ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.
THE GRINCH AND THE AMAZING CHRISTMAS MIRACLE
CHAPTER SIX
O HOLY NIGHT
…Peter, I know you don't think we had good Christmases when you were a kid, but we did. I remember, the very first Christmas after you were born, your daddy took you outside to see the snow coming down. You were only a couple of months old, and I was worried that the chilly air would make you start crying, but as the snowflakes hit your face, you looked up into the sky like you were seeing a wonderful miracle or something. And then you started laughing, a happy little belly laugh, which made your father and I start laughing, too. It was quite a sight, two adults and one tiny baby laughing in the snow, as flakes stuck to our eyelashes and in our hair. Then, another Christmas I remember, you were about five, and your daddy took us out in a sleigh ride in a nearby field. It was freezing out, and snowing to boot, but we stayed warm, all huddled up under that old sleigh blanket of your Grandmother Malloy's. We had such fun! Your daddy stopped the sleigh and we got out to play in the snow. The three of us had a snowball fight, and we made snow angels. You fell into a drift and got scared because you couldn't get back out. Your daddy pulled you out, laughing as he brushed the snow off of you. He called you his little snowman, since you loved the snow so much. And then we came home and had hot chocolate and cookies, and I played Christmas carols on the piano for us, the three of us singing as loud as we could. And do you remember when he used to take you sledding down Boston Hill? And how you two would make snowmen in the front yard? You loved your daddy so much, and just thought the world of him, Peter. It's too bad the war had to come along and take that good man away from us, returning a complete stranger to us instead.
Mom, I only remember a couple of the good Christmases, since I was so young at the time. But I have the feeling that you didn't exactly call me to reminisce over ghosts of Christmases past, did you, Mom?
No, I didn't, Peter. I didn't call just to reminisce over old Christmas memories with you, dear. I called because of your father.
Why? What's wrong with Dad? What's he done now, Mom?
Peter, I think you need to come home as soon as you can, okay?
Mom, I can't just hop on a plane and fly home on a moment's notice. I've got a job that I can't up and take time off from without some advance notice.
I know that, dear, but I think you need to come home.
Why? Why do I need to come home? Tell me, Mom.
It's your father, Peter, he's…
Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining...a sweet soprano trills softly in my ears. It is the night of the dear Savior's birth...
"Who's singing?" I mutter.
"Pete, are you okay?" I hear a panicky voice from next to me, and it's definitely not a match for the sweet soprano. "PETE!" A hand roughly shakes my shoulder. "Answer me, Pete!" the voice demands sharply, a slight edge of hysteria in the tone. "Are you okay?"
"Wha…what happened?" I ask thickly, slowly opening my eyes. My face is pressed up against something hard and unyielding; it takes me a moment to realize that my head is resting on the steering wheel of a car...our car, Adam-12. "Where the hell are we?" I ask, gingerly peeling myself off of the steering column I am slumped over. Almost immediately, my brain begins to protest the movement, as a bass-drum throbbing starts pounding from somewhere near the front of my skull. My left hip and my right knee begin to throb in accompaniment, while sharp darts of pain lace through my ribcage on both sides, a four-part harmony of aches singing throughout my body. Grimacing, I slowly turn to see Jim Reed looking at me, his eyes wide with fear. "What happened?" I ask again, trying to gather my wits about me. "Where are we?"
"Are you alright?" he asks me worriedly.
"I will be if you tell me what happened," I tell him.
"We were in a car wreck, Pete, don't you remember?" he asks.
I think for a moment, trying vainly to recall the wreck, but it plays hide-and-seek around the pounding kettle drums in my brain. "I…I guess," I say to him. I am dimly aware of the hissing sound of steam escaping from the smashed radiator of the car, and I glance out the cracked windshield to see the black hood of Adam-12 crumpled up towards the sky. I feel something warm oozing down my forehead and I put my hand up to swipe it away. My hand comes away covered in blood. "What happened?" I ask again, frowning at the blood on my fingers. "Why am I bleeding?"
"Pete, we were in a car accident," Reed says, his voice sharp with concern. "An oncoming car skidded into the path of ours and we hit almost head-on. We ended up in the ditch. Don't you remember any of it?"
I ponder it, turning my gaze to the starred and cracked windshield. There's a smear of blood on the inside of it, right in front of me. I look over at Jim, frowning. "Did I hit the windshield?" I ask, dumbly pointing to the smear of bright red. "Did I black out?"
"I don't know if you hit the windshield, but you were out for a minute or so, at least," he says.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, peering at him, noticing the trickle of blood from his nose.
He thinks on it for a second, then he replies. "I hit my nose, and I think my knee's banged up pretty good, but I'm more worried about you, Pete. If you hit your head on the windshield, you might have a concussion."
"I dunno," I say. "I think I have a pretty hard head, and I seem to recall someone joking about that fact earlier tonight. I think I just got my wits rattled, that's all."
"Quick, tell me who the president is," he says.
I draw in a deep breath and am rewarded by a sharp stab in my left ribcage, causing me to quickly blow the breath out in a sigh. "It's Nixon," I tell him, carefully keeping my pain hidden. "And the date is December 24, 1969. My name is Peter Joseph Malloy, and I'm a cop with the LAPD, badge number 744, serial…serial…I didn't have cereal for breakfast, I had toast," I say. "Who wants to know about cereal?" I peer at Reed once more. "And who would you be, young man?" I ask him.
"PETE!" Reed says sharply, gripping my shoulder tight enough to make me wince in pain. "You're not making any sense!"
"Leggo of my shoulder," I groan, twisting away. "I'm just yanking your chain, Jim. I'm kidding you."
"Jesus Christ," he hisses angrily, relief visible in his eyes. "Knock it the hell off, Pete, you're scarin' the crap outta me!"
"No, the accident shoulda done that," I say, trying to grin. I jab a finger at the radio. "So why haven't we been rescued yet?" I ask. "Surely you got on the radio and told dispatch we'd TA'd, didn't you?"
"The radio's dead," he tells me. "The antenna musta snapped off when we rolled."
"Wait a sec, we rolled?" I ask. "I don't remember that."
"You don't remember ANY of the wreck at all?" he asks worriedly. "That's not good, Pete, it really sounds like you have a concussion."
Catching his concern, I grin again. "I'm teasin' ya, Jim. Of course I remember rolling the car," I tell him, even though I honestly don't. But he doesn't need to know that. "And I don't have a concussion, I have a percussion…an entire orchestra percussion pounding out 'The 1812 Overture' in my brain. I'm surprised you can't hear them, they're that loud."
"This is no time to regain your sense of humor, Pete!" Reed snaps. "We've gotta get out of this car and check on the other driver!"
"You mean you can't get out on your side?" I ask.
"I tried and the damned door's jammed," he says. "I also tried rolling the window down, and it won't move."
"Lemme try mine," I say. I yank on the handle and it doesn't budge. I shove my shoulder against the door, hard, and am rewarded with another sharp dart of pain in my ribcage. "Oww…" I start to groan, then I catch sight of Reed's worried look, so I hastily change it. "Hoo," I pant, hoping he doesn't see the glimmer of pain in my eyes. A thin sweat breaks out on my forehead. "Door's good and stuck, partner." I try the window, with no luck there, either.
"Let me try the back ones," he says, gripping the rear of the front seat in his hands. "Maybe one of them will give." He wriggles partially over the seat, hanging there halfway, ass up in the air and rather dangerously close to my head as he stretches his arms out to try the doors and windows.
"Hey, do you MIND?" I ask sharply, giving his butt a disdainful glare. "I don't appreciate having your ass in my face, Reed."
"I'm sorry, but deal with it, Malloy," he says. "Damn it," he says, yanking on the handle of the passenger back door of the cruiser. "It's jammed." He slides over, leaning into me as he tries the back door on my side of the car. "Same thing," he groans in frustration. "Jammed. Windows won't roll down, either." He turns and slithers back into his seat, the car rocking with his movements.
"Uh…this car isn't in danger of rolling again, is it?" I ask, gripping the steering wheel. "I'd like a little advance warning if it is."
"I wouldn't know, Pete," he says. "Not having been able to actually EXIT the car to see."
"We'll hafta break a window to get out, it seems," I say.
"Which one?" he asks, pulling his nightstick from the holder on the door. "Your side or mine?"
"I was actually thinking of the windshield," I say. "It's already pretty cracked up, so it shouldn't take too much to bust it the rest of the way out."
"Side window would be better, I think," he says.
"It would seem that way, yes," I tell him. "But any shift in weight on either your side of the car or mine could make it roll again. And if it starts rolling while one of us is halfway out the window…well, you can imagine what would happen. We'd get flung free or smashed, one of the two."
He thinks for a moment. "Yeah, okay, you're probably right." Gripping the nightstick in both fists, he begins to hammer the butt of it against the cracked windshield. It only takes a couple of strong blows before the nightstick breaks through the safety glass with a brisk popping sound. Shards of glass tinkle in on us as he swipes the nightstick back and forth, up and down, clearing enough of a hole in the glass to allow us to squirm through. "I'll go out first, Pete," he says. "I'll see which side is safest for us to get out on. Then I'll help you out, okay?"
"Sounds like a plan, man," I say, clicking my tongue and pointing my thumb and index finger at him like a gun. "Just try not to cut yourself on the glass, okay?"
"You know, I'm really worried about you," he says, gripping the dashboard in his hands. "You're not acting right, Pete." Grunting, he begins to heave himself out through the hole in the windshield, his head and shoulders disappearing out over the hood first, then he kicks and wriggles his feet and legs, pulling and squirming the rest of his body through. Sliding across the hood into a sitting position, he takes his flashlight from his pocket and shines it down on the ground, first on the left side, then on the right side of the car. "Once you get out, slide off over on your side," he says, looking back in at me. "It's a little more solid landing there, it looks like." He tugs on the windshield, peeling more of the safety glass back to let me out. Then he slides off the hood, landing with a thud on the ground. "Yeah, it's safe on this side, Pete," he says. The car groans slightly as Reed's weight leaves it, but it stays on its wheels.
I hand him out his nightstick. "Here," I say. "In case we need to break the window on the other car." I slide across the seat and grip the dashboard in my palms, heaving myself forward, and I begin to squeeze through the opening in the windshield. Shards of glass crunch against my coat and the sharp darts of pain in my ribcage become screaming, jagged jabs as I work myself through, causing me to let out a hiss between gritted teeth. A searing sharp glint of pain washes over me in a heated wave, threatening to sweep me away in the undertow. The snow has turned back over to icy rain, and it pounds down on my head, cooling the sweat that has broken out there. I pause, letting it soothe me as I gather the strength to hoist myself the rest of the way through the window.
"Can you make it?" he asks.
"Yeah," I grunt, trying not to breathe too deeply. Putting my palms onto the wet hood of the car, I slide forward on my stomach, heaving and thrashing my way through the window frame, just like Reed had done. "I'm gettin' too old for this shit," I say, as another dart of pain sears across me, nearly blinding me.
"Here, let me help you," he says, and gripping the back of my coat, he helps haul me out. "Are you okay?" he asks, frowning, as I slowly work myself into a sitting position on the hood of the car.
"Yeah," I pant. My hand strays to my chest, and I rub at the pain there. "I'm okay." I tilt my head up to the rain, closing my eyes, letting it sluice across my face. It hits the cut on my forehead, making it sting. I sit there for a moment, gathering my wits. "Let's check on the other driver," I say, sliding off of the hood. The minute my feet hit the ground though, my knees start to buckle and blackness swims before my eyes, and a buzzing sensation like a thousand angry bees fills my brain.
"Whoa!" Reed yelps, grabbing onto me, steadying me against the side of the car. "Pete, you're not okay!"
I scrub a hand across my damp face, willing the swirling blackness to go away. "I am too," I mumble. "I just had a bit of a head rush, that's all." Leaning forward, hands on my knees, I try to catch my breath as best as I can without inciting the pain to start rioting again. I shake my head, clearing it of the buzzing sensation, but unfortunately not of the jungle drums still pounding out a vicious tattoo. I push him away. "I'm fine, and quit asking me," I tell him sharply. I pull my flashlight out of my pocket. "Where'd the other car land at?" I ask, shining the beam around.
"Other ditch," he says. "Think you can walk, Pete?"
"Of course I can," I tell him, taking a couple of tottery steps on my own.
"Why don't you let me hang onto you, just in case?" he offers. He grabs onto my upper arm.
"Touch me and you die!" I snap, yanking my arm out of his grasp.
"At least let me help you out of the goddamned ditch," he snaps back. "Before you slip and fall, hurting yourself worse than you already are." Shining the flashlight on the dead vegetation in the ditch ahead of us, he swipes and smackes at the roadside weeds, clearing a path for us to navigate safely out. He exits the ditch first, holding a hand out for me to grab to get out myself.
I ignore him, brushing his hand away as I get out of the ditch myself. We start to cross the wet roadway, the icy rain beating down on us, when the blackness starts to wash over me again, and I stumble, going to the pavement hard on my hands and knees. A jolt of white-hot pain lances through me and I shudder, as a wave of nausea roils in my stomach, and I swallow hard, willing my stomach to stay where it's at. My heart hammers wildly in my chest, increasing the jungle drum tattoo pounding away in my head to a foxtrot tempo. I tilt my head up to the sky once more, letting the rain wash across my face, cooling me.
"Pete!" Reed says, his voice sharp with concern. "Are you alright?" He puts a hand on my back. "You don't look very good."
"I'm fine," I hiss, gritting my teeth. "I just lost my footing and stumbled, that's all."
"Let me help you up," he says, grabbing me by the arm.
"No, I can DO it myself," I grumble in protest, but I allow myself to be hauled to my feet with his assistance.
"Are you always this damned stubborn?" he asks.
"Do I really hafta answer that for you, partner?" I ask as I start to hobble across the roadway once more.
"No, I've worked with you for long enough, so I can answer that myself," he grumps, limping along next to me. "There's the other car," he says, pointing to the still-glowing tail lights of the car we hit. "Hey!" he yells as we approach the vehicle. "In the car! You okay?" He is answered by a low moan that quickly slides into a shrill scream, the sound raising the hackles on both our necks.
The car, a little blue Corvette, rests with its nose up in the air, V'd into a telephone pole. The hood has nearly shattered from impact, steam escapes from the busted radiator, and the dying engine ticks and groans forlornly. As we hurry around to the driver's side, glass from the windshield and the headlights crunches under our feet. Reed takes the driver's side while I take the passenger side, and the two of us tug on the doors to check on the occupants inside.
A young woman, in her mid-twenties, with long dark hair and a frightened expression peers up at me as I yank on her door. Blood streams down her from a gash on her forehead, just above her eye. She presses her palms against the window. "Please help me!" she yells through the glass. "I'm in labor!"
I pause a second to exchange a startled glance with Reed over the top of the car. "Did she say she was in LABOR?" Reed asks in shock.
I don't answer him as I give her door one mighty yank. I'm relieved when the door pops open with a creaking protest. I kneel down next to her. "Did you say you were in labor?" I ask, as a jolt of adrenaline rushes through me, galvanizing me, spurring my brain into action.
"Yes," she says, panic in her voice. She rubs her hands across her flowered dress, fingers caressing her bulging tummy protectively. "I'm in labor! We were on our way to the hospital when we got into the accident!" Heavy perspiration beads her forehead, and her hair is damp with sweat. "Please help me!" she begs.
Reed has popped the door open on his side, leaning in to check on the driver. "Pete," he says, nodding his head at me. The two of us stand up, our gazes meeting once more over the top of the car. "He's an F," he says in a low tone so the girl won't hear. "Looks like a broken neck." He makes his way around to my side of the car.
I kneel back down next to the frightened girl. "How far apart are the contractions, do you know?" I ask her.
"They're coming every…aaaahhhHHHHHHH!" she screams, doubling over and clutching at her abdomen. "Every five minutes. I've been timing them with my watch." she pants. She throws her head back against the seat, eyes closed. "Oh my God, I'm so scared!" she says fearfully. "This is my first baby and I'm not sure what to expect."
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" I ask. "Like your legs or your back or your neck?"
"No, not that I know of," she says. "Please, what am I gonna do?" she begs. "I can't have my baby in this car!"
"No, you're not," I tell her. "Just relax a moment for me, okay?" I pat her shoulder with a reassurance I don't feel myself. "Have you taken any of those childbirth classes, you know, the ones that teach you how to breathe?"
"Lamaze, Pete," Reed supplies, standing and peering in at the girl from over my shoulder. "The classes are called Lamaze."
"Yes, I've had them," the girl says. "And I'm trying to use the breathing lessons I was taught, but it's pretty hard, sitting cramped up in this stupid car." She looks at me, dark eyes filled with pain meeting mine. "Please tell me that there's an ambulance on the way, Officer. I don't want to have my baby out here in the open like this."
I hesitate, trying to decide whether to bold-face lie to her or tell her the God-awful truth, that there is no ambulance en route, and the chance of her delivering her child in the sterile environment of a hospital is very unlikely. I look to Reed for guidance, finding none in his frowning, worried face, so I take a deep breath, darts of pain lancing through my ribs, and tell her the truth. "No, Miss, there's no ambulance on the way."
She looks at us in wide-eyed horror. "But you're police officers, right? You were dispatched out here on this accident, right?" Her voice is shrill with panic.
"No, Miss. We were the other car involved in the wreck," I tell her. "Our radio was knocked out of commission during the crash, and we've not been able to call for help."
"Oh my God," she sobs, leaning forward over her stomach. "I can't believe this is happening to me. I just can't." She leans back in the seat, hand over her eyes.
"Take it easy, Miss," Reed tells her. "We're going to do all that we can for you and your baby, okay?"
I look up at him. "Jim, I need you to get back to the squad car and see if you can get into the trunk and get the flares out. Get them set up on the roadway. I think there's a blanket back there, too, grab it if there is. We'll need to see if we can find a better place to put Miss…Miss…"
"Andrews," she says, still crying. "Sharon Andrews." Her face squinches up suddenly and she moans, the moan rising to a scream once more. "The contractions are starting to come faster," she pants.
"Go!" I order Reed, but he's already off and running, limping as fast as he can across the roadway.
He sees the lights of the oncoming car at the same time I do, and he shines his flashlight at it, waving frantically at the driver. As the driver slows to a stop, Reed leans in the open window and speaks. "I need you to go call for help!" he orders the driver. "Get ahold of LAPD dispatch and tell them that unit One-Adam-12 has been in a wreck on Milner Road, about a mile west of Las Palmas Avenue. We need at least two ambulances out here, along with medical personnel. We've got a woman in labor. Tell 'em to step on it!" He backs away from the car and it speeds off down the roadway. "They're going for help!" he yells to me, then he turns and starts through the underbrush in the ditch where Adam-12 has ended up.
"Did you hear that, Miss Andrews?" I ask, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "My partner flagged down a passing motorist and they're going for help. So just stay calm for me…"
"Stay calm? STAY CALM?" she asks, her voice rising in a shrill nervous crescendo. "It's easy for YOU to tell ME to stay calm, YOU'RE not the one who's about to give birth in the great outdoors, Mister!"
"Pete," I tell her. "My name is Pete Malloy. My partner's name is Jim Reed."
"Sharon Andrews," she repeats, holding a shaking hand out to mine. "But I guess I already told you that, didn't I?" she laughs, a slight edge of hysteria in her voice.
"Is that your husband?" I ask, nodding over at the deceased man. I keep her hand in mine, her palm sweating in my grip.
"No, that's a friend of ours, Mark Staley," she says. "My husband's overseas in the Air Force. He's stationed in Okinawa…oh God, here comes another one…" she moans, leaning forward, screaming as she clenches my hand as tightly as she can. I'm afraid that my fingers will break in her death grasp, and I try not to wince. She falls back into the seat, limp and panting. "Lemme tell ya," she says, rubbing at the sweat and blood on her forehead. "Lamaze does NOT work that well in this situation." She releases my hand. "Sorry if I nearly broke your fingers, Officer. I'm just so scared!"
"They're not broken," I assure her, flexing my fingers to assure myself. "Please, call me Pete," I tell her. "And you don't have anything to worry about, trust me. I've been through this before."
"You've got kids of your own?" she asks.
"No, I'm not married," I tell her. "But I've had to deliver a baby before, so I'm fairly familiar with the routine." I stand up to see if I can spot Reed returning with the blanket. When I stand, black dots dance in front of my eyes and I suddenly feel a little light-headed, so I tilt my face upwards once more, letting the rain hit me and bring me back to my senses. I rest my head against the top of the Corvette, the cool surface feeling soothing against my fevered skin. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to draw in a deep breath around the darts of pain in my ribs. Tears spring to my eyes with the effort, and I half-cough, half-sob. I jerk my eyes open, searching for my partner. I spot him coming out of the underbrush, flares in his hands, along with the blanket.
"Are you alright, Pete?" she asks, peering up at me anxiously. "You look a little wobbly."
"I'm okay, don't worry about it," I assure her. "I just got a bit of a head rush when I stood up." I glance across the roadway to see Reed laying a pattern of flares down, the he hurries back to us, limping.
"The motorist I flagged down is going for help," he pants. He rubs at his knee with his hand. "I've got the flares laid down to guide the ambulance and paramedics in." He gestures to the east of us. "There's a bus shelter about 10 yards from here on this side of the road. It's not much, but it's partially enclosed with a roof and sides, so it should provide some shelter."
"Wait a second, I'm not giving birth in a ahhhhhaaaaYIIIIIIEEEEEE!" Sharon screams, in the throes of another contraction. "Stupid bus shelter," she pants.
"I don't think you have much choice, Sharon, I'm sorry," I say, glancing at my watch. "The contractions are coming every three minutes or so."
"I can pick her up and carry her to the bus stop if you'll light the way," Reed says. "And don't argue with me, you're not in any shape to be carrying anyone, Pete." He thrusts the blanket and his flashlight at me. "Okay, Miss Andrews," he says, bending forward and sliding one arm under her knees, while he slips the other one behind her back. "You're sure you're not hurt anywhere else, like your legs or back, right?"
"Right," she moans. "And please, call me Sharon. After all, you two will be seeing a part of me that only my mother, my husband, and my obstetrician has seen before."
"Okay, then," Reed says. "Upsy-daisy." He carefully lifts her out of the car. "Are you doing alright?" he asks as he balances her small body in his arms.
"Yes, I'm fine," she says, putting an arm around his neck and gripping his coat collar firmly in her hand. "Please, just get me out of the rain." She rests her head against his chest, her other hand gripping his upper arm. "Do you have children, Jim?" she asks him.
"My wife and I have a six-month-old son, Jimmy Jr.," Reed tells her proudly.
"Oh, that's what my husband and I want, is a little boy," she says. "But we'd be just as happy with a little girl, too."
I walk alongside Jim, ready to step in and catch her if he should stumble. The beams of the two flashlights I hold picks out the bus shelter a few yards ahead of us.
"I can't believe this," she says, her voice muffled against his chest. "Me having a baby out in the middle of nowhere, in a bus shelter, to boot!" She giggles a little. "Stupid, huh? Sounds like something out of a soap opera."
"Well, Mary gave birth to Jesus in a manger, so it's been done before," Reed tells her.
"Yeah, but I'll be damned if I'm naming my kid Jesus Christ," she says. "Oh God, here comes another!" she groans, her groan sliding into a scream once more as she clutches Jim's arm and shoulder tightly in her fists. I see him wince with pain, but he doesn't drop her.
The bus shelter is really nothing more than a long bench enclosed in sturdy, clear Plexiglass on three sides and the roof. The bench and the shelter's Plexiglass walls are set in cement, and it's that I lay the blanket down on, smoothing it out so Reed can carefully lay Sharon down. He places her so that she's protected from the sleety rain and the wind the most by the Plexiglass, while he and I are exposed to the elements. Luckily, the wind isn't blowing the rain from the direction the bus shelter faces, so we manage to stay pretty safe from the rain and the icy wind.
"I'll stay behind her and support her back," he says, dropping to his knees. He shoots me a small grin, knowing that he's just administer the coup de grace, of sticking me with the duty of bringing Sharon's baby into the world.
"Thanks," she says gratefully, reclining back against him. "I'm just damned glad to get out of that car. My back was killing me, sitting all crushed up like that."
"Uh…okay," I stammer hastily. I drop to my knees at her feet. "So that…um…that leaves me with the business end of it."
"You said you'd done it before, Pete," Reed says, almost gleefully. "Don't worry, Sharon, Pete's an expert when it comes to birthing babies. He's delivered them before, including a set of twins." He pats her reassuringly.
"Oh, isn't that…aaaaaYYAAAAHHHHH!" she shrieks, doubling over in another contraction. "Oh God, just kill me now please," she pants.
I gather up all my bravado and courage, shooting Reed a glare. C'mon, Pete, helping birth a child, why it's just like riding a bicycle! I assure myself. Except there ain't exactly any training wheels here… I close my eyes briefly, and in a flash, my training and my experiences come flooding back to me, drowning out the pounding in my skull and the ache across my ribs. I can do this, I tell myself. "Okay, let's just see what's going on down here, okay?" I chirp too brightly. Inwardly grimacing, I gently lift the hem of her flowered skirt, pushing it past her knees and exposing her underwear-clad rump. "Uh…those panties are gonna hafta come off," I mutter, turning a hundred shades of red.
"Just pull them off," she instructs me. "I'm not gonna be embarrassed, I assure you. I'm WAY beyond that by now. I just wanna get this eighty-pound watermelon outta me, okay?"
"Um…okay," I say, wincing as I grab the edges of her panties in my fingers, tugging them downward. "Maybe YOU'RE not embarrassed but I sure as hell am."
"You shouldn't be," Reed jibes. "You're a bachelor, Pete. It's not like you haven't seen that kind of uh…equipment before. You should be fairly familiar with it."
"I just haven't seen it in quite THIS manner," I growl. "At least not too often." I position the two flashlights so they're shining on Sharon. She is fully dilated. "Okay, on the next contraction, I want you to start pushing," I tell her.
"Okay," she says, gritting her teeth. Her dark eyes glimmer as pain flashes across her face, and she thrashes in the throes of another contraction, bearing down as it hits. "Oh God," she sobs, tears and sweat streaming down her face. "If childbirth is this bad each time, this kid is gonna be an only child."
"Relax, you're doing fine," I assure her.
"Pete, we don't have anything to wrap the baby in once it's born," Reed says.
"I'll use my coat," I say, quickly stripping it off. I lay it across the bench in the shelter.
"Mark," Sharon says, her voice hoarse from screaming. "He's dead, isn't he? My friend in the car…he's dead, isn't he?" Her frightened eyes dare me to lie to her.
I exchange a glance with Reed, then I answer. "Yes, I'm sorry, but he is."
"Oh God, poor Mark," she moans. "He was only trying to help me get to the hospital on time."
The wind outside suddenly shifts direction, slinging the sleety rain in through the bus shelter entrance, stinging my face with its sharp iciness. I swipe a forearm across my face, breaking open the cut on my head once more, warm blood trickling down my temple.
O holy night…the stars are brightly shining…a faint whisper sings in my ear. It is the night of the dear Savior's birth…
I shake my head to clear it, starting the kettle drums pounding once more in my brain. "Okay," I say, ignoring the voice and the drums. "The baby's head is starting to crown. On the next contraction, I want you to bear down and push as hard as you can, alright, Sharon?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. Biting her lip as another contraction hits, she bears down hard, screaming, clinging to Jim like he's her lifeline, nearly pulling him over on top of her in her tight clutches.
"Push again on the next one," I order her, and she does, the baby's head sliding forward.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till he appeared and the soul felt its worth…the voice sings softly in my ear.
I shake my head again, drawing in a ragged breath, pain searing across my chest. I close my eyes in a wince, then open them. "Another push, you're almost there, Sharon," I tell her. Screaming once more, her voice now nearly gone, she bears down again, the baby's head sliding free of the birth canal.
A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…the sweet soprano trills gently, the haunting voice seemingly coming from all around me.
A fleeting wave of dizziness washes over me as I cup my hands around the baby's head. I fight it back, willing myself to focus on the task at hand: bringing a new life into the world. I draw in another ragged breath, the throbbing in my head and my ribs fierce enough to make me want to cry. The icy rain slashes in at me, stinging my face with its fury. "He's almost out, Sharon, so on the next contraction, push as hard as you can, for as long as you can, okay?"
"Okay," she rasps, and when the next pain hits, she bears down as hard as she can, pushing with all her might, as her baby slips free from her body, sliding gently into my waiting hands.
"He's out!" I say, relief flooding my veins. "It's a boy, Sharon, it's a boy!" I tell her happily. But my relief and happiness quickly turns to fear as I realize that the tiny baby isn't breathing, his skin tone a rather pale shade of blue.
"A boy," she sobs, sagging back against Jim's legs. "I have a baby boy."
"Congratulations, Sharon," Reed tells her, gently smoothing a strand of sweaty hair off of her face. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Why isn't he crying, Pete?" Sharon asks worriedly.
I catch Jim's concerned look, but I don't say anything as I carefully flip the baby over on his stomach in my hands, balancing his tiny, still body on my one palm, while I deliver a slap to his butt. That doesn't draw any response, so I flip him back over, taking my finger and gently running around the inside of his mouth, clearing away the mucous inside. C'mon, baby, breathe for me, I think. I take another swipe around his mouth once more with my finger, then I flip him back over, smacking his butt again, a little bit harder this time. Come on, little boy, breathe, please! You've come this far, so take the final step and awaken to the new world around you. He squeaks, sputtering fitfully, then he breaks into a lusty wail, his tiny face screwing up like a shrunken turnip, his wee fists beating the air in frustration. "He's breathing now," I say, weak with relief, as his color rapidly pinkens up. I quickly count his fingers and toes. "He's got all ten fingers and toes," I say, pride sweeping over me. "He's a beautiful little boy, Sharon." I look up from him, my misty eyes meeting Sharon's. Emotion swells up in my throat, a combination of happiness and awe, along with the relief that the job of delivering her baby is finally over with.
She leans back against Reed, closing her eyes. "Thank God," she sobs. "Thank God."
"Good job, Pete," Reed says, voice choked with emotion. Tears glisten in his eyes. "Good job."
I pull my jacket off of the bench, gazing down at the squalling infant in my arms. "Yeah," I say, my own voice hushed and choked, tears threatening to spill from my own eyes. I carefully wrap my coat around him, tucking it in so that he's warm, and I gently place him into Sharon's waiting arms. In the distance, I hear the sound of sirens.
"Thank you, Pete," she weeps, caressing his tiny cheek with her finger. "Thank you so much." She looks up at Jim gratefully. "You too, Jim. Thank you. Without you two, I don't know what I would've done."
"It's okay," Jim tells her. "I'm just glad Pete and I were here to help out." He looks across to me. "Right, Pete?"
"Yeah, right," I tell him, sagging heavily back against the bench. Dizziness hits me again, sending the world swimming before me in a sickening whirl. I wipe at the sweat that breaks out on my forehead with my shirtsleeve. The darts of pain in my ribs turn into sharp-edged double-bladed knife thrusts, and the jungle drum tattoo in my head reaches a crescendo, as a buzzing sensation begins at the base of my skull. Blackness creeps in around the edges of my vision. "It's not a problem," I say, my voice sounding thick. I rest my head on my forearm on the bench. "I'm just glad I…" My voice trails off, as the wailing sirens draw closer, drowning out the wails of the newborn baby.
"Pete!" Jim says sharply. "What's wrong?"
I wave a shaky hand at him, the weight of lifting my arm nearly too much for me to handle. "'M fine," I mutter. "Jus' a li'l tired…" My voice trails off again.
"PETE!" Jim is suddenly at my side, shaking me. "Stay with me, Pete, okay?"
"Go 'way," I mumble, my tongue having a hard time forming the words. I push at him weakly. "'M fine, Jim."
"You are NOT fine, Pete!" he says, slapping me lightly on the right cheek. "C'mon, stay with me, buddy! Don't go to sleep on me!" He shakes me harder. "Pete, don't you dare go to sleep!"
"I'm not," I say, tilting my head back, letting the icy rain slash at my face. Blackness skitters before me, and I try to breathe, but can't. "C-C-Can't breathe," I half-choke, half-sob in a stutter. Sudden fright overwhelms me, and I lean forward into Jim, clutching at his shirt with my fists. "Can't breathe, Jim," I weep in fear, tears flowing from my eyes, mixing with the rain pelting me in the face.
"Pete, hold on, help's coming!" Reed urges me desperately, gripping my shoulders tightly. "But you hafta stay with me, okay?"
I don't answer him, though, as a blinding flash of white suddenly envelopes me, and I hear the sweet soprano singing once more. Her voice is as clear as a bell, as pure as an angel's, and I briefly wonder if this is the Heavenly Chorus sent to herald me through the Pearly Gates.
O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;
It is the night of the dear Savior's birth.
Long lay the world, in sin and error pining,
Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees,
Oh, hear the angels voices!
O night divine,
O night when Christ was born!
O night, O holy night,
O night divine!
I am swept away once more by the wave of blackness that gently tugs and pulls at me, urging me to swim into its inviting pool. I try to fight it, but I'm no match for it. It easily engulfs me, swallowing me up entirely in a soft soothing blanket.
And then I hear nothing more.