“Drive faster!” You grit between your teeth, grip tightening on the handle above the passenger door. You fondly called it the “Oh-Crap-Bar” because that was typically when it was grasped. This very moment, you’d never been more grateful for its existence.
“I’m going as fast as I can, honey,” Tom says, his eyes never separating from the roadway. Cars passed by the dozens as the two of you raced down the streets, headed for the Royal London Hospital.
You almost scream out the bloody question of “Why?! TOM?? Why did we not just go to Wellington?!” And then- too late, you realize you already had let it slip from your lips.
Pain was rippling through your body, sharp bursts beginning at the base of your spine and traveling through your abdomen and spreading- or, rather, was it the other way around? You’re too distressed to care.
“We’re not that far, darling-” he says in a normal tone, checking his mirror so he could pass the insanely slow car ahead of you.
“How are you so calm?!” You try not to get upset about it- but it’s no use, the pain is far too great for you to currently bother about possibly hurting his feelings. You just needed to know his secret. How is he acting so normal? How is he being so calm? How is he not freaking out about this baby coming now when neither of you are prepared for it?
“I’m not!” His voice rises in pitch, foot shoving the gas pedal farther to the floor, “I’m just better at holding it in!”
“WHAT?!” You yell, another surge of pain blasting through you at top speed. The pressure between your legs was beginning to intensify, and you feel the tears pouring down your cheeks.
“Tom-” you choke out, mood changing instantly. You want his hand- you want him to somehow lessen the pain.
“Joanna?” he asks, eyes deviating for half a second to see you crumpling in the passenger seat.
“Tom...” you groan out, reaching for his arm- that pressure increases and increases, “Drive. Faster.”
~
You begged for the epidural, begged and pleaded for them to just let you sink into a better feeling- but they said you were too far along. No pain medication for you.
“It’s going to be fine, honey,” Tom keeps repeating, wiping sweat away from your brow, and squeezing your hand, “Everything will be alright.”
You want to scream at him, that no, everything will most certainly not be alright- he was not the one pushing a baby through his body- he was not the one going through this tremendous amount of pain.
All you do is stare ahead and practice your breathing, try to ignore the indescribable pain and concentrate on the bigger picture.
“Mrs. Hiddleston-” you barely hear the doctor say as another contraction hits, “On the next one, I want you to push. Can you do that for me?”
~
You see stars. His fingers slip from yours as your grip loosens.
There’s a small cry and you force your eyes to focus on the end of the bed where the nurses and Tom were standing. They were all staring at the same thing- something you couldn’t see yet.
All you know is that Tom’s eyes are as wide as saucers, his mouth hanging open. He’s stopped breathing. He’s stopped moving.
And then, before you know it, he lifts his head, tears gathering in his eyes as he somberly says- “It’s a girl.”
~~
The frantically beeping horns outside in the dark barely worm their way into the room. Dimly lit, aside from one bright lamp, his wife was asleep in the hospital bed. She was exhausted from the night’s escapade, and he was to make sure Jo received the rest she needed.
He’s got his shoes off, socked feet propped up in a chair, head resting on his left hand. Staring at her. He knows for sure that he won’t be able to play the piano for a few days, at the very least. How a person had that tremendous amount of strength amazed him.
Her face is so relaxed now, and he hopes she isn’t in any pain. They drugged her enough afterward, having not been able to help her beforehand.
“Mr. Hiddleston?”
He hadn’t heard anyone come in. Jumping the tiniest bit, he lifts his head and gives the nurse a small tired smile.
“Would you like to see the baby?” She’s smiling, and his heart starts racing.
“Can I?” He asks cautiously, his left arm lowering to the armrest.
The nurse’s smile softens, “Of course. Wait right here.”
A couple of minutes later the door reopens, and she’s rolling in a clear plastic bin.
He’s going to stand when she tells him to stop.
“Stay,” she commands lightly, “I’ll bring her to you.”
He doesn’t know what to say. For once.
So he laughs softly and manages a, “Thank you.”
He watches her pick up a small little bundle wrapped in pink, and hears a little whimper. His heart soars at the sound. Stepping quietly across the room, she stops just in front of him and he sits up straighter.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, eyes never moving from the little girl in her arms.
And then, in no time at all, he’s holding her. The nurse instructs how to nestle her properly in his arms, and Tom listens to the best of his ability. With his left hand, he pushes the blanket underneath his daughters’ chin and smiles at the O shape the little mouth makes.
The small tufts of blonde hair that dotted her head were sticking up in all directions, making him think of his own hair back when he didn't have to dye it so much. Her eyes were large and blue, but, as he was starting to learn, often remained closed as little as she was.
“If you don’t mind me saying,” the nurse says, checking Jo’s monitors, “You look too young to be having a baby.”
He supposes he could see where she got that idea. A freshly shaven face, short curly black hair, he’d been mistaken for much younger than he actually was.
“It’s about time, I think,” he replies with a glancing grin in her direction, she luckily catches it before his eyes are back on his child, “I turned thirty four in February.”
“That’s not old at all, honey,” she smiles, writing something on the clipboard at the end of the bed.
He smiles too, but his attention has been captured by the breathing body in his arms.
“Beautiful wife, healthy baby,” the nurse is saying, and Tom looks up. She gives him a soft, pointed look, “You’re very blessed.”
“I know,” he grins, “Thank you.”
A thoughtful smile, “You’re welcome.”
She closes the door on her way out, leaving him alone. He doesn’t know what to do other than stare at her. He’s afraid if he moves that she’ll wake up, or start crying. So he starts talking.
To himself, or to her, he doesn’t know.
“You’re so tiny,” he says so very quietly, “and breakable.”
It seems an impossibility to get over how small she was. How anything could be that size.
“…And beautiful,” a teary-eyed smile. He laughs silently at himself.
“I am going to teach you everything,” Tom continues, running his finger along her soft, little cheek.
“How to count, and tie your shoes, and Shakespeare……. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. We’ll learn Shakespeare first, then all the other stuff.”
He sniffs, trying to blink back the tears that are threatening to spill.
“And we… we are going to have tremendous fun. No one will be able to tell us what we can and cannot do.”
And the drops of water start to glide down his cheeks. Because he knows that this little miracle is his. She is his, and no one could do anything to her while he’s there.
“Oh, I love you, my little Lucy,” and his voice softens as he lets her lovely little name penetrate the stale, London air.
Tom sighs and sniffs, “And I always will.”
~~
I want to thank you all for helping me get this far with this story. If it weren't for your encouraging reviews, I doubt this tale would still be going. So- seriously- thank you, thank you, thaaaaaank you!!!
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