Troy’s face—and I guess my own—clearly looks like he’s thinking, Is this woman just plain insane?

“I hurt too much,” she sobs. “I have to stop. I’ll spend the time learning to know my baby.”

“We don’t have time for a discussion, Val. There’s a baby inside you who’s got to come out.”

This conversation takes place while I am wrist-deep inside Val.

Troy has now handed the first baby off to Tracy Anne.

Meanwhile, I notice three ob-gyn residents have arrived in the room. A motley crew, as they say: one black, one white, one Indian. Surprisingly, the white resident is a man. That’s fairly unusual these days—a male ob-gyn—but now’s not the time to start a discussion about it. The group of doctors-to-be is quiet. I warn them to hold all their questions until after the delivery. Actually, I’d like to ask them to leave. But I don’t. I just warn them to keep very, very quiet. The mom and the babies are starring in this production.

Troy begins massaging Val’s belly. She has one fewer baby inside her, but her belly remains large and hard. We’ve never been sure that this belly massage has an effect on a patient, but it’s become almost like a good-luck gesture. We’ve just got to do it.

“Go easy, Troy. Go easy,” I say.

He shoots a look at me. It’s gentle, yes, but it says, I don’t need directions, Lucy.

Tracy Anne has returned from depositing Baby Number One in the nursery. She approaches me, stands close to me, then whispers, “They’ve already got a social worker waiting to see Val when she’s well enough. They know she’s a user.”

“I never filed a warning with the city,” I say. Then I realize what must have happened.

“I bet that bitch Franklin notified Social Services,” I say. “We can’t worry about it now. Damn it. Give us a hand here.”

Tracy Anne nods and begins wiping Val’s head and lips and throat with our endless supply of moist lavender cloths. I keep trying unsuccessfully to gently manipulate the fetus into a more “benign” delivery position. To be honest, this procedure rarely works. And this time is no exception. What’s more, there is a small but steady stream of blood beginning to cover my gloved hands.

“I’ll call surgery,” says Troy. “She needs a section.”

“Wait,” I say. “I’ve got an idea.”

“I’ve got an idea, too,” Troy says. “My idea is, let’s get someone in to do a C-section.”

I ignore him. I need to give it one more try. Not to worry, I don’t ever object to calling in an OB person if necessary. But I know when to make that call.