Page 3 of Spectacular Things
A Spike
“Oh nice,” Mia’s obstetrician says candidly, glancing at the television in time to see the starting Olympians emerge from the tunnel. “I forgot this was on—should be a great game.”
“Dr. Elliott?” A third-year resident throws out some numbers she reads off the monitor.
The OB shakes her head and tells the resident to adjust the sensor before asking Mia to scooch down to the edge of the bed.
“I’m going to use my fingers to measure how dilated you are—you’ll feel a bit of pressure. ”
Dr. Elliott inserts her hand and Mia breathes in through her nose and stares at the TV screen: Gogo passes to Speedy, who carries the ball to the far corner and crosses it.
Mia grinds her teeth through the cervical exam and continues to name each player as she sees them on the field.
This game just might prove to be the perfect distraction.
“Five centimeters dilated,” Dr. Elliott announces, looking up at Mia. “Great start.”
“Same numbers,” the resident says quietly, staring at the OB, who stands up to see for herself. The silence between them only draws more curiosity.
“Everything okay?” Oliver asks.
“Mia’s blood pressure is a touch higher than we’d like,” Dr. Elliott explains.
She takes a step closer to Mia. “We’re going to keep an eye on it, and hopefully it drops as you adjust to being in the hospital and preparing to give birth to your first child—there are plenty of reasons why blood pressure can spike. ”
Oliver looks for where he put the remote. “We’ve got to turn off the game,” he says. “Your body is reacting to it.”
“Hell no,” Mia says without looking at him, eyes glued to the screen. Occasionally, the camera zooms out for a wide shot of the pitch, and Mia glimpses the floof of Cricket’s high blond bun, the neon green of her long-sleeved goalkeeper jersey. It’s enough to carry her through the next contraction.
An hour later, Mia buries her head deep into her husband’s chest. At some point she ripped off her skintight soccer jersey, or rather the seams gave up on her and the shirt more or less popped off on its own.
So here she is, slow dancing with Oliver in a nursing bra and maternity underwear, grunting and moaning with abandon.
The pain is so all-encompassing that she has been stripped of clothes, speech, ego.
That is, until Gogo scores in the seventieth minute of the game.
“Holy shit!” Mia yells before puking down the front of Oliver’s shirt.
“Now they just need to keep the lead and kill the clock!” Oliver says, removing his vomit-covered USA jersey.
“Put on mine,” Mia says, and Oliver knows better than to argue with her.
In the seventy-fifth minute of the game, the resident checks Mia’s vitals again. “Your levels are still high,” she says, reading the monitor. “But the baby looks good, so Dr. Elliott says we’re going to stick to the game plan and let you take your time, as long as you’re comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Mia scoffs.
“Relatively comfortable, I mean.” The resident blushes. “Anyway, you’re doing great! Just let the baby lead the way!”
“Is it bad,” Mia asks Oliver once the resident has left, “that when I hear ‘baby,’ I still think of Cricket? Like, I still think of my mom calling Cricket the baby, but now—”
“Totally normal,” Oliver reassures her, running a damp washcloth along her hairline. “And I think that’s all about to—”
“Oh my God!” Mia shouts, pointing at the television. “Oh my God!”