Page 9

It had been a nurse who found me heartbroken, scared, and forlorn. She held me, allowing me to do what I hadn’t done all those months before. I permitted myself to cry. Deep, heart-wrenching sobs that exhausted me even more and made my headache worse for what seemed like days.
My nurse listened to me. She didn’t judge me or my choices. She even counseled me with other options. Giving up my daughter for adoption wasn’t something that would ever happen. But by the time Lisa, the nurse, left my room, her blue scrubs wet and covered in snot, I was already on the phone with my mom. Requesting her help while asking her to lie to everyone else.
I couldn’t let Jackson know the truth.
Mom showed up the next day.
Alone.
She drove me home from the hospital and stayed with me for a week. In those moments, not once did she grill me, demand the identity of who Alandria’s father was, or make me feel guilty for my silence. However, the betrayal was there. It hung heavily over us, like a blackened veil dividing or normally open and loving relationship.
I hated it, but I also understood it was for the best.
I’m not sure what she told my dad. I never asked, mostly because I was terrified of her answer.
My dad was a possessive man who rarely let Mom out of his line of sight for a couple of hours, let alone a week without having to know all the details. So, for her to stay, I’m sure she had to tell him something had happened.
Even though I never said out loud who Alandria’s father was, my mom wasn’t stupid. Once she got a good look at my daughter; she recognized exactly who her father was. Ireland, my sister-in-law, and Jackson were blessed with brilliant red hair. It appeared my daughter had been graced with those genes, too.
Since Alandria’s birth, my mom continued to show up once a week. She’d stay a night or two, help me out and give me a break, then return home like nothing happened. To this day, mom still hadn’t asked the question. However, I could see in her gaze every time she held her granddaughter that not knowing the truth was eating at her. Still, I kept my silence on how my daughter was conceived and why I was here while Jackson was not.
Truth was, I’d been avoiding telling people what happened. It was embarrassing and humiliating.
Giving my mother the answers she deserved made everything from the past year real. Exposed too many wounds still scabbing over while others continued to fester and weep.
“Ready?” Joyce stood, grabbing the charts to make her first round.
Shit, pay attention.
“Yes.” Putting my game face on, I followed behind Joyce and waited as she knocked on the first door, then pushed the wooden door open. First rule of being a labor and delivery nurse was to remember moms were tired. When checking on them, sometimes less was more.
As we stepped fully into the room, the mom sat propped up by pillows while knitting what looked like a jacket for her baby. The needles clicked and clacked as she moved the yarn, creating a cable pattern. Going by the color, it appeared she was having a boy. Though, color sometimes didn’t correlate with gender.
After Joyce introduced herself, I stepped forward and waved. “I’m Waverly, and I’ll be in and out with Joyce this evening.” I tried to keep my voice relaxed, light, and cheerful. Tone was the most important thing when dealing with patients. My job was to help provide support, guidance, and direction while Joyce educated the mom and the family on care for their newborn. Most importantly, this was the family’s moment, not ours. Getting out of their way to enjoy their newborn was mission number one.
I stepped back as Joyce assessed the mother, Jackie, and then her baby—a boy—by checking to make sure all her monitors were working. I wrote the number of her contractions and how far apart they were and for how long. Her blood pressure and her temperature. Then I moved to the baby, writing his heart rate during and after contractions and movement. By the time I was done, Joyce had assessed Jackie to see how much she’d dilated.
When Meri examined her, later, she was still at a four.
Nothing had changed, even with strong, consistent contractions.
According to the chart, this mom was admitted during last night’s shift in active labor. As of that moment she’d been laboring for almost ten hours and stalled out about two hours ago. Joyce noted Jackie had been reluctant to proceed with any help of drugs.
We had to explain to the mom, even a mom of two, why waiting and delaying wasn’t good, and it took a moment for Jackie to understand what might happen if her labor didn’t progress to full dilation. We had skilled doctors here. None of them enjoyed seeing moms labor for longer than eighteen hours with no progression—twenty-four when it was slow. Cesarean sections were last resort and only used when mother and baby were at risk.
Once Joyce and Jackie came up with a new plan, including using induction meds to strengthen contractions, we exited the room and moved on to the next patient at the end of the hall.
The procedure began again—introductions followed by monitor checks and finally the hands-on portion of the visit. Lucy was young. Barely sixteen. The father of her baby sat across from her but remained unengaged. He’d been more interested in the game he was playing on his phone than if Lucy was comfortable. There were also two older women were also in the room. One was beside Lucy, supporting her and holding her hand. I surmised she could be Lucy’s mother. The other woman, who I suspected was the boy’s mother, talked on the phone. Loudly, I might add. She bitched and complained about how she’d been inconvenienced with the birth of the baby.
Like she’d been the only person in the room. Or she was the one in labor and ready to deliver a baby.
I plastered a smile on my face, determined to help and support Lucy as much as I could, even if it meant being nice to the rude-ass woman.
“Hi, Lucy, my name is Waverly.” I assisted the girl who shifted in the bed trying to get comfortable.
Before I could continue or at least help Lucy get into a better position, the woman with the phone to her ear rushed at me, demand etched on her face while her mouth was scrunched up in anger. “Can we hurry this up some? This is taking too long, and I have places to be.”
I wanted to snap back at her. Obviously, I bit my tongue instead, knowing anything I said or did had the potential to stress the young mother out and get me into trouble. Plus, going by her posture and facial expression, Lucy was already tense. So, I ignored the phone mom and focused on Lucy while Joyce dealt with the family.