“She’s ready,” I yell, and I pitch my voice louder than Val’s. Then I tell her to kneel on the shower floor. She doesn’t move. So, very firmly, and as smoothly as possible, I ease her down to a kneeling position. I kneel next to her. I bend her over. I urge her to give “a really big push.” Amazingly she cooperates.

After the big push, and equally amazingly, two infant legs appear. Please, God, let this go well. Please, come on.

God must have heard me—this is not always the case—because with one more push the baby’s torso slides out.

Now the most dangerous part of all: we need the head. And the head is refusing to make an appearance. I cannot even see the neck or chin section. I am afraid that whatever flesh I think is emerging is actually the umbilical cord twisted around the infant’s neck. I know that in a moment we’ll have to call an OB surgeon in for a C-section. Tracy Anne is holding her phone in her hand. She’s ready to make the call as soon as I give the signal.

“One more breath. And one more push,” I say.

And then it happens. The baby comes out. I immediately create the metaphor that I will use when I tell the story of this delivery: “The baby popped out like the cork from a bottle of champagne.”

Champagne bottle or not, this second baby, another girl, is in serious distress. This baby girl is tiny, really tiny. A guesstimate weight? Three pounds. What’s as worrisome is the baby’s skin—a horrid purplish color, deep purple.

Troy cuts and clips the umbilical cord.

My stethoscope says the baby is breathing normally, but that important first scream of life has yet to emerge.

Val is yelling, “What is it? What is it?” as I hand the baby to Tracy Anne, who places Baby Number Two in a portable incubator and rushes her to Neonatal ICU.

“It’s another girl,” I say. “She needs help. Don’t worry. We’re going to get her all fixed up for you.”

“What’s wrong?” Val yells.

“Nothing that we can’t take care of.” I hope. God, I hope.

Troy slowly, carefully, lovingly helps Val to a bed. I remain in the bathroom to blot and shake off as much water as I can. I remove my shirt. I wring it out. I’m a mess. I look like a mess. I feel like a mess. But I’ve got to keep moving.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

A FEW MINUTES LATER—maybe five minutes—I step out of the bathroom and into the patient room.

The room is totally empty. No Troy. No Tracy Anne. Most upsetting, no Val.