The Replacement Wife (47 page)

“She’s not going anywhere, trust me,” Camille told him.

After she’d hung up, she phoned Edward. No answer. She tried the number for his office. “Hi, hon! He’s with a patient,” Rosie informed her cheerily. “Should I poke my head in, or can it wait?”

“Tell him my sister’s in labor. We’re at Kings County.”

Ten minutes later, Edward phoned back. “How’s she doing?”

“So far, so good. The resident on call is having a look at her now. We’re waiting for her ob-gyn to get here.” Camille was in the corridor outside Holly’s room in the meantime. “Her water broke on the subway. You should have seen it. Everyone and his uncle were in on it. You would have thought it was the World Series.”

He chuckled. “Sorry I missed it. Do you need me there?”

“No,” she told him. “Just feed the kids, and make sure they get to bed on time. This may take a while.”

She hung up and went to check on Holly. The resident, a petite Indian woman with an air of authority that didn’t match her youthful appearance, shook Camille’s hand, introducing herself as Dr. Jayaraman. “Everything appears to be normal,” she reported in a crisp, accented voice. “Your sister is six centimeters dilated, and the baby is in a good position. I don’t anticipate any problems.”

“Where’s my doctor? I want my doctor!” Holly sounded like a child demanding a fruit rollup at a grocery store checkout stand.

Dr. Jayaraman assured Holly that Dr. Faber was on her way. “Meanwhile, have no worries,” she said. “You are in good hands, I promise you.” Holly eyed her dubiously—the resident looked so young, she might have been playing the part of a doctor in a school play—and even Camille had to reassure herself with the thought,
Four years of medical school, two years of internship, and two, maybe three years of residency. Yep, she’s old enough to deliver a baby.

“No worries? Is she nuts?” said Holly, after the doctor had gone. “It feels like I got run over by a truck that keeps backing up and running over me again, just to make sure. This can’t be normal.”

Camille smiled at her. “Welcome to the wonderful world of childbirth.”

“No one ever said it would be like this.”

“You just didn’t read the fine print. Anyway, no turning back now.” Camille sat down on the bed, saying in a gentler voice, “Want me to massage your back? Would that help?”

“Ahhhh . . . nnnnhhh.” Holly’s face contorted as another contraction took hold. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her belly like a drowning person around a flotation device.

Larry took Lillian’s arm and hastily steered her out the door. “If you need us, we’ll be down the hall,” he called over his shoulder. Clearly, he’d seen enough gritty realism for one day.

The contraction subsided. Holly uncurled from her tuck and fell back, panting. She began to laugh weakly. “Do you believe it? Dad getting hitched? Jesus. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Me, either,” said Camille. “But I think she’s good for him.”

“She’ll keep him honest,” Holly agreed.

“And who’s going to keep
you
honest?”

Holly rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. Not that again.”

“What? It’s a fair question.”

“Fair? Is it fair, your beating up on me when I’m in no position to defend myself?”

“I wasn’t beating up on you.”

“Fuck you.” Holly jabbed a finger at Camille, then flipped her the bird for good measure. Camille gave her an injured look, which Holly ignored. She flopped back against the pillows, grinning up at the ceiling. “God, that felt good. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“What, curse me out?” Camille said. “Am I such a terrible sister?”

“No. It’s just that I’m fucking tired of having to be fucking nice to you all the time. Now that you’re not dying, I don’t have to anymore.” She reached for Camille’s hand, and they exchanged a meaningful look. Then Holly began to giggle. And before long, both sisters were gasping with laughter, punctuated by grunts and groans from Holly as another contraction took hold. When the giggles and contraction had subsided, Holly wheezed, “Some coach you turned out to be.”

“Maybe you should’ve picked Curtis instead,” Camille said.

“Oh, right. When he can’t even bother to pick up his phone,” she replied in a cranky voice.

“He phoned. He’s on his way.”

Ten minutes later, Curtis blew in like a bank robber with the cops in hot pursuit, hair mussed and tie askew. He skidded to a stop, then sank down on the bed next to Holly, taking her hand. “Are you . . . is the baby . . . oh, my God, is this really happening?” he gasped between breaths.

“It most certainly is,” said Camille.

Holly’s face contorted again, this time with relief. She reached for Curtis, burying her face against his chest as he drew her into his arms. “I thought you’d never get here,” she breathed.

He stroked her hair. “I came as soon as I got your message.”

“We still haven’t decided on a name,” she muttered plaintively into the folds of his jacket. She lifted her head to inform Camille, “Curtis doesn’t like any of the names I picked out.”

“We are
not
naming our baby after some dead rock star,” he said firmly.

Holly had wanted to go with Jimi (as in Hendrix) if it was a boy, or Janis (as in Joplin) if it was a girl. Camille had assumed she was joking, but you never knew with Holly. Now she watched her sister’s expression turn serious. Holly grabbed Curtis by the lapels. “Listen, if anything happens to me, I want you to promise to look after Junior. I don’t want him to be an orphan.”

The color drained from Curtis’s face. “Oh, God, is there . . . is there something wrong?”

“Don’t listen to her. She’s fine,” Camille assured him.

Holly flipped her the bird again, then started to cry as another contraction took hold. Curtis rocked her in his arms. “Baby, it’s okay. Shhhh . . . I’m here now . . . I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” she whispered.

“Promise.”

“You’ll never leave me?”

“Never.”

Camille chose that moment to slip away, only pausing in the doorway for one last look—the sight of her sister and Curtis curled together, as close as Holly’s belly would allow, bringing a tug of envy—before she went in search of Larry and Lillian. She found them in the visitors’ lounge down the hall. They were deep in conversation and didn’t see her at first. She hung back, reluctant to intrude on what was clearly a private moment. Then Larry took notice of her and jumped to his feet, wearing a look of concern. “Is everything okay? Is Holly . . . ?”

“She’s fine. Worn out but hanging in there. Curtis is with her.”

“You poor dear. You must be worn out yourself.” Lillian got up and went over to Camille, putting an arm around her and guiding her over to the sofa. “Sit down. Let me get you a cup of tea.”

“Tea would be nice.” Camille
was
tired. She had an urge to drop her head onto Lillian’s shoulder, sink into the comfort of a mother’s arms. Which reminded her: Kyra and Zach—they’d be home from school by now. She dug her cell phone out from her purse and punched in Kyra’s number.

Kyra picked up at once, babbling excitedly before Camille could get a word in edgewise. “Did Aunt Holly have the baby yet? Oh, my God! I can’t believe I’m missing the whole thing!”

“The baby won’t be here for a while yet,” Camille told her.

“Can I come? Please, Mom?” Kyra begged. “I can take the subway.”

“I want to come, too!” Zach piped in the background.

“Nothing doing. You two stay put,” Camille ordered. “I don’t need to be worrying about you and your brother getting lost on the subway—or worse—on top of everything else.”

“Fine. Dad can take us, then.”

Camille realized she’d been outmaneuvered when she heard Kyra call out, “Dad! Mom says it’s okay!”

She sighed and said, “Put your dad on.”

An hour later, her husband and children trooped into the waiting room. Kyra bursting with excitement and Edward wearing a vaguely sheepish look at having been played by their fourteen-year-old. Zach seemed more interested in the contents of the vending machine than in whatever was going on down the hall, with his aunt. Camille kissed Edward, gave Zach a handful of quarters—now wasn’t the time for a lecture about junk food—and got Kyra to settle down before she returned to Holly. She could hear her sister’s screams from as far away as the nurses’ station. It sounded as if a murder was taking place.

“Do something!” Curtis cried in a panic when she walked in.

Holly was thrashing about like a madwoman. Camille bent down, placing herself squarely in Holly’s field of vision. Holly’s eyes were wild. She took hold of Holly’s shoulders. “Breathe!” she commanded, blowing out breaths the way they’d practiced in Lamaze. “Hoo . . . hoo . . .
ha
. . . hoo . . . hoo . . .
ha
. Don’t wimp out on me now. You can do this. I know you can.”

“Hoo . . . hoo . . .
ha
. . . hoo . . . hoo . . .
ha
.” Holly picked up on the rhythm, though she sounded more like a drowning woman gasping for breath than one in the throes of labor. When the contraction finally eased—they were coming harder and faster now—she collapsed onto her back with a groan. She was panting. Blotchy red patches stood out on her cheeks and strands of hair were pasted to her sweaty forehead. “Is there such a thing as a timeout?” she asked, her voice a hoarse rasp.

“Afraid not. But you’re almost there, kiddo.” Camille rewarded her with an ice chip.

Holly glared at her. “I bet that’s what they said to the prisoners on the march to Bataan.”

“Whining isn’t going to help.”

“Now you sound like Miss Babcock.” Miss Babcock had been their PE teacher when they were students at Riverdale, a tall whip of a woman who used to bellow in a foghorn voice,
Come on, ladies, put some muscle into it!
or deliver pithy comments, whenever someone asked to be excused, such as,
Do you think Babe Didrikson won the LPGA title by whining about her period?

“At least you don’t have your period to bitch about,” Camille teased.

Holly made a face. “Very funny.”

Her ob-gyn arrived just then, wisps of gray hair trailing from her bun and sensible heels clacking. Dr. Faber snapped on a pair of gloves and said, “Let’s have a look.” She examined Holly and pronounced, “Eight and a half centimeters. Almost there, toots.” She patted Holly’s knee.

“What took you so long?” Holly sounded exhausted.

“I had another baby to deliver. Two to be accurate—twins.” Dr. Faber held up two fingers. “Consider yourself lucky you’re only having one. It could be worse.”

“Tell me that when it’s over,” Holly croaked.

Thirty minutes later, Holly was wheeled into Delivery. The plan had been for her to deliver naturally, in the birthing room, but after consulting with Dr. Jayaraman, who’d noticed a slight irregularity in the baby’s heartbeat, Dr. Faber decided to play it safe. Not that Holly cared at that point. She was beyond caring. Her vision of giving birth bathed in soft light and blanketed in her favorite quilt while soothing music played—a mix CD of her favorite rock ballads—had fallen by the wayside as she screamed at the top of her lungs for drugs, an epidural,
anything
.

Camille and Curtis donned surgical scrubs. Holly, even in her mindless state, was adamant about one thing: She wanted them both with her when she gave birth. She clutched Camille’s hand, hard enough to break a bone, and rained curses on Curtis when she wasn’t begging him not to leave. Curtis came through like a champ; he didn’t so much as flinch when she swore at him. In the final hour, he was proving what Camille had sensed all along: He was a keeper.

“Okay, bear down now, Holly,” Dr. Faber urged.

Holly did as she was told, with a mighty yell worthy of a Civil War soldier having his injured leg sawed off on the battlefield. Curtis looked a little scared, but he remained calm. “You’re doing great, baby! Keep pushing! I can see the head. You’re almost there!”

Holly strained and cursed and grunted. After several more pushes, a tiny head with a scrunched face emerged into view; Camille could see it reflected in the overhead mirror. Next came a small body streaked with blood and creamy white vernix. Camille let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She felt a relief so huge it was as if the baby had come out of her and not Holly. “A girl!” crowed Dr. Faber, her brown eyes crinkling above her mask. She turned to Camille and Curtis, the baby cradled in her arms. “Which one of you would like to do the honors?”

Curtis looked to Camille. As head coach, the privilege of cutting the cord was rightfully hers. But she stepped aside, giving Curtis the nod. Moments later, Holly sat propped up holding their newborn daughter in her arms while Curtis stood over them, tears pouring down his cheeks. He and Holly shared a look that told Camille she needn’t worry that he would keep his promise not to leave her.

Camille rejoined the rest of her family in the visitors’ lounge. “For those of you who were expecting a boy, I regret to inform you,” she said, breaking into a grin, “that Junior is a girl.”

Larry let out a whoop. Lillian dabbed at her eyes with Larry’s still-folded handkerchief.

Edward looked relieved, and Kyra was already texting her friends. Only Zach appeared nonplussed. He’d been hoping for a boy. Camille knew he’d dote on his baby cousin once she was an actual presence in his life, but right now she was just another girl in the family.

“Mother and baby both fine?” Edward rose and walked over to Camille. He looked tired. The last time she’d seen him look this tired was when he’d been studying night and day for his boards—decades ago, another lifetime—his face pallid, his eyelids puffy. She knew he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. She’d been awakened in the middle of the night, several times this past week, by the sound of him tapping on his computer keyboard in the study across the hall.

“Right as rain,” she reported. “Holly’s in seventh heaven, and the baby has all ten fingers and toes. Though I’m not so sure about mine.” Camille winced as she flexed her own fingers, which had begun to throb from the mangling they’d endured. “They may take a while to recover.”