Page 269 of Josephine and Clay

Again.

Again.

Then, suddenly, the doctor says, “One more good push for baby A.”

Josie sobs once, raw and furious, and gives everything she has. And then the world changes. A cry cuts through the room.

My heart stops.

For one suspended second, I don’t understand what I’m hearing.

Then the doctor lifts him, small and wet and furious beneath the bright lights, and I forget every word I’ve ever known.

Josie makes a sound beside me that I’ll remember until I die.

“There he is,” someone says. “A baby boy.”

A nurse moves fast, and then he’s on Josie’s chest, tiny mouth open, fists curled tight like he’s already annoyed with the world.

He has dark hair. A little of it. Enough that my knees almost give out.

I touch him with one finger, barely brave enough.

I start crying before I realize it.

Josie looks at me, crying too, and laughs softly. “Clay.”

“I know.”

“You’re crying.”

“So are you.”

She laughs again, exhausted and beautiful, and for a few shining seconds I think the worst is over.

I think we made it.

Then the doctor says, “Okay. We still have baby B.”

The nurse takes our first son to be checked, promising he’s fine, promising he’s right there, but my hand tightens around Josie’s automatically.

Because suddenly I understand. We are only halfway through.

Josie understands too.

Her face pales.

“I’m tired,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“No, Clay.” Her voice breaks this time. “I’m really tired.”

The monitor changes. Every face in the room turns toward it for half a second too long.

The doctor moves closer.

“Baby B’s heart rate dipped a little. It came back up, but we’re going to keep working, okay?”