Page 50 of The Grumpy Doc's Surprise Delivery

I didn’t expect this situation to send her into hysterics, but then I don’t suppose she expected to be doing this without Tom right here. They had planned to be together for the whole process,and though I will do my best to fill in, I’m not her husband. She might want me here, but I can’t fill in for him.

“Let me see,” I say, gently reaching out to touch her belly. “How are you feeling?”

“How do you think?” she snaps. “Sorry. I love you, Emma. But I’m scared. I’m worried it’s going to hurt. What if we have a problem?”

“The doctor will be here soon. We’ll make sure everything goes just right, and in the worst case, we’ll be here to look after you.”

“Did Tom tell you how long he would be?”

I hum as I try to work it out. “He’s in Seattle. That’s what, a three-hour flight?”

“Closer to two,” Phoebe says, and her correcting me makes me breathe a sigh of relief. That’s a good sign. That means she’s feeling at least a little more like herself.

“Well, let’s say it takes him an hour to get there, an hour on this side… it looks like it’ll be a few hours yet.”

“I want him now,” she pouts.

“Invent teleporting, then,” I tease, and she rolls her eyes at me.

As we’ve been talking, I’ve been doing my best to examine her. She doesn’t seem to be in any extreme distress, and as far as I can see, the baby’s in a good position. I get her to count her contractions and time them. This all takes me back to when I was a new doctor, when I was assigned to the maternity ward for months.

They’re all skills I haven’t used in a really long time. Which is why I really need her actual doctor to be here right now.

I could get her through it; I’m confident enough of that. If I really needed to, I could deliver this baby. I could. But I want to be here for Phoebe as a friend, not a doctor. If I have to be her doctor, I won’t be there to hold her hand, to soothe her, to tell her she’s doing just fine. I would have to be in work mode.

Which would be fine. But I want her to feel like she has a friend.

“Can I go for a walk?” she asks, sitting up suddenly.

“Not outside,” I say quickly, panicking, but when she gives me a hard look, I release my held breath. “Of course you can. Do anything you need to feel comfortable. Your contractions aren’t close enough yet that you need to start actively doing anything, so if walking around will make you feel better, go for it.”

“Thank you, oh wise and knowledgeable doctor,” she says.

I don’t reply because my heart is too busy untwisting in relief. She was so set on having this home birth, and so many times I’ve talked about it with her, about how much can go wrong and how dangerous it can be.

Of course, she immediately sent me an entire portfolio of research and blogs and a huge spreadsheet of all the reasons why it was right for her.

Now, seeing her pace her house, I can understand more. She looks nervous, but she would be way worse in a hospital, somewhere sterile and unfamiliar. Here, among her own things, her own life, she looks like she’s in the right place.

“Help me get the sheets,” she says, not a question but not quite a demand either.

She could demand anything from me right now and I would obey. After all, this is going to be me in just a few shortmonths. Except I will be in the hospital. I’d be too worried about complications not to be.

Together, we get all the old sheets from the cupboard and start spreading plastic mats over the floor and sofa. Then we throw sheets on top, making sure that all the places that could be in the splash zone are covered. It’s good for Phoebe to have a task, even if I have to bite my tongue about her overexerting herself.

She’s the kind of person who needs mental stimulation at all times, like me. She doesn’t find it through work like me, though. Any little task is enough to absorb her, from the most complex cases at her job to the tiniest of chores.

I will forbid her from doing other chores now, though. She should be relaxing, not doing dishes.

As we finish up with the sheets, the doorbell rings.

“That’ll be the doctor,” I say, glad that he’s arrived so fast. The next part is the one she’ll need me for. “I’ll go. You sit down.”

She does, the sofa crinkling underneath her. I flash her a smile, then race for the door. This is going well so far — all we need now is for Tom to get here. He should be getting on a plane any second.

Once he’s here, everything will be perfect, and we’ll welcome their baby into the world.

When I open the door, I’m glad I’m not holding anything because I would have dropped it in shock. The face that looks back at me drops its smile immediately, my own shock mirrored in his eyes.

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