Page 96 of The Wild Man

Wild Man

I glare at the doctor as momor lets out another wailing cry of pain. The grip she has on my hand should be painful, but it only reminds me of how much she’s hurting and there’s not a damn thing I can do to help her. The stupid fucking doctor said it’s too late to give her the numbing shot. I’m half a second away from ripping the doctor to shreds and forcing her to give my wife whatever the hell she needs to make the pain go away. It’s tearing me apart seeing her like this.

“Wild Man,” she pants, her grip around my hand tightening even more. “Stop it. I’m fine.”

When asked a few months ago if she wanted an epidural during labor, momor told the doctor no. She was insistent that she deliver without the aid of medication. I didn’t argue, because I didn’t fucking know it would be this bad. I knew it would be painful—pushing something the size of a watermelon out such a small hole had to be—but I didn’t realize the magnitude. Each time momor screams in pain, I swear my heart dies a little.

After one last glare, which the female doctor ignores, I turn to momor. “Don’t like seeing you pain.”

My speech has gotten much better, but it’s not perfect.

Her face is flush with red and sweat coats her forehead. She takes short little breaths as she waits for another spasm of pain to hit her.

She smiles, but it’s not the real one I love so much. “We knew this was coming, right? Once we hold our babies in our arms, it’ll all be worth it.”

Twins. Not one, but two little babies.

We were happy when we heard the news. Now, a part of me is scared shitless, because this won’t end when she delivers our child. She’ll have to endure it even more until our second baby is born.

“Alright, Everlee. I want you to give it all you got with this next contraction,” the doctor says in a tone so calm it grates on my nerves. How in the hell can she appear so relaxed? My entire fucking life is laying right here, sounding like she’s dying from so much pain.

Momor nods. Her teeth clench and she blows out a readying breath. When the next contraction hits, she crushes my fingers so much it feels like the bones are breaking. But I don’t care. If this helps her in any way, she can break every bone in my body.

She lets out a jarring scream and her face turns a deeper shade of red. Seconds later, a loud wailing sound fills the room. I jerk my head down the bed where the doctor is. She holds up a tiny baby that’s covered in red and white gooey stuff. The little arms flail around and his mouth is wide open as he screams. All I can do is stare in awe.

“Congrats, momma and daddy.” The doctor smiles. “Here is your healthy baby boy.”

Almost immediately, the grayish cord connecting baby to momor is cut and he’s handed over to a nurse holding a blue cloth. I want to demand they bring him back, but the grip on my hand reminds me that this isn’t over.

I look back at momor. She’s smiling, even as more tears leak from her eyes as she watches the nurse walk away with our son. I bring her hand to my lips and kiss the back of it.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from screaming.

“He is.”

The doctor sits back down on her stool. “Baby number two is coming fast, Everlee, so as much as you want to take a break, I’m going to need you to push again, okay?”

“Yeah,” momor replies weakly.

Our daughter comes a few minutes later. If I thought our son’s crying was loud, his sister nearly pierces my ears.

“You did so good, momor,” I whisper, my face close to hers. “So brave. So strong.”

She gives me a smile that wobbles. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, for giving me these precious gifts.” I bend and kiss her lips. “I love you.”

She sniffs and wipes her hand across her tear-stained cheek, giving me another one of her beautiful smiles. “I love you.”

What seems like hours later, after momor has been cleaned up, two nurses walk over with our babies. One of them gently sets our son in his noeny’s arms and I get our daughter. I am utterly transfixed as I stare down at the tiny person cradled against my chest. Her little face is scrunched up as she sleeps. She has the smallest nose and a mouth shaped like a bow and she has a head full of nearly black hair.

My heart instantly fills with love.

I look down at momor and our son and that love grows. Tears slide down momor’s cheeks and she gazes at him with adoration. His hair isn’t as dark as his sister’s. More the color of momor’s. And his face is a little slimmer.

“What are their names?” one of the nurses asks.

Momor doesn’t look away from our son as she says, “His name is Alexander Mason.”