Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [6]
Only the knowledge that expressing his worry would increase Nefret’s kept Ramses from behaving even more erratically. For once his mother’s know-it-all manner was a comfort; he felt as helpless as a child who keeps demanding, “Will it be all right?”
“Nefret is a physician, after all,” his mother reminded him.
“But she’s never had a baby before.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Will it be all right?”
His mother gave him a tolerant smile. “Of course.”
Not until after it was over did it dawn on him that perhaps she had been putting up a brave front too.
When the moment arrived—at night, as his mother had predicted—Nefret didn’t give him time to lose his head. He wasn’t asleep; he hadn’t slept for several nights—and when he felt her stiffen and heard her gasp he shot out of bed and lit the lamp. She looked up at him, her hands spread across the mountainous mound of her stomach.
“Where’s your watch?” she asked calmly. “We need to time the contractions.”
“I’ll go for Mother.”
“Not yet. There is such a thing as false labor.”
Ramses said something, he couldn’t remember what, and bolted out of the room. When he came back after arousing his parents, she was calmly if clumsily getting dressed.
They got to the hospital in good time. Emerson had himself under control, though he had neglected to button his shirt and Ramses couldn’t remember ever seeing him so pale. He kept patting Nefret’s hand.
“Soon over now,” he said.
Nefret, doubled up with another contraction, said distinctly, “Bah.”
Everything was in readiness, since his mother had rung ahead. Dr. Sophia took Nefret away and they went to the courtyard. She did not allow smoking in her office and Emerson declared himself incapable of surviving the ordeal without tobacco. He was on his second pipe when the other surgeon, Dr. Ferguson, appeared.
“She wants you,” she said to Ramses, adding with her customary bluntness, “God knows why.”
He soon found out why.
A remark from his father brought him back from the indelible memory of the most wonderful and terrifying day of his life.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You were miles away,” said Emerson curiously. “Where?”
“Months, rather. The night the twins were born.”
Emerson shuddered. “I never want to go through anything like that again.”
“You didn’t go through it,” Ramses said. “She did. And she made damned sure I saw and heard everything.”
“Did she really swear at you?”
“At your most eloquent you’ve never surpassed it.” He added, with an involuntary shudder, “I’ve never seen anything so appalling. How women go through that, and then go back and do it again . . .”
“They wouldn’t let me be with your mother. I’d rather have been, you know, even if she had called me every name in the book. She would have, too,” Emerson said pensively.
“I know.” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder. Emerson, who had been brought up in the Victorian tradition that frowned on demonstrations of affection between men, acknowledged the gesture with an awkward nod and promptly changed the subject.
Their work crew had assembled. All were skilled men who had been with them for years, members of the family of their