Page 164 of The Don’s Omega

“His blood pressure is climbing.” Her voice stays calm. “It happens sometimes in active labor. Nothing to panic about.” She looks at me. “Elio, I need you on your left side.”

I roll over, which is harder than it sounds when you’re nine months pregnant and mid-contraction. Maureen adjusts the monitors. Another nurse appears. They put something in my IV. Dr. Vasquez comes in, and I can tell by the way she moves, quick and alert, but not alarmed, that this is serious but not an emergency.

“Blood pressure is 150 over 95,” Maureen says.

“Okay.” Dr. Vasquez checks the fetal monitor. “Baby’s tolerating it fine. Heart rate is stable.”

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” I ask, holding Marcello’s hand. I’m scared, but his touch comforts me.

She smiles. “Everything is fine. This isn’t uncommon. Having a baby is stressful on the body. But we’re going to watch your pressure closely. The medication should bring it down within a few minutes. I want you to stay on your side for now.”

“Is the baby okay?” My voice comes out more panicked than I want.

“The baby is fine. Heart rate is strong.” She puts her hand on my arm. “This is manageable.”

“See,” Marcello rumbles. “Everything is going to be fine, Elio. We’ll just trust the professionals to do their jobs. They’re not going to let anything bad happen.” There’s a warning in his voice.

Dr. Vasquez seems to notice too because she gives a nervous laugh. “Absolutely. Elio is in good hands.”

Ten minutes later the medication does its job. My blood pressure drops to 135 over 85. Maureen gives a satisfied nod and says “better.” The second nurse leaves. The room settles again.

By 5:15 p.m., I’m at nine centimeters and the epidural is losing ground. The contractions have merged into something almost continuous, each one rolling into the next with barely a gap, and I can feel them again. Not like before, not that raw full-body assault, but close. The pressure is enormous, deep and inescapable.

“Ten centimeters,” Maureen announces at 5:40 p.m. “Full dilation. You’re ready to push.”

Dr. Vasquez positions herself. Two nurses flank the bed. Marcello is at my head, one hand in mine, the other on my shoulder. The overhead light clicks on and the room goes bright and clinical. My whole body is vibrating, and I don’t know if it’s fear or adrenaline or both.

“Okay, Elio, on the next contraction, I’ll need you to push,” Dr. Vasquez says. “Bear down hard. You’ll feel the pressure increase. That’s normal. That’s what we want.”

The contraction comes and I push. The pressure becomes something else entirely, a fullness so extreme it feels like my body is trying to turn itself inside out. I hear myself make a sound that isn’t a scream and isn’t a groan, something rawer than either. Maureen says “good, that’s good.” I push again.

Three contractions. Four. Dr. Vasquez coaches and counts. Her voice is steady and it reassures me I can do this. Marcello’s hand is in mine and I’m squeezing hard enough to do damage but he doesn’t pull away.

“I can see the head,” Dr. Vasquez says. “One more, Elio. Give me everything you’ve got.”

“Oh, God,” I whimper.

“You can do it, mio,” Marcello whispers.

Nodding, I bear down. There’s a burning stretch that peaks and holds and then a sudden release, a sliding rush, and a weight that was inside me is suddenly gone. The empty sensation is followed by a cry. A thin and furious announcement of the baby’s arrival.

I can’t see much from where I am, just Dr. Vasquez’s hands moving and Maureen beside her with a towel. The crying fills the room, and I try to life my head so I can see something. Marcello’s grip on my hand has gone slack for the first time in hours.

“Dad.” Dr. Vasquez holds up a pair of surgical scissors. “Would you like to cut the cord?”

“Of course.” Marcello steps forward.

As he cuts the cord, his hands are steady, which doesn’t really surprise me. I feel like Marcello has mastered the art of not panicking. The most rattled he looked was in the car when I was in pain with contractions. I think he felt helpless. That’s probably the worst feeling in the world for a control freak like Marcello.

Before I know it, they’re lifting the baby onto my chest. The child is warm, wet, and intimidatingly small. I put my hands around this tiny, screaming, red-faced person and my mind goes completely blank. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I can only hold on and stare.

“Congratulations,” Dr. Vasquez says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “You have a son.”

I have a son.

He’s screaming. His face is scrunched and furious and his fists are balled tight. His skin is blotchy pink and there’s dark hair on his head. When I press him against my chest his screaming quiets. He lies there breathing, fingers splayed against my skin. My heart aches with a love I’ve never felt before. It’s completely different from any love I feel for any other being.

I look up at Marcello. He’s standing beside the bed with tears on his face. For once, he’s not fighting them. Not hiding them. Just standing there with his hand on my shoulder, looking at the baby on my chest.