“Talk to him,” Scarlett said, trying to get the words out.
Mia took him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at her. “Papàmade a promise to me. Mamma will be fine. He will not let her go. I believe him. His love is strong enough to keep her here.”
A noise came from me or Scarlett; at this point, nothing seemed real but the panic.
Matteo looked at me. I nodded with all the conviction that I could find. Under the circumstances, more than I ever imagined I could. He allowed his sister to guide him into the office.
“Scarlett,” I said, wiping the hair back from her face. She was covered in sweat. “How fast?”
“Soon.” She closed her eyes and seemed to swallow down the scream in her throat.
Even when she felt like she was being ripped apart, she didn’t want them to be afraid. She didn’t want me to worry.
“All right,” I said. “We’ve done this before.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Scarlett.”
“Ye—ah!” She went limp in my arms, and I had to ease her down to the floor. “Blankets—” She felt around.
“Yeah, baby, we have blankets.”
“I don’t want him to—” Again she couldn’t even finish her sentence. The pain gripped her fast and hard. She went to tear at her stockings after the pain seemed to ease some, and I ripped them off. “Dirty floor.”
“He’s covered, baby. You’re going to be all right.”
“Brando,” she cried, her head moving back and forth against the fucking floor. We had no better option. “Don’t leave me. Please.”
“Never,” I said, gripping her hand harder. “I’d never leave you. Not for a fuc—second.”
I wanted to ask her if this was it, would I lose her to this, but I couldn’t even find the words. Pain had her in its grip; fear had me.
Life had rendered me helpless.
She had told me we were not out of the woods—but it was nothing close to what had happened with Nemours. This was as far from that scenario as possible.
Still. Women died in childbirth. A blunt fact.
I growled and she started to cry, the pressure she had on my hand unlike any I’d ever felt from her before. She pointed down, puffing in and out, and I looked. I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be looking for—all I could do was murmur things to her, reassuring things…we were both going on memory.
My son came rushing out like she had propelled him at me.
A dark mass of hair; tan, wrinkled skin; and long arms and legs flailing.
Remembering what the doctors had done after our other children were born, I attempted to repeat the same steps. Clearing his airway with my fingers, motivating him to breathe by turning him on his stomach, and then smacking him on his ass. I’d never seen the doctors do that to our older children, but I had heard of it being done. I wanted him to scream, to breathe, so I could feel the life moving in and out of his lungs.
He did. He wailed and wailed.
Scarlett collapsed against the floor, making noises that could only come from both shock and immense relief.
My wife and son were crying, two noises that soothed the panic in me.
Some.
I collapsed to the floor next to her, cradling him, keeping a hand on her head. Afraid to be too far from her. Afraid to make any sudden movements.
Was the amount of blood she lost normal?It ran along the floor, toward the door, probably going to stain the snow red when it ran out.
