Night Watch, Part 4

David felt something that made him sit forward quickly. He had been slumped back on the sofa, a book in his lap, the reading lamp next to him still burning brightly. Angela was standing over him. She had touched his shoulder.

"I need to walk," she said.

David looked at his watch: eleven o'clock. After washing the dinner dishes he had decided to start a book, and chose Deception Point by Dan Brown, thinking it would carry him through the evening. "I must have fallen asleep," he said to Angela.

"I hated to disturb you," she said.

He could see that Angela was not in high spirits. A little bit of the fire and enthusiasm for the venture had left her face. "Is everything okay?"

"It's going slowly. Contractions are intense, but not very close together."

"Sorry. Let's go for a stroll."

Victoria came out of the bathroom and announced that she was making more tea. David noticed she was barefoot and now wore a thin, sleeveless blouse. She was at work; this was her job.

The rain had come and gone, leaving fat droplets of water on the grass. It was the kind of southern summer night David liked. Technically, to him, Virginia was not the south, at least not the deep south, not like Georgia, where he spent most of his youth, or Alabama, where he went to Auburn and met Angela. Sometimes, Virginia felt like it wanted to be a member of the club: it had fierce thunderstorms, and sweltering heat, and humidity that smothered you. On this night, looking down the street, he saw steam rising from wet pavement and wafting up into the glow of the street lamps. The illumination was softened by the moist air, as though a filter had been applied. It was not a real street scene they were witnessing, but a painting of one.

"Ouch," exclaimed Angela, holding her stomach.

He stopped in the middle of the street while she rested a hand on his shoulder and took several deep, controlled breaths of air. It occurred to David that his thoughts and Angela's had been worlds apart. She was not looking at the summer scene before them and dreaming past evenings from her days in Alabama, or evenings they had spent together, like the time they drove at midnight to Panama City, Florida, and went skinny-dipping in the Gulf of Mexico. No, every inch of her being was focused on the task at hand.

"Victoria says they'll get worse. I can't imagine it," she said, almost crying.

"Angela, you're doing great so far. I'm really proud of you."

"By this time, with Tony, I was already on pain relievers," she said.

"Really? I don't remember," he said.

"I remember every detail. Only now do I appreciate what the pain relievers were doing."

"You mean, how much pain was being relieved?"

She chuckled. "Don't make me laugh. Trust me, I would love to laugh right now, but it hurts." She looked at him. Now she was all love and affection. "But I can hear that humor in your voice. I love you."

"I love you, too. We're doing this together, okay? I'm right here, sharing the pain with you."

"That's a nice thought. Imagine if you could share pain, if you could feel a portion of someone's pain so they would feel less of it, like maybe half."

"Or maybe fifty-five percent. You would need a pain meter. In fact you could hire yourself out."

"Ooh, ooh." She cradled her stomach. "I told you not to make me laugh. You just gave me a contraction."

"Good, I'm helping."

"Let's go back. I'm ready for a cup of tea and a massage."

"When do I get to massage you?"

"I don't know. Soon. They say recovery time is much faster when you go natural. Maybe a couple of weeks."

"It's a date."

Victoria was waiting for them with tea. She was like a nurse: attentive, impersonal. She didn't want to know the details of their lives; her job was to get the baby out.