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Midwife Jane has her sterilized hands cupped under Stella, waiting for the tadpole to emerge.
Agonizing moments or minutes later—it’s hard to track time amid this stress—the tadpole is caught in Midwife Jane’s evidently capable hands.
“It’s a boy!” she announces.
I manage to drag my gaze away from Becky to acknowledge the newling’s arrival with a congratulations for his parents—and I’m stunned speechless.
The offspring is half Yonderin. Which, in an abstract way, I was aware would be the case. Toseehim though… Human from head to his belly, he’s the most fetching infant I’ve ever seen. But then, at his hips, he has a drastic transformation. Shiny blue scales cover his lower half, much like a Yonderin. At the same time, he’s very much humanoid. He haslegs.
As if to demonstrate this, he kicks out his legs and on his tiny feet, even tinier toes spread. Between the toes is an opaque membrane. Webbing. He has little webbed toes.
I’m entranced.
I’m roused from my staring because Becky’s brain is troubled and I don’t know why.
I catch her looking between me and the tadpole. I can’t read the look on her face.
She turns away from me and something I read off of her, perhaps the studious way she’s now avoiding looking at the Yonderin-human, sets me back on my heels. I’m struck with the question: is Becky repulsed by the idea of a half-Yonderin, half-human hybrid?
Does Becky not want an offspring of mine?
“What is the matter?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “I want to get down.”
“Get down where?”
She’s grimacing now. “I want to get down on all fours.”
“Need that rug,” C’vest mutters and pulls away from his family and rushes from the room.
“Before you get down, let’s check you,” Midwife Jane says, washing her hands in a bowl with a thorough efficiency I can appreciate. “You.” She jerks her chin at me, then the pottery sitting on a small table by the door. “Pitcher. Pour it on my hands.”
I leave Becky’s side and do as the midwife has bidden, aiding her in rinsing her hands. Once her appendages are clean, the midwife inserts her hand into a part of Becky that of late, only I have been in. “We’ve got Lightening.”
“Lightning?” I ask, restraining the urge to throw a look out the window. There hasn’t been a day of rain since I arrived here.
“The baby is descending,” C’vest offers, returning with a rolled-up rug that’s new, judging by the plastic wrapping it. Carefullyhe frees it from its casing and rolls it out on an area of the floor none of us are standing.
I send him a glance of thanks, both for the explanation and this comfort for my wife. Then I help Becky move to all fours atop the woven material.
“Don’t spread your knees,” Midwife Jane cautions. “It pinches your canal. Harder for baby to get through.”
I help Becky position herself so that her knees are under her hips.
“Spread your feet,” Midwife Jane orders.
Becky groans as I help her slide her feet—but not her knees—until she’s splayed, with her knees under her and rotated in. As Midwife Jane shoos me aside and draws Becky’s gown up, I nearly gasp.
There’s a tadpole’s head emerging.
“Now just like with Stella, we’re not going to rush this,” Midwife Jane cautions. “It’s not like vids where Mom gets screamed at to push. Rushing things is how you tear a woman. We’re also not going to cut anything. I’m going to massage the lips of your vagina and help it stretch around your baby’s head. Ready?”
“Yeah,” Becky pants.
Scandalized anew, relegated to Becky’s shoulder, I can only rub her back and hold her dress as Midwife Jane massages my wife’s private areas.
And we wait.
