3... I Heard the Bells

“What in the hell is taking so long?”  Gavin snarked to the waiting room at large.  He was scared and he didn’t like it.  Not one bit.  It made him perspire and this silk shirt could not survive sweat stains.  If it was ruined after this fiasco, Petey Pursestrings was going to owe him a shopping trip. 

“Dude.”  The curly headed-one looked up from his phone to lift one eyebrow that was in desperate need of shaping. What was it with heterosexual men and their aversion to groomed eyebrows?  “It’s been twenty minutes.”

“And that’s about nineteen minutes too long.  I don’t have time for this cattle-herding methodology they’ve got goin’ on up in here.  Do they not realize whose perfect ass is stuck to that cheap deathbed on wheels?”

Some decrepit soul was coughing up a lung in the corner, Santa’s filthy step-brother was nursing a headwound across the way, and he was reasonably certain that Miss New Jersey 1932 was carrying the latest strain of bubonic plague behind that yellow surgical mask.  This is not where the likes of the Pagan Princess belonged. 

More precisely, this is not where he belonged.  There were only so many vaccinations available, and he had a delicate constitution.  God only knew what kind of merry malady he would end up with out of this deal. 

“Ever consider Valium?”

Snapping his head to the right, Gavin fixed the Jolly Jew with one of his more withering stares.  “How in the hell do you think I stay this calm?”

The mouth that always reminded him of a crayon scribble contorted into a sharper scribble as long piano-playing fingers shot up in the air to fend off the onslaught of snark.  “Then you might consider moving someplace where weed is legal, because man…  You’re the biggest fuckin’ Chihuahua I’ve ever seen.”

His snort ripped like Santa’s pants after eating all those frigging cookies in one night.  “You’re cute, Goldilocks Goldberg.  Not many can out insult me, so consider my laughter a gift of the Magi.  All we need now is another wise-ass man to get this nativity scene rockin’.”

“Pass on the nativity.  Even the Eastern Star dare not mess with Petey’s pregnancy schedule.  If Jesus Bongiovi comes tonight, there will be Tinkerhell to pay.”

“Ain’t that the friggin’ truth?” 

The nursery wasn’t even furnished yet, because Brainiac Bongiovi was waiting for the after-Christmas baby sales.  She had more money than a ketchup god, and was worried about saving twenty percent on a black crib.  Even her hubster found it ridiculous, but ever since that pee stick turned pink, he had doted on her like a pedigree poodle.

As though thinking of him had conjured the man himself, Jon came pushing through the doors into the waiting room. 

Immediately recognizing that Mr. Petey was not a happy man, Gavin did his best to stuff down the hyperspastic anxiety bestowed on him by too many episodes of Roseanne.  He popped his feet as nonchalantly as possible, but was unable to come across as anything other than melodramatic when demanding, “Deets.  I need deets.”

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Jon told the two active members of his entourage, “They’re taking her back to x-ray the ankle, but they seem pretty convinced that both it and the knee are just sprained.”

“Okayyy…  That’s good, right?”

When the poster child for orthodontia didn’t instantly respond, Gavin felt his stomach knot with dread.  “Clearly not, Curly, or boyfriend here would be blinding us with that megawatt grin.”

That earned him the direct gaze of the infamous baby blues along with a solemn nod.  “The news about the knee and ankle is good, but those back spasms of hers…  Nobody’s said it out loud yet, but I think she’s having contractions.”

So much for not birthin’ any babies tonight, Miss Thang.

Turning to his waiting room partner in crime, Gavin lifted an impeccably groomed eyebrow and glumly chorused along with him, “There’s gonna be Tinkerhell to pay.”

* * * * * *

“Where have you been?” Petey demanded when Jon slipped back into the exam room.  She had only been back from X-Ray for a couple of minutes but expected that he’d be waiting, and when the glass cubicle was empty, her crankiness climbed another notch.  The combination of pregnancy hormones, anxiety and pain was doing a number on her.

“I just went out to talk to Dave and Gavin for a minute.  Ask them to make some calls and let everybody know all is well.”  His tone was deliberately soothing as he swept gentle fingertips over her forehead with a smile that didn’t quite banish the worry from his eyes.  “How ya feelin’?”

Waving an impatient hand toward the ice packs on her knee and ankle and the fetal monitors around her belly, she grumpily demanded, “How do you think I am?  I’m cold, I hurt and I’m about to start quoting War and Peace.”

“I know, Sugar.  I’m sorry.  Hopefully, everything looks good and we’ll be out of here soon.”

The mere fact that he was cosseting Petey like a child rather than telling her to suck it up, was enough to bring tears to her eyes.  Jon never babied her.  He had indulged her every whim the last few months, but he never treated her as if she were fragile china that had been glued together for the third time. 

Clutching at the hand propped on the bedside rail, she dug blunt nails in the meaty part of his palm and demanded, “What’s wrong?  What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing.  Honest to God.”

If he didn’t, it was due to a technicality because her wedding rings were garnering more attention than she was right now.  The way he brushed a square thumb over the diamond in her pink engagement ring without meeting her eyes was not reassuring. 

“Then what do you suspect?  Ow, dammit!” 

Petey bowed her back off the excruciatingly uncomfortable mattress in an effort to escape the latest muscle spasm.   They were starting to become annoying, and since they couldn’t give her a muscle relaxant, she was stuck with them until they decided to fade.  Jon did know that acupuncturist, though.  Needles weren’t her first choice, but then neither were these stupid muscle spasms.

“What I suspect is that those are contractions.”

She froze in mid-massage of the odd pain that was starting to creep laterally around her midsection. 

“I have always thought of Christmastime, when it has come round...as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time;”

“Goddammit,” her husband huffed, hooking her chin between his thumb and forefinger to command her eyes.  “This is why I didn’t say anything.  I knew you’d have a panic attack, and that isn’t going to help anybody.  Especially you.”

She’d always thought A Christmas Carol to be an unusually morbid tale to celebrate the season.  All Dickens’s talk of death and regrets placed a significant damper on her holiday spirit, but now she understood.  Not everyone was fortunate enough to experience peace on Earth at this time of year, because tragedy and heartbreak didn’t recognize the same Federal holidays that were marked on her Gregorian calendar. 

They came without respect to day, time, wealth, intelligence, pedigree, fame or character, and Petey was tragically fearful that they were coming here.  Today.  Now.

“Our baby is alive.”

Square, solid fingers webbed themselves into Petey’s and the hard band of Jon’s wedding ring dug into her flesh when he squeezed.  “Our baby is very much alive.”

She allowed – begged – coldness to encase her heart, so that its iciness would freeze the tears that wanted to spring forth in a hormonal version of Niagara Falls.  Tears had never been the solution to any problem that Einstein, Edison, Freud, or Da Vinci had.  Only logic and science were applicable to solving problems, and Petey had an abundance.

“I need something from you.”

“What is it, Sugar?”

“I need your phone, David, my phone, headphones, a charger and an ultrasound.”

“Uh…”  Pink eyes flicked up to find blue ones riddled with confusion.  Her husband didn’t share the same logic highway that she did, and her thought processes didn’t always make sense to him, no matter how he tried to follow along – and he tried.

“I want to know the gender of the baby,” she explained concisely.  “A sexless fetus without identity is no longer working for me.  If I’m going to convince him or her to stay inside me, things are going to have to become a little more personal.”

Because he knew how she was, Jon didn’t offer anything that vaguely resembled an argument.  She needed what she needed to stave off the panic, and he’d give it to her as long as it was within his power.  Without question. 

“I’ll make it happen.  Now what’s the other stuff for?”

“That’s a three-fold purpose and one of those folds you’re not going to like.”

“Tell me anyway.”

A gurney went rushing down the hall, with rubber-soled feet chasing alongside as someone else met with catastrophe.  Electronic beeps monitoring the chasm between life and death created their own brand of morbid music.  Sobs were wrenched from someone whose life was being torn apart.  The sounds brought images of tragedy, which inspired emotion, which cruelly threatened to thaw the ice encasement of her heart.  She couldn’t listen to it and be expected to retain her sanity.

“Music.  I need music to drown all this other shit out before I lose my mind.  Take my phone to David and have him put together a fast playlist that races faster than my thoughts.”

Her husband wasted no time in withdrawing his hand so that he could use both of his thumbs to fire out a text message.  “He doesn’t need your phone.  I’m pretty sure he can make some damn thing online and send a link to it.  He’s done that with me before.”

A melodic chime came through, totally incongruous with the surrounding noises, but Petey mentally latched onto that noise as a trumpeter heralding the start of the great race.

“Dave’s on it.  Now what was my phone for?”

This was the part he wouldn’t like, but it couldn’t be helped. 

“Look at me,” she beseeched, black-nailed fingers coming to stroke the prickly whiskers along his jaw.  “Don’t react, just listen.  If you can get me the ultrasound and the music, I’ll be calm enough to think clearly.  I need information on trauma-induced labor with statistics and treatment plans, and I can get them online through Johns Hopkins.”

“Sugar, I know you think that’s going to help you, but knowing all that shit is only going to upset you more.”

His only interest was in her well-being.  Petey didn’t need to watch the pain swimming in the soulful depths of his eyes to know that, because she knew him.  When she hurt, he hurt and Jon simply couldn’t bear making either of their hurt worse.

“Jonny, you know I’m smarter than most of these doctors, and I care more about this baby than all of them.  If there’s a way to prevent this from happening now, I’ll find it and…”  She gave another mental blast of liquid nitrogen to her heart.  “If I don’t, at least I’ll feel like I’m doing something productive.”

His shaggy blonde head shook with disgust.  “And I’m supposed to just sit here while you solve the problems of our world?”

She could never do that to her alpha-male husband.  He needed to be the one in charge and in control of the situation – or at least contributing to the greater good. 

“No.  I can’t do everything at once, so you’re going to have to do the important stuff.”

“Which is?” he dryly demanded with a haughtily arched eyebrow. 

While some people might view this as a fluffy or frivolous task just to keep him occupied, as a mother-to-be, Petey considered it one of the most significant challenges that they faced.  If he knew what was good for him, he’d consider it the same.

“Find a name for our baby.”