“Go, hurry!” Madeline’s command propelled his stilled feet.
Tony wasn’t well-versed on anything in a kitchen; however, he knew a stove and a cabinet. Flinging open the doors he found a brown case. When he opened the case, his heart stopped beating. The cutlery was shiny and clean with sharp looking blades. Bile rose in his throat as he imagined one of these knives being used on his wife. Tony couldn’t let Claire endure this pain without something. Quickly, he grabbed a bottle of bourbon. He’d make her drink if he had to; or perhaps it could be used to sterilize the knife. Tony didn’t know the exact reason; however, as he rushed back toward his bedroom, he held tightly to both the case and the bottle.
When he entered the brightly lit room, Claire’s eyes were closed and her chin rested against her chest. “What happened? What did you do?”
“Nothing, Monsieur, it’s her body. It knows. Her muscles must relax, and this way, she will not feel the pain. Please open the case.”
He did.
“That one, with the shorter blade”—then she saw the bottle—“Pour the bourbon over the blade.”
He wasn’t sure how he managed to move. Everything was on high alert, yet in slow motion at the same time. The red filling their room wasn’t that of anger—it was Claire’s blood. Tony wanted it all to stop.
As he handed the knife to Madeline, their eyes met. “Monsieur, I’m doing my best to save your child.”
“And my wife, Madeline—save my wife.”
She nodded.
At that moment, they heard the voices on the lanai. Turning, the doors to their suite opened and they saw Francis, Phil, and Dr. Gilbert. Francis said something about trees blocking their way as the doctor entered and assessed the scene. Looking to Tony, he said, “Mr. Rawlings, I need to wash my hands. Follow me and tell me everything.”
It was the abridged version—they didn’t have time for a full length novel. Tony emphasized the main points—Claire’s water broke roughly twenty-four hours ago—the contractions returned about six hours ago and had gained in intensity over the last two hours—she’d lost what appeared to be a lot of blood—had recently gone unconscious—and Madeline believed the baby was breach.
Dr. Gilbert nodded as he opened his bag. With a paper gown covering his clothes and surgical gloves over his hands, he took Madeline’s place at the end of the bed. When he eyed the knives, he nodded toward Madeline. “You have good instincts. Go wash your hands; I need an assistant.”
Tony moved to Claire’s head and stayed at her side. He talked in her ear and smoothed her perspiration drenched hair from her face. With all of his might, he tried not to listen to Dr. Gilbert and Madeline’s words. This wasn’t his personality. He was a take-charge person, a man who demanded all of the facts. Right now, he wanted to pretend everything was all right, especially when Dr. Gilbert asked, “Mr. Rawlings, I hope it won’t come to this; however, if you must choose between your wife and your child, what is your decision?”
How can anyone answer such a question? The life of the woman he loved more than life itself or the life of an innocent child who’d never experienced the world. Inhaling deeply, Tony looked Dr. Gilbert directly in the eye, and despite his new feeling of impotence, found his CEO voice, “Doctor, that decision will not be necessary. You will save them both.”
There wasn’t time to debate. Claire’s body continued to contract. Although she was unconscious, her muscles worked to expel their child. Tony heard the awful pop, sounding much like the puncturing of a piece of plastic. Burying his face in Claire’s shoulder he spoke—about what—he didn’t know. He talked about walks, lakes, and beaches. In the background, he heard a suctioning sound and the call for a scalpel. It wasn’t until he heard the cry of a baby, while still feeling the drum of Claire’s pulse under his fingertips, that he had the strength to lift his head.
In Dr. Gilbert’s hands, with Madeline gently wiping it clean, was the pinkest, most beautiful baby Tony had ever seen. He’d told himself that, if he needed to decide, it would have been Claire. He knew that was the way he would have gone. Once again, his life was a contradiction. He still would have chosen Claire; however, seeing the round face, tightly shut eyes, and open mouth—his body shuddered with relief, thankful he hadn’t been forced to make that decision.
Above the loud and proud wails of his child, Madeline proclaimed, “Monsieur, welcome your daughter.”
Before he could move, he squeezed Claire’s hand. “Doctor, is Claire..?” His voice trailed away, as he was unable to finish his question.