The Changeling. Victor LaValleЧитать онлайн книгу.
waiter appeared. The man had been sprinting. He reached the table. He didn’t speak—he roared.
“Your wife!” he said. “Your wife needs you!”
THE QUESTION NICHELLE never got to ask Emma and Apollo—though she’d been trying, in her way, to lead to it earlier in the night—was why? Why on earth had Apollo and Emma decided to do a home birth when they seemed like such sane people? They weren’t third-world peasants. They weren’t wealthy white folks or anti-hospital-industry kooks. So what the hell happened?
The concern felt truly pressing as Nichelle settled the bill with the waiter. She’d been signing the credit card receipt when Apollo appeared again holding Emma under one arm. Emma looked so red and exhausted that Nichelle had her phone out to call 911 as the waiter took the check away. Emma told Nichelle to stop dialing, and Apollo tried to give her money for the bill. She told Apollo she’d been planning to cover the tab ever since she’d made the reservation—told Emma as much when they first sat down—and simply forgot to repeat the news when Apollo arrived. He could’ve eaten! As it was, the only stuff in his stomach was bread and bourbon. He’d never expected to be tipsy during the birth of his first child.
Harder for Nichelle to handle was the fact that Emma didn’t want an ambulance called. As they left Bouley—rushing as fast as a nine-months-pregnant woman could move—Emma reminded Nichelle they were having this baby at home. Ambulances weren’t some private car service, they would take her to a hospital, not her apartment. In the apple room Nichelle offered to at least hail a cab, request a Lyft, but this offer too was denied. They were way downtown, on Duane Street, on a Friday night. The best a car could do was hit the West Side Highway. There they’d find the kind of traffic only Beijing or Mumbai would recognize. An hourlong trip by car to Washington Heights from here, maybe longer.
Meanwhile the Chambers Street station lay only four blocks away. They could catch an A train and be home in thirty-five.
Nichelle walked alongside them to the corner of Church Street. She couldn’t contain her vexation. “Why are you doing this?” she shouted on the street. All the liquor had loosened her volume knob. “What is wrong with you!”
As they crossed Reade Street, Emma spoke. “Call Kim,” she said.
Apollo already had the phone out. Older sister; trained midwife. Kim Valentine on the speed dial. “Kim!” Apollo shouted in a moment. “Emma’s having contractions.”
On the other end of the line, Kim spoke so quietly, the street traffic made her impossible to hear. Why was she whispering? Emma walked slowly but soldiered forward. Nichelle trailed them by half a block shouting words so slurred they became an invented language. Pregnancy is hard on women, and it can be tough on their friends, too.
“Stop shouting,” Kim whispered on the phone. “I’m in a movie. Hold on.”
They reached the train station. Apollo wondered, for no good reason, what movie Kim had been watching. “It’s a little early,” he said.
They were at the top of the station stairs. Nichelle caught up and clutched at Emma in a sloppy hug. “She’s only thirty-eight weeks!” he said, sounding as if he was pleading with Kim to put the labor on hold.
“Stop shouting,” Kim said. “Maybe it’s a false labor. Could be Braxton Hicks.”
Apollo looked to Emma, who’d collapsed onto Nichelle, heavy breathing into her old friend’s neck. They looked like some sloppy prom couple. Apollo didn’t care if this would turn out to be a false labor, just a test run. He wanted Kim to leave her movie and get her car. She kept her birthing equipment in the trunk at all times. He wanted her driving north no matter the traffic. They might get to the apartment before her, but soon enough she’d be there. She could mock them all she wanted if this whole thing went in the Braxton Hicks direction. He’d endure the taunting to ensure her arrival. Imagine him and Emma birthing this baby in their apartment alone. Kim had prepared them for this possibility, but that didn’t mean he ever expected it to actually happen. The idea was so laughable, it almost made him scream right there on the street.
“We’ll meet you at home,” Apollo said, hoping he sounded assured and not panicked. “Get your car.”
“I love you,” Nichelle said as she clutched at Emma. “I love you.”
Emma touched Nichelle’s head and stroked her hair. “We’ll be fine, Nichelle. I promise you. We’ll be fine.”
“You shouldn’t be comforting me!” Nichelle cried, then sort of laughed.
“Your hotel’s very close,” Emma whispered though the words came out pinched. “Can you make it there?”
The Bradley Method classes had taught Apollo that if Emma could carry on conversation, then she wasn’t in true labor yet. This eased him slightly. Even as Nichelle hugged him goodbye and he led Emma down the stairs into the station, he was thinking ahead to the steps awaiting him at home. Inflating the plastic tub rapidly with the electric air pump, putting the plastic liner in, attaching the hose. Apollo knew every step, had practiced each half a dozen times in the last month. He knew his job, and that calmed him.
Apollo hadn’t hung up his cellphone yet. Kim could be heard shouting from the receiver. He tapped the speakerphone. Emma clung to the handrails as they descended.
“We’re going down,” Apollo said.
Kim, caught midsentence, stopped shouting to register his words.
“I’m on speaker?” she asked. She didn’t wait for confirmation. “Emma!” she shouted. “I’m on my way. Stay strong! You can handle this!”
Reception died after that.
And there, finally, was the reason that Apollo and Emma were having their baby at home. Kim Valentine had switched from being a pediatric nurse to a midwife in a kind of midlife conversion. Like most converts, she proselytized hard. Kim called on friends and old co-workers, cousins and random women riding in elevators. She’d even accept calls from telemarketers just so she could chat them up about home births. So when her sister got pregnant, it was without question that Kim would be the midwife and this delivery would happen at home. Kim had never had children of her own, but she’d raised Emma since the age of five. That had to count. Becoming an aunty would be one hell of a milestone for her. Natural childbirth for Emma; Kim as midwife. That was that, the decision clear. They informed Apollo over brunch at the diner on Fort Washington Avenue. He had questions, but it was only curiosity, not resistance. By the end of the day, he’d been on the computer researching inflatable birthing pools. Kim promised she could get him a discount.
Apollo and Emma reached the bottom of the staircase, then pushed through the turnstiles. They didn’t have long to wait. The A arrived in record time. They boarded at Chambers Street feeling downright blessed.
EMMA AND APOLLO boarded the A train so flustered that they didn’t even notice the other passengers. Couldn’t have told you if there were other passengers. Emma wanted to stay standing. She held on to one of the poles in the train car, and Apollo stood behind her so she could lean her weight back into him. The train doors shut, the hiss of the car going into motion, then they heard a young man shout.
“Showtime, ladies and gentlemen, showtime! What time is it?”
Three more voices answered. “Showtime!”
Emma groaned. Apollo couldn’t be sure if it was from the labor pains or because she’d seen the four boys who’d started dancing on the train. These crews—boys between fifteen and nineteen mostly—worked New York City subways like carnies in the Midwest. One manned the radio, blasting a beat loud enough that it drowned out the subway wheels grinding the rails, while the other three did breakdancing