Rescue by Anita Shreve Page B

scanned her face. “Right eye, just below the outer edge.”
    She swept the mark away, gave the handkerchief back to Webster. She lifted the champagne glass she’d been avoiding. The gesture
     caught Webster’s mother’s eye.
    “Oh, honey, I’ve been waiting this whole time for you to do that.” She and Sheila clinked glasses.
    That night Webster and Sheila lay in bed on the first of their three nights of honeymoon. They had chosen to forgo a trip.
     Webster was happy enough to be in their bedroom cocoon with the prospect of two more days off. On Monday, they would shop
     for a car seat and a crib with the money his parents had given them as a wedding present. Tomorrow he and Sheila would decide
     in advance where to put the crib—which tiny part of their already tiny apartment they could carve out as a nursery. But that
     night they had no worries and no plans. Webster’s mother, likethe church lady she was, had arranged for the inn to make up two dinners and to save the rest of the cake, all of which she
     handed to Sheila when the lunch was over. “A woman doesn’t cook on her wedding night, no matter where she spends it,” his
     mother said. Sheila hugged her for the first time.
    Webster gave his mother an A+ for trying. She seemed to be their biggest fan. Then again, Sheila had something his mother
     wanted: a grandchild to hold.
    Webster put his hands on the bump and thought:
This, right now, this is my family
.
    Sheila drifted in and out of sleep while Webster held her.

T hey’re contractions,” Sheila said when Webster opened the door at eight thirty in the morning. He’d had an easy night. Not
     too many calls, and nothing serious. “Not too bad.” She was just into her ninth month. She sat at the kitchen table, a glass
     of water in front of her, her robe stretched as far as it would go around her belly. She could barely tie the sash. Being
     pregnant was sometimes funny.
    “Braxton Hicks?” he asked.
    “Maybe.”
    They’d gone to the classes, even though Webster already knew the drill. He kept it to himself, not wanting to stand between
     Sheila and the information she needed to know. He’d delivered an infant his first month as a probie. Burrows said the second-timers
     always waited too long. Webster knew about the blood vessels and aorta that twisted into an umbilical cord, the suctioning
     and the precious seconds waiting for the baby to pink up, the pointed heads the nurses always covered with caps shortly after
     the birth. The nurses said that the caps kept the babies warm. Webster thought it was because their pointed heads were ugly.
     He’d never seen a beautiful baby spring right out from the chute. Usually it wasn’t until the infants were a month old, when
     the mothers came in to Rescue to thank the medics, that he could attach the word
cute.
    He set his radio and belt on the table. He watched as Sheila caved inward and closed her eyes.
    He waited until she came back.
    “That’s not Braxton,” he said.
    “No, probably not.”
    “Your water break?”
    She nodded.
    “When?”
    “Around two a.m.”
    “Why didn’t you call me?”
    Sheila shrugged.
    Webster assessed her. He checked his watch and waited for another contraction. It came at four minutes, and this time she
     made hard fists to ward off the pain. He squatted in front of her.
    “Do you remember about the breathing?” he asked.
    “Of course I remember it. I just can’t do it.”
    “You did fine in class,” he reminded her.
    “Does this look like class?”
    “Try to breathe while you’re having the contractions even if it isn’t the way they taught you. Can you get dressed?”
    “Probably.”
    “We’re going in.”
    “To the hospital?”
    “You bet,” he said, standing.
    “Am I going to be one of those idiots they talked about in class? The woman who goes in too soon and then has to go home?”
    “No,” Webster said. “Your water broke. You have to go in.”
    She struggled to stand, and he helped