Tippy Toe Murder (23 page)

High in the cloudless blue September sky, a
herring gull seemed to soar effortlessly, hardly moving its wings as it floated
on unseen currents of air. Watching it through the window from her bed in the
birthing room at the cottage hospital, Lucy wished she could change places with
it.

This morning, when the contractions finally
began to come five minutes apart, seemed eons ago. Had it been years, or just a
few hours, since she stood at the kitchen sink? She had been counting off the
minutes when she saw Caro and George on the path to the pond. It had been good
to see them again.

Despite three months of convalescence, Caro
was still not fully recovered. She was limping, still relying on a pair of
aluminum crutches. None of that seemed to bother George. The golden dog held
his tail high as he pranced ahead of his owner. Lucy could have sworn he was
smiling.

Despite the crutches, Caro managed the path
as gracefully as she handled most things. She took her time, and although she
went slowly, she didn’t appear to be straining or struggling as she made her
way down the familiar route to the pond.

Lucy watched until she saw Caro return and
get back into her car. The little Honda now had handicapped plates. Lucy
guessed it had been modified in some way so Caro could drive it.

After she’d seen Caro safely gone, Lucy
called Bill.

“They’re about five minutes apart now,” she
told him. “I think we’d better get going.”

“Okay,” he said, fiddling nervously with
the car keys. “Do you have everything you need? Pillows, lollipops, paper bag?”

“You make it sound like we’re going on some
sort of scavenger hunt,” complained Lucy. “Whatever happened to the good old
days when they clapped a gas mask on your face at the first sign of a
contraction and you woke up with a brand- new baby?”

Bill chuckled sympathetically. His tone was
hopeful as he asked, “Video camera?”

“Absolutely not.” Lucy was firm.

“Let’s go,” said Bill, picking up Lucy’s
overnight bag.

Aside from the two of them, the house was
empty. School had been in session for a couple of weeks, and all the children
had left earlier that morning—even Sara, who was in kindergarten.

“Unnhh,” moaned Lucy as a particularly
intense contraction gripped her while she was getting settled in the car.

“Are you all right?” asked Bill, fumbling
as he tried to put the key in the ignition.

“Oh, sure,” said Lucy. “I feel like an
idiot. I’ve been through this three times. How could I forget what it’s like?
But I did. I spent my whole pregnancy looking forward to this. Now it’s
started, I remember everything, and I don’t want to go through it again. I just
want to cancel the order, thank you very much.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. But this is absolutely going
to be the last baby. I am
not
going to do this ever again. I’m
going to remember every ache, every cramp, every contraction. This time I’m not
going to forget.”

Anticipating a quick delivery, Doc Ryder
met them at the hospital.

“After all, Lucy, this is your fourth baby.
You must have gotten the knack by now. Let’s get this wrapped up by noon, okay?
It’s a real Indian summer day and I’ve got a one o’clock tee time,” he told her
as he escorted her to the maternity wing.

“I’ll do what I can,” promised Lucy,
shifting uncomfortably in her wheelchair as another contraction began.

A cheerful nurse soon had her prepped and
installed in the birthing room, where Doc Ryder and Bill joined her. They were
both dressed in gowns and were wearing ridiculous paper shower caps on their
heads. Bill pulled a chair up beside the bed and patted her hand encouragingly.
The doctor settled himself in an armchair and took a nap.

The morning passed slowly, marked by the
regular contractions, but the labor didn’t seem to be making much progress.
Bill had taped up a focal point for her, a photo of a baby clipped from a
magazine, but Lucy preferred focusing on the gulls outside her window. There
always seemed to be at least one; maybe they were attracted by updrafts
produced by the sun beating down on the hospital’s asphalt parking lot.

When she felt a contraction begin, she
picked out a gull and fastened her attention on it. She concentrated on keeping
her breaths light and regular, she concentrated on relaxing her arms and legs,
she concentrated on the gull’s perfect white shape against the clear blue sky.
She wanted to scream.

“These contractions aren’t very efficient,”
complained Doc Ryder, peering at the ribbon of paper the fetal monitor was spewing
out. “I think we ought to pep ‘em up a little bit.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy warily. She
had heard horror stories told by veterans of the delivery room wars.

“I can give you a drip and you’ll have
better contractions. See,” he said, waving the paper at her, “these kind of
dribble along. They don’t peak.”

“These contractions seem just fine to me,”
said Lucy. “Won’t a drip hurt?”

“No. It’s just an IV.”

“It’ll make the contractions hurt more, won’t
it?”

“Hard to say,” said the doctor, evading her
question. “You’ll have the baby sooner. You want that, don’t you?”

“No,” said Lucy. “I don’t care if I have a
baby. I want to die.”

“There, there,” said the doctor as he
patted the back of her hand preparatory to inserting a huge needle in it. “You’re
just tired. I’ll give you some glucose, too. That’ll perk you up.” “Oh, thanks,”
said Lucy, groaning and gripping the bed rails as a force-ten contraction
racked her body.

“I guess we’d better lower the dosage just
a bit,” conceded the doctor, fiddling with the IV. He nodded approvingly as the
fetal monitor began graphing contractions with peaks.

Lucy was no longer watching the seagulls
out the window. She’d given up looking for a focal point. She had retreated to
a place within herself where the pains came one after another like waves on the
rocky shore. She no longer cared where she was, or who was with her; she had
given up the effort of remaining in control. She was aware only of the pains,
and the periods of rest in between. She was entirely consumed by the process of
giving birth.

“It’s time to push,” announced Doc Ryder.
Bill and the nurse stationed themselves on either side of her and raised her
shoulders.

“Tuck your chin against your chest and bear
down. Work with the contraction,” instructed the nurse, and Lucy did her best.
The exhausting process was repeated many times, however, before she was
rewarded.

“We’ve got a head,” said the doctor, and
with the next contraction the baby was born.

“That felt just like a slippery fish,”
giggled Lucy, relaxing back against the pillow. She might as well have been
talking to herself, she realized. No one was listening. Doc Ryder, Bill, and
the nurse were all clustered around the baby.

“That’s one heck of a fat baby,” said Doc
Ryder.

“I’ve never seen such a plump, round little
newborn,” cooed the nurse.

“Wow, feel that grip,” said Bill, smiling
as the baby wrapped a tiny red hand around his index finger.

“Ten pounds, two ounces, and twenty-one
inches,” noted the doctor.

“Apgar?” asked the nurse.

“A ten. A definite ten. This is a very nice
baby.”

“Excuse me,” said Lucy, raising her voice. “Do
you mind if I ask a question? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Well, Lucy,” said the doctor, placing the
blanket-wrapped infant in her arms. “It looks like you’ve got another
ballerina.”