slapped on aftershave. He gargled twice. He took the time to open a new container of deodorant, turned the hair dryer on low, and added both mousse and gel before brushing his hair. His fingernails were a bit long, and he was cutting and filing them when he heard the door fling open behind him.
"What on earth are you doing?" she gasped. Holding her belly, she was hunched over. "What's taking so long?"
"I'm almost done," he protested.
"You've been in there almost half an hour!"
"Really?"
"Yeah, really!" Focusing through her pain, she blinked when she saw what he was doing. "Are you clipping your fingernails?"
Before he could answer, she turned and staggered out of view.
In rehearsing this day, Jeremy never imagined himself acting this way. Instead, he'd be the epitome of calm and collected. He would get ready with machinelike efficiency, keep an eye on his wife and alleviate her concerns, and grab the bags that Lexie had already packed before hustling to the hospital with hands that were steady on the wheel.
What he hadn't expected was how terrified he would be. He wasn't ready for this. How could he be a father? He had no idea what he was supposed to do. Diapers? Formula? How to hold the baby? He didn't have a clue. He needed another day or two to read a few of those books L
exie had been studying for months. But it was too late now. His subconscious attempt to delay had failed.
"No, we haven't left yet!" she said into the phone. "He's still getting ready!"
Talking to Doris, Jeremy knew. And sounding none too pleased.
Jeremy began to throw on his clothes and was pulling a shirt over his head when she hung up. Arching her back, she suffered through another contraction in silence, and he waited until it passed. Then, helping her to her feet, he began to lead her to the car, finally gaining some measure of control.
"Don't forget the bag," she said.
"I'll come back for it."
In a flash, they were in the car. By that time, another contraction had begun, and he began backing out in haste.
"The bag," she cried, wincing.
He slammed on the brakes and rushed back inside. He truly wasn't ready for this.
The roads were empty and black beneath the darkened sky, and Jeremy pressed the accelerator, speeding toward Greenville. Because of the possible complications, they'd decided to have the baby in Greenville, and Jeremy called the doctor's answering service to let him know they were on the way.
After another contraction passed, Lexie leaned back in her seat, looking pale. He pressed harder on the accelerator.
They sped along the deserted roads; in the rearview mirror, he could see the graying light of dawn on the horizon. Lexie was strangely quiet, but then again so was he. Neither had said a word since they got in the car.
"Are you doing okay?"
"Yeah," she said, not sounding okay. "You might want to drive faster, though."
His heart hammered in his chest. Keep calm, he told himself. Whatever you do, just stay calm. He could feel the pull of the car as they sped around a curve.
"Not that fast," she said. "I don't want to die before we get there."
He slowed the car, then found himself speeding up again every time she had a contraction. They seemed to be coming every eight minutes or so. What he didn't know was whether that meant he had plenty of time or not enough. He really should have read the book, any book. It didn't matter now.
Once in Greenville, the traffic picked up. Not too many cars, but enough to require him to stop at more than a few lights. At the second one, he turned toward Lexie. If anything, she seemed even more pregnant than she had when they'd begun the drive.
"You doing okay?" he asked again.
"Stop asking me that," she said. "Trust me, I'll let you know if I'm not."
"We're almost there."
"Good," she said.
Jeremy stared at the light, wondering why on earth it wouldn't turn green. Wasn't it obvious there was an emergency here? He glanced over at his wife, fighting the urge to ask again if she was doing okay.
He rolled to a stop at the emergency room entrance, and his frantic look and the loud announcement to all assembled that his wife was in labor brought an orderly to the car with a wheelchair. Jeremy helped Lexie from the car, and she moved to the wheelchair. He grabbed the bag from the backseat and followed them through the entrance. Despite the hour, the place was crowded and three people were waiting at the checkin window.
He figured they would head straight for the maternity ward, especially given the circumstances, but instead Lexie was wheeled toward the checkin window and he was forced to wait in line. No one behind the counter was rushing; the nurses seemed to be far more interested in sipping their coffee and chatting. Jeremy could barely contain his impatience, especially as he waited while those in front of him were checking in. None of them looked as if they were at death's door; most looked as if they wanted to get a prescription refilled. One even seemed to be attempting to flirt. Finally--finally!--it was his turn. Before he said a word, a nurse who seemed uninterested in his wife's plight thrust a clipboard toward him.
"Fill in the first three pages, sign the fourth, and I'll need to see your insurance card."
"Is this really necessary now? I mean, my wife's in labor. Shouldn't she go to the room first?"
The nurse turned her attention to Lexie. "How far apart are your contractions?"
"About eight minutes."
"How long have you been in labor?"
"I don't know. Maybe three hours?"
The nurse nodded and looked at Jeremy. "First three pages, sign the fourth. And don't forget the insurance card."
Jeremy took the clipboard and hurried toward a seat, feeling more than a little put out. Paperwork? They needed paperwork at a time like this? In an emergency? In his opinion, the world was drowning in paperwork already. The hospital had reams of paperwork, and he was about to set aside the clipboard so he could march up to the window and calmly explain the situation. The nurse just didn't seem to get it.
"Hello?"
Jeremy looked up at the sound of Lexie's voice. Her wheelchair was still stationed next to the checkin window, halfway across the room. "Are you just going to leave me sitting here?"
Jeremy could feel the eyes of strangers on him. More than one woman scowled.
"Sorry," he said, rising quickly. He scurried across the room to get her. Then, after wheeling her around, he started back toward his seat.
"Don't forget the bag."
"Right," he said. He went back to get it, ignoring the stares, and sat beside her.
"You doing okay?" he asked.
"I'm going to punch you if you ask me one more time. I'm serious."
"Yeah, okay. Sorry."
"Just get the paperwork ready, okay?"
He nodded and went to work on the forms, thinking again that he was wasting his time. They really should have given his wife a room first. He could have done the paperwork later.
It took a few minutes, and then he headed toward the checkin counter. As fate would have it, someone seemed to have exactly the same idea and got to the counter first, and he was forced to wait again. By the time it was his turn, he was stewing, and he handed over the clipboard without a word.
The nurse took her time again. She examined each page, made copies, and then grabbed a few wristbands from the drawer and began to write Lexie's name and identification number on them. Slowly. At a glacial pace. Jeremy tapped his foot while he waited. He was going to have to write a letter of complaint. This was ridiculous.
"Okay," the nurse finally said, "just take a seat and we'll call you when we're ready."
"We have to wait again?" Jeremy exclaimed.
The nurse eyed him over her glasses. "Let me guess. Your first baby?"
"As a matter of fact, it is."
The nurse shook her head. "Take a seat. Like I said, we'll call you. And put the wristbands on."
A couple of years later, Lexie's name was finally called.
Okay, it wasn't that long, but it seemed even longer. Lexie had already started another contraction, and she pressed her lips together, hands on her belly.
"Lexie Marsh?"
Jeremy stood up as if his pants were on fire and hopped behind the wheelchair. In a few quick steps, he was nearly at the swinging doors.
"Yeah, this is she," he said. "We're going to the room, right?"
"Yes," she said, oblivious to Jeremy's tone. "This way. We'll be going to the maternity ward. It's on the third floor. You doing okay, honey?"
"I'm fine," Lexie answered. "I just had another contraction. They're still about eight minutes apart."
"I think we should go," Jeremy said, and both Lexie and the nurse turned toward him. Granted, his tone might have been a little snappy, but this wasn't the time for chitchat.
"Is that your bag over there?" the nurse asked.
"I'll get it," Jeremy said, mentally kicking himself.
"We'll wait," the nurse said.
Jeremy wanted to say, Gee, thanks in his most sarcastic voice but thought better of it. For all he knew, this was the lady who would be assisting with the delivery, and the last thing he wanted was to get on her bad side.
He rushed back and grabbed the bag, and they headed through the maze of corr
idors. Up the elevator, down the hall, and into the room. Finally.
The room was empty, sterile, and functional in the way all hospital rooms were. Lexie got up from the wheelchair and slipped into a robe before climbing carefully into bed. For the next twenty minutes, nurses bustled in and out of the room. Lexie had her blood pressure and pulse taken, had her cervix measured, answered the same questions about the duration of her labor and the timing of the contractions, when she'd had her last meal, any complications with the pregnancy. Toward the end, she was hooked up to a monitor, and she and Jeremy stared at the speedy rhythm of the baby's heartbeat.
"Is it supposed to be that fast?" Jeremy asked.
"It's just right," the nurse reassured him. Then, turning to Lexie, she hooked the chart at the edge of the bed. "I'm Joanie, and I'll be checking on you as the morning progresses. Since your contractions haven't started getting closer, you might be here for a while. There's no way to tell how long labor will last. Sometimes it suddenly clicks and goes fast; other times it's more of a slow and steady progression. But don't feel you need to stay in bed. Some women find that walking around helps, others like to sit, and others find that going on all fours is helpful. You're not ready for the epidural you requested, so just do whatever you think you need to do to stay as comfortable as you can."
"Okay," she said.
"And... Mr....," she said, turning to Jeremy.
"Marsh," he said. "My name is Jeremy Marsh. And this is Lexie, my wife. We're going to have a baby."
The nurse looked amused by his response. "I can see that. But your role for the time being is to support her. Down the hall there's an ice machine, and feel free to bring her as many ice chips as she wants. There are some washcloths by the sink that you can use to wipe her forehead. If she does want to walk around, just be there to support her. Sometimes contractions hit just right and the legs get wobbly; you don't want her to fall."
"I can do that," he said, mentally going through the list.
"If you need a nurse, just press this button. Someone will get to you as soon as they can."
The nurse started toward the door.
"Wait... You're leaving?" Jeremy asked.
"I've got to check on another patient. And there's not really anything else I can do right now, except to put in the call to the anesthesiologist. I'll be back to check on you in a little while."