A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and/or favorited! I'm excited to say that if you sort all "Divergent" stories by the number of reviews, this story and my "Determinant" one are now both in the top ten. That's amazing to me, and I have all of you to thank for it. You're a truly great group of people, and I appreciate your support so much. Oh, and thank you also to my wonderful beta reader, Rosalie - you help me out so much!
Chapter 46: Tobias – Birth Day (August 15, ten years after they first met; Tris is 26 and Tobias is 28)
The dream lingers, trying to keep me asleep, as the hand continues to shake my shoulder.
"Tobias."
Some kind of groan emerges from me.
"Tobias, wake up!"
There's an urgency in Tris' voice, and it's enough to finally push through the remaining layer of sleep that's fogging my brain.
"Hhmmuh?" I mumble, sitting up and looking at my wife in the low light. "What's wrong?"
"I think I'm in labor."
The words instantly dispel all grogginess. Turning to my nightstand, I flip on the lamp, blinking in the sudden brightness as I face Tris again. "Are you having contractions?"
She nods, biting her lip. It's so rare to see her afraid, but in this moment I can see the nerves threatening to strangle her. Abigail's due date is in two days, so we knew that Tris could go into labor at any time, but just because we've been expecting it doesn't mean it's not a frightening prospect – for both of us. If I'm honest, I'm just as worried as she looks, but she needs me to be strong right now, so I'm careful not to show it.
"Okay," I say steadily, "let's time them." Retrieving my watch, I get the timer ready and add, "Tell me when the next one starts."
She gives another nod, and I take her hand with my free one, lacing our fingers together. My thumb rubs gentle circles on the back of her hand, trying to soothe her – and maybe myself, too.
"Now," she gasps, her breathing quick as she stares at her distended abdomen. My eyes follow her gaze as I click the timer on, and I watch, mesmerized by the way her muscles tighten and hold, squeezing our daughter downward.
I see it end at the same time Tris indicates, and I make a mental note of the duration, though I keep the timer running. Part of me relaxes once five minutes have passed. At most, she's in early labor, so there's no need to rush her to the hospital yet.
"The next one started," she says shortly after the seven-minute point, and I stop the timer, holding the watch up so Tris can see it. "Dr. Martinez said to go in when they're four minutes apart," I remind her, "so let's just time a few more for now to see if they're consistent."
"Okay," she whispers, still looking a bit anxious. This is going to be a long day.
By the time we confirm that she's in early labor, and that she has no alarming symptoms, it's six o'clock in the morning. "Do you want to get some more sleep?" I ask, massaging her lower back the way I know she likes.
She shakes her head. "No. I'm too awake."
"Okay, then do you want to walk around? If you're uncomfortable, that might help."
"I know," she answers a bit irritably. "I took the same classes you did, Tobias." I don't respond, and after a second, she adds, "Sorry. I'm just nervous."
"It's okay." Leaning closer to her, I run my nose along her jaw before kissing just behind her ear. "Tell you what," I whisper, "you can yell at me all you want today. Bringing our baby into the world entitles you to that."
A small smile touches her mouth, and for the first time since she woke me up, she seems almost calm. "Let's go for a walk," she says.
We walk, and talk, and sleep, and time contractions, and deal with our eager faction-mates until they begin trickling off to work. I'm grateful when Cara arranges to take the day off, just in case Tris needs her. Zeke is home today, too, since he's been working a different schedule lately. But the rest of them wish us luck and reluctantly head out. It's Monday, so even Amar needs to go to his job today.
Oddly, Tris gets calmer the more time passes, even though the contractions are clearly getting stronger and more frequent. I guess it's sunk in that this is really happening, and Tris has always been good at facing difficult situations once she accepts them.
When the contractions are consistently four minutes apart, we head toward the hospital – walking, since it's not as hot today as it has been and since we'll only end up walking more once we get there anyway. Cara comes with us, and Zeke goes ahead, taking our supplies with him and offering to alert the doctor that we're on the way. We have to stop frequently, since it's now difficult for Tris to move during her contractions, but we get there without a problem.
Tris' body tenses when we enter the Erudite lobby, and it takes me a second to realize that it's not another contraction. She's reacting to the building, with all its horrible memories, and I certainly can't blame her. For what feels like the millionth time, I wish there was another hospital that was as good as this one. It will never be easy for either of us to spend time here.
But we follow the route that we've used for every doctor's appointment, avoiding the section where we were held prisoner – and the large portion of the building that, for all practical purposes, looks identical to it. I haven't set foot in the part where we were actually imprisoned since we rescued Caleb years ago, but the floor below it looks similar enough to have triggered Tris' one and only panic attack the day she found Dave's letter. I certainly won't take her through there again.
Another contraction starts right as we enter the maternity ward, and a middle-aged nurse with a gentle smile waits patiently until it's over before leading us into a room.
"You'll be staying here through the whole process," she explains, "until you're discharged." She gestures to the bed that occupies the center of the room. "That adjusts to a variety of positions, to help you stay comfortable during labor, and then it can be converted into any of the standard delivery configurations."
She goes into an Erudite spiel about the bed's settings while I look around at where we'll be spending much of the next few days. It's a pleasant enough space, with simple furniture and soothing pale blue walls. A few pieces of artwork decorate it, showing beautiful landscapes and sunsets – images clearly intended to relax women in labor, and their nervous partners. I wonder how much anyone really notices them.
Cara goes to get ice chips for Tris to suck on, while the nurse bustles about, getting a hospital gown out for Tris to wear and ensuring that there are adequate blankets on the bed. She rattles off a list of reminders and instructions that is mind-bogglingly long, but fortunately it doesn't seem to be anything that we didn't already learn in class, so I just nod along to her reassuring voice.
"Dr. Martinez will be here soon," she tells us as she heads out, closing the door behind her to give us privacy.
It turns out to be a process for Tris to change into the gown, and it takes both of us and three attempts to get it right. We've barely finished, and I'm helping Tris into bed, when Dr. Martinez knocks lightly on the door and enters without waiting for an answer.
"Abigail didn't want to wait the extra two days, huh?" she quips as she looks up from her chart. At Tris' slightly nervous head shake, she adds, "Well, you're nicely within the safe delivery range, so hop on up, and we'll see how everything looks down there."
"Hop?" Tris asks incredulously, still struggling to get her very-pregnant body onto the mattress. "Have you actually seen a pregnant woman before?"
Dr. Martinez just chuckles before helping Tris the rest of the way onto the bed and then casually placing her feet into the stirrups that I didn't notice earlier. I look away automatically when she begins the examination, even though there's certainly nothing there that I haven't seen before. It will probably always seem strange to me how easily doctors peer at their patients' most private parts.
They're both still in that position when the door opens.
"Hey, Four," Zeke says, stepping in without so much as a knock. "I'm going to…." He gets cut off by my body blocking his view and my hands shoving him roughly out the door. I follow him into the hallway.
"What the hell are you doing?" I snarl at him, unduly irritated by his thoughtlessness. "The doctor's in the middle of an examination."
It doesn't help when Zeke smirks in response. "Aw, that's so cute," he comments. "You still think she's going to have anything resembling privacy through this process." He shakes his head. "Trust me, by the end of the day, you're going to be so used to anyone and their brother checking on her, you won't even care anymore. I lost count of how many doctors and nurses and assistants and medical students helped with Shauna."
The words are disconcerting. Tris has seen other doctors at times through the pregnancy, but Dr. Martinez has been her primary care provider. I had assumed that it would just be her handling the delivery, but now I have to wonder if that's realistic. We never talked about that aspect of the birth in our classes, but it does seem likely that there will be at least one assistant.
My expression must show how distasteful I find the whole idea, because Zeke quickly tries to back-peddle. "Maybe that was just because Shauna's pregnancy was high-risk," he says in an attempt at a reassuring tone. It's not very convincing. "Don't stress about it, man."
Patting me on the shoulder somewhat lamely, he adds, "It will all be fine, and I'll knock before entering next time, okay?"
"Yeah," I mutter, but the damage is done. I'm clearly going to have to share my wife with more people than I'd like today.
"Anyway," he adds, "I'm going to the faction to leave the others a note with Tris' room number, and to get some lunch. Do you want me to bring you anything?"
I start to shake my head, too focused on my wife to think about anything else, but my stomach growls on its own at the mention of food, and Zeke grins. "I'll bring you a couple of sandwiches."
The day passes slowly, spent counting minutes and centimeters and percentages. Zeke and Cara walk the long corridors with us, trying to cheer Tris up and distract her, but after the way I shoved Zeke out of the room earlier, neither of them ventures near it when Tris and I go there for her frequent examinations.
She's dilating and effacing nicely, we're told, but as the hours pass, it's obvious that her level of pain is increasing steadily. Eventually, it reaches the point where she stops trying to walk, instead curling up on the bed, clenching my hand hard with every contraction.
Zeke and Cara retreat to the waiting room then, and I focus all of my attention on my wife. I help as much as I can, letting her crush my fingers without complaint and massaging her back and reminding her how to breathe, but it all feels utterly inadequate. This burden rests squarely on her, and I hate seeing her this miserable.
"I think you should get an epidural," I finally suggest after a particularly strong contraction. I no longer care about her preferred plan of getting through this without medication.
"No," she pants, her breathing shaky. "I can still manage."
"For now, yes." I try to keep my tone reasonable. "But you still have the hardest part to go. And if you're going to get one then, you might as well do it now. There's no need to make this more difficult than it has to be."
"Yeah, well, I've been through plenty of difficulty, Tobias," she mutters, pressing her hands on her abdomen and trying to even out her breathing. "And plenty of pain, too, in case you've forgotten."
The words make my entire body go rigid, and for a long moment, I just stand there with no idea how to respond. I know too well what injuries she's suffered in the past – and which of those I inflicted. She probably didn't mean to remind me of that, but her slip certainly doesn't make me feel better about any of this.
It may be just as well that the next contraction starts. Tris groans, and I lean closer, rubbing her back with my free hand as I remind her how to breathe. It seems to take forever to get through this one.
She pants when it finally ends, looking thoroughly exhausted but somehow still going.
My whisper escapes before I can stop it. "Was it this bad when I broke your ribs?"
Her eyes snap to mine, and I can tell she realizes now what she just admitted. "Tobias," she says pleadingly, "don't go there. This is not the same thing."
It's an answer in itself, and it shouldn't surprise me. Realistically, that experience was probably even worse than today. She was a prisoner, in pain, expecting to die shortly. And it was because of me.
The guilt is overwhelming.
"Tobias," she repeats, waiting until I reluctantly meet her gaze again. "We need to stay focused on this. Not…on the distant past. Okay?"
It's difficult to accept that reality, but I know she's right. This isn't a time for me to wallow in old mistakes.
I nod tersely, trying to frame my mind back around our previous discussion. "An epidural won't hurt Abigail," I finally say.
"I know," Tris responds wearily, "but I'm not at that point, at least not yet." A weak smile lifts the corners of her mouth. "I can still deal with the pain, and I want to keep going this way if I can. I need you to support me in that."
A sigh comes out of me as I accept her decision. I don't know how to continue watching her like this, but if my wife is choosing to be strong and brave, then I will find a way to do that, too. Because no matter what, I will always be there when Tris needs me.
It's after six o'clock in the evening when Dr. Martinez says that it's time to start pushing. Tris is utterly worn out by now, but she looks relieved at the news despite the extra work it brings. She clearly wants to get this over with.
Two assistants come in with the nurse, Peggy, who's been attending to Tris since we got here, and I watch them move around the room, getting everything ready. It's difficult not to glare at the male assistant, particularly when he begins adjusting the bed to the birthing position – a task that necessarily involves having his head near parts of Tris that no man except me should see.
But the reality is that Zeke was right. More than a half-dozen professionals have traipsed into the room over the course of the day, needing to examine Tris for one reason or another, and I've had to swallow my discomfort with that fact.
So, I do my best to ignore the assistant as he angles the bed up and removes the bottom section. Peggy then helps Tris shift downwards, placing her into almost a crouching position. I remember them talking about this in class – that it's the easiest and most natural position for giving birth, but that sometimes they can't use it if pain medication was administered. Maybe it will make the agony that Tris has dealt with worthwhile.
"All right, Tris," Dr. Martinez says encouragingly, "you're going to push when I tell you to, and rest in between. Okay?"
A strange desire to laugh goes through me at the idea of Tris letting anyone tell her what to do, but I suppress the urge when she nods wearily. This day has definitely taken a toll on her.
"You remember what they said in your class about how to push, right?" the doctor adds as she wheels a low stool over and positions herself on it between Tris' legs.
"Yes," my wife answers, her voice strained.
"Good." The doctor pats Tris' leg reassuringly while keeping her eyes focused on her patient's lower region. She's clearly watching for some signal on when to begin, and I wonder exactly what it is, but I decide not to ask. Sometimes, more information is not helpful.
Whatever it is, she sees it soon enough. Holding her hand up where Tris can see it, she says, "Okay, push on three." She matches her fingers to her verbal count. "One. Two. Three."
Tris obeys, putting every ounce of energy she has left into the effort, and for a split second, I somehow think that one push will be enough. It's not, of course, nor are a dozen more. Eventually, we settle into a routine of Dr. Martinez counting the time between pushes and the length of each push, and Tris squeezing my left hand into non-existence as she works her exhausted body more and more.
I'm pretty sure that my wedding band has become permanently embedded in my bones by the half-hour point. But the effect on Tris is far greater.
"I can't do this," she finally moans, shaking her head as her entire body sags against the bed. "I can't push anymore." There's raw desperation in her eyes as they meet mine. "I want a c‑section."
That's an impossible statement to answer, since I doubt it's really an option at this point – with Abigail already in the birth canal. "Umm…" I start, trying to figure out how to get my wife what she needs to continue. Fortunately, Dr. Martinez responds before I have to.
"Tris, I know this is incredibly hard." She's clearly seen this situation many times before, because she doesn't sound at all surprised. Instead, she radiates calm and reassurance. "It's probably the hardest thing you'll ever have to do. But you can absolutely do it. You're very close. Just a few more pushes should be enough."
But Tris seems to be past that point. She shakes her head again, scrunching her eyes shut. "Noooo," she answers in a long, groaning snarl that doesn't even sound human. "I'm done."
The nurse, Peggy, tries to step in next, taking Tris' free hand and spouting some sappy cliché about how Tris can do this if she just thinks she can. I can't help staring at her as she continues, thinking that she must have grown up in Amity to have come up with this as the right pep talk for a woman in labor.
Tris' response is by far the rudest thing I've ever heard her say.
It's difficult to bite back a laugh as Peggy steps away, looking more than a little affronted, but my humor disappears when her gaze finds mine. Her expression is clear – Tris isn't listening to them, so I need to find a way to deal with this.
Nodding, I wrench my hand free from Tris' vice grip and instead take hold of her shoulders. She looks at me as I lean over her, making firm eye contact.
"Tris, you are the strongest and bravest person I know." My voice is deep and solid. "If anyone can do this, it's you. And since women have been doing this since the dawn of time, you certainly can." She stares at me, her expression mutinous, but I fix my face into its instructor mold and glare right back, challenging her. "And you will, because you are not someone who gives up."
For just a second, she seems like she's going to refuse, but then I see the fire rise behind her eyes in answer to my challenge. "Fine," she snaps. "But you tell your damned kid to get out of me. Now!"
A smile crosses my face as I shift one hand to her abdomen. "Abigail," I say in my most commanding tone, "get out of your mother this instant."
It doesn't work, not surprisingly, but it's enough to make Tris laugh for the first time in hours. And it only takes four more pushes after that before our daughter finally emerges. It seems like an appropriate number.
I'm not sure which I notice more in that moment – the relieved, exhausted, yet exhilarated expression on my wife's face, or the red and pink form that slides out into the doctor's steady hands. But the second that Abigail starts to cry, there's no question where Tris and I are both focused.
We have a daughter.
Dr. Martinez stands, stepping to Tris' side so she can lay the baby on her stomach, and we stare, utterly captivated by the sight as our hands reach automatically to steady our child. She is so small, with her ten tiny fingers clenched into fists and her ten miniscule toes spreading out as she kicks the air.
Her eyes are open, and I find myself gazing into the same deep blue color that I spent my childhood fearing. But the comparison disappears instantly, as I lose myself in the most beautiful little face I have ever seen. She has Tris' ears and cheekbones, and full lips that look like a combination of ours, and an itty bitty nose, and a tuft of dark hair that she clearly gets from me. And she is gorgeous.
Despite all the anticipation, and the classes, and the sessions spent talking with Kevin, nothing in my life has prepared me for the effect of this – of seeing Abigail for the first time. My entire chest constricts with the flood of love that goes through me, painfully strong. It's totally different from the way I love Tris, though it's just as powerful. And it's combined with an overpowering need to take care of this tiny being – to always, always be there for her.
"She's perfect," I manage to whisper past the lump in my throat. Tris' free hand finds mine, squeezing, and I meet her teary gaze with more awe than I've ever felt. She brought this life into existence. Our daughter. "Absolutely perfect."
"Totally worth it," Tris murmurs back, and I can't help the low chuckle that emerges from my throat. She's unambiguously right. The two of them together – my family – this is worth everything.
A/N: To answer some questions...
1. I'm going to be posting a timeline on my Profile page soon, for those who have been asking about how old the characters are at various points in the story. I'm also going to start including the time reference at the top of each chapter, like I did with this one. Hopefully, that will make life easier.
2. For those who have been asking about the M-rated fics I mentioned I might write, I have created an account for them. It's "Windchimed M-stories" and you can find a link to the account on the Favorite Authors tab on my Profile page. There aren't any stories posted under that account yet, but I think I'll be posting one soon. If you want to be notified when that happens, please follow that account, too.
3. For those asking about Peter, we do see him again before the end of the story, but not as Tobias' sponsee. Tobias chose not to sponsor him but instead asked Kevin to do that. The reason is that Peter is still a trigger for Tobias, and it's really not a good idea to sponsor someone who triggers violent reactions in you. And Tobias knows that Kevin will do an excellent job and will help Peter at least as well as he could have.
Anyway, sorry about the long author's note. If you're still reading, please take a moment to let me know what you thought of this chapter. Thanks!