Night Watch, Part 1

(Note: This is a new serialized fiction piece. It has a few connections to Peggy Finds A Friend. Enjoy, and thanks for reading.)


"The what?" David looked at his wife. She had just said a word that he didn't recognize.

"The doula."

He stalled for time. They had had this conversation already. If only he could remember the details.

"D-O-U-L-A. Doula," she said. When she spelled things, it meant trouble.

"Oh yes, as in Missoula. The doula from Missoula. I made that up to help me remember."

"Ouch!" Angela laid a hand on her stomach.

"What is it?" asked David.

"Another contraction."

"Should we call the...uh, doula?"

Angela's face showed not a trace of humor. "This is a bad time to start an argument."

"Look, I'm with you on the doula thing. But if you decide you would rather just go to the hospital I can do that, too."

David looked at the meal getting cold in front of him. His stomach rumbled, but something told him that he should show some concern for Angela's contractions instead of pigging out on lasagna. Angela was hardly eating. This was unusual; for the past twenty-seven weeks and two days she had been eating like a horse.

"No, I would not rather go to the hospital." She looked at him. It was her no-bullshit-dear expression. But even with that expression, which David knew very well, and even at forty weeks pregnant, she was beautiful. Her dark curls framed her flushed face and emphasized her deep brown eyes. She had given up her family name of Tortorich, which went so perfectly with her looks, in order to take his totally ordinary name of Smith. Angela Smith. Christ, what a sacrifice.

"Angela, I know what you want: a totally natural childbirth. No drugs, no C-section, no nothing. You want that baby to slide out like a fish."

"David, fish metaphors should not be used with a person who doesn't like seafood." Pause. "Ouch."

"Should I call the doula?"

"No, that was a kick. Wow, he's a strong one."

"How do you know it's a he? You said you didn't want to know."

"I don't really know, I just feel it. He's kicking the way Tony kicked."

Tony was their first born, now age three and having a sleepover at the Scott's house, oblivious to the imminent arrival of his new younger sibling. David took a bite of lasagna. He had to eat. He would give anything for a glass of red wine to go with it. The doula was a labor coach. This was different from a midwife, he had learned, after it was explained to him several times. The doula doesn't deliver the baby, the doula helps the mother through labor. The midwife delivers the baby. He hadn't known that child birthing had become so compartmentalized. "What's my job?" he had asked. "Hold my hand," was the answer.

"I'm still hoping for a girl," he said.

She reached over and laid her warm, puffy fingers on his arm. She was a walking bag of blood and emotions. "I just want it to come out."

"Tonight," said David. "It's going to be tonight. I'm ready."

"Oh that's good to know. The husband is ready. Thank, God. Let's have the baby." Angela got up from the table and carefully balanced herself on her feet before taking a step. "It's time for another walk."

David got up, too, and looked at the unfinished lasagna on his plate as though he were parting with a dear friend. He opened the front door and escorted his wife out into a warm, June evening.