The Voice Behind My Husband

At 1:17 in the morning, I was standing barefoot in our kitchen with one hand gripping the counter when I felt warm water run down my legs.

For a few seconds, I just stared at the puddle spreading across the tile.

Then another contraction came.

I grabbed my phone and called my husband.

Ethan answered on the fifth ring.

“Claire?”

He sounded irritated.

Not worried. Not confused.

I leaned against the kitchen island and tried to breathe.

“My water broke.”

Silence.

“What?”

“My water broke. I think she’s coming.”

Another pause.

Ethan was supposed to be in Chicago. He had left that afternoon for what he’d called an emergency client meeting. He worked in medical equipment sales, and last-minute trips weren’t unusual.

Still, this one had bothered me.

I was thirty-six weeks pregnant.

Before he’d left, I’d stood in our bedroom doorway with both hands under my stomach and asked him if someone else could go.

He’d kissed my forehead.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night. Lily isn’t coming this weekend.”

Apparently Lily hadn’t received the schedule.

Now I heard Ethan exhale into the phone.

“Okay. Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking. I need you to come home.”

“Claire, I can’t just leave.”

I looked down at the water on the floor.

“I’m in labor.”

“I understand that.”

His voice lowered.

“But I have the presentation at eight. If I leave now, I could blow the entire account.”

I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it.

Nine years.

That was how long we’d been married.

For almost three of those years, we’d been trying to have a baby.

There had been appointments, tests, medication, months when I stopped buying pregnancy tests because seeing another single line had become exhausting.

And now our daughter was coming.

“Ethan, I don’t care about the account.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Then I heard something.

A woman’s voice.

Close.

Not a television across a hotel room.

Close enough that I could hear the shape of the words even though I couldn’t understand them.

Then a small laugh.

I stopped breathing.

“Who is that?”

Nothing.

“Ethan?”

“What?”

“There’s a woman with you.”

“No, there isn’t.”

I heard movement on his end.

A door, maybe.

Then his voice became clearer.

“The TV is on.”

I looked toward our dark living room.

“That didn’t sound like a TV.”

“Claire, you’re having contractions. You’re stressed.”

That sentence bothered me more than the denial.

He wasn’t asking how far apart the contractions were.

He wasn’t asking whether I had called the hospital.

He wasn’t asking if I was alone.

“Turn the TV off.”

Silence.

“What?”

“Turn it off.”

“Claire.”

“If it’s the television, turn it off.”

Another contraction tightened across my abdomen.

I bent over the counter.

“Ethan, please.”

There was a muffled sound on his end.

Then nothing.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Go where?”

“I need to get some sleep before the presentation. Call Nina. She’ll take you to the hospital.”

I stared at our refrigerator.

A sonogram picture was held to the door with a red magnet. Ethan had written DADDY’S GIRL across the bottom in blue pen after our twenty-week appointment.

“You’re really not coming?”

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can tomorrow.”

Then he hung up.

I stood in the kitchen holding the phone.

Another contraction came.

This time I called Nina.

She answered immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m having the baby.”

I heard sheets moving.

“I’m coming.”

No questions.

No presentation.

No hesitation.

Just that.

“I’m coming.”

The Empty Chair Beside My Bed

Nina got to our house in twelve minutes wearing sweatpants, an Ohio State hoodie, and two different socks.

She found me upstairs trying to zip my hospital bag.

“Stop.”

She took it from me.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“Ethan can’t come.”

Her hands stopped on the zipper.

“What?”

I picked up the baby blanket from the dresser.

“He’s staying in Chicago.”

Nina stared at me.

She had been my best friend since college and had never been especially good at hiding what she thought.

“You’re in labor.”

“He has a presentation.”

“I heard you.”

She lifted the bag.

“I just thought maybe saying it twice would make it less insane.”

I didn’t tell her about the woman’s voice.

Not yet.

I didn’t want to say it aloud because saying it would turn suspicion into something I had to deal with.

And I had another problem arriving every six minutes.

Nina drove me to Riverside Methodist Hospital.

By the time we reached labor and delivery, my contractions were less than five minutes apart.

A nurse helped me into a gown and attached monitors around my stomach.

There was a chair beside the bed.

It was one of those ugly hospital recliners meant for husbands who complain about sleeping in chairs while their wives do the actual work.

I kept looking at it.

At three in the morning, it was empty.

At five, it was empty.

At seven, it was still empty.

Nina occupied it occasionally, but mostly she stood beside me, brought me ice chips, rubbed my back, and answered texts from my mother.

Mom had undergone shoulder surgery three weeks earlier and was still recovering at home. She wanted to come immediately.

I told her not to.

“Nina’s here. Stay home. I’ll call you when she’s born.”

“Where is Ethan?”

I looked at the empty chair.

“Chicago.”

Mom was quiet.

“He’s coming back?”

“After his presentation.”

Another pause.

“All right.”

My mother had never disliked Ethan.

But she had a way of going silent when she didn’t believe something.

Around seven-thirty, I texted him.

The contractions are getting stronger. Please call me.

No response.

At 8:12, I sent another.

She’s coming today.

Nothing.

At 9:03, I called.

Voicemail.

Nina saw me put the phone down.

“Stop calling him.”

“He’s her father.”

“I know.”

“He should know what’s happening.”

Nina adjusted my blanket.

“He knows.”

I turned my face toward the window.

That was the problem.

He knew.

At 10:41 that morning, after hours of labor, our daughter was born.

Six pounds, four ounces.

A full head of dark hair.

Tiny fists.

A furious little cry that filled the room.

The nurse placed her against my chest.

I remember touching her cheek with one finger because she seemed too small for my whole hand.

“Hi, Lily.”

Her crying slowed.

Nina stood beside the bed with tears running down her face.

“She’s beautiful.”

I looked toward the chair.

Still empty.

I asked Nina to take a picture of Lily on my chest.

Then I sent it to Ethan.

She’s here. Lily Margaret. 6 lbs 4 oz.

The message showed delivered.

He didn’t call for forty-three minutes.

When my phone finally rang, Lily was sleeping against me.

I answered quietly.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

Ethan sounded tired.

“I saw the picture.”

I waited.

“She’s cute.”

Cute.

That was the first thing my husband said about the daughter we’d waited years to have.

“She’s your daughter.”

“I know.”

“Where are you?”

“I told you. Chicago.”

I looked at Nina.

She was standing by the window.

“How did the presentation go?”

There was a pause.

“Fine.”

“What hotel are you staying at?”

Another pause.

Longer.

“Why?”

“Because I want to know.”