“You should have called me when the contractions were four minutes apart, Anna,” Eleanor said, stepping into the room.
“We wanted a few quiet hours first, Mother,” Anna said.
Eleanor sat in the vinyl armchair by the window, her presence immediately crowding the small space. She adjusted her diamond rings and looked at me, her eyes lingering on my faded corduroy jacket with an unmistakable coldness.
“I have already spoken with the chief of obstetrics,” Eleanor said.
“This is a standard twin delivery, Eleanor,” I said, my voice measured and precise. “Dr. Patel is highly qualified.”
“Dr. Patel is a pediatric geneticist, Michael, not the primary surgeon,” Eleanor replied, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room. “A Vance child deserves the department head, not a researcher.”
The nurse entered then, checking the IV line and nodding at the monitor, but her expression remained neutral.
“How long has the lower heart rate been dipping?” the nurse asked, looking at the screen.
Anna looked at me, her eyes wide with a sudden, silent panic.
The afternoon light turned gray against the frosted windows as they wheeled Anna down the corridor toward the delivery suite. Eleanor walked beside the gurney, her heels clicking on the linoleum, her hand firmly gripping the metal rail as if she owned the entire floor. She had ignored my attempt to guide her to the waiting area, brushing past me with a sharp flick of her wrist.
Dr. Grace Patel met us at the double doors of the delivery room, her silver-rimmed glasses catching the harsh fluorescent glare. She adjusted them with a quick flick of her middle finger before reviewing the paper chart held by the resident.
“We need to move quickly,” Dr. Patel said, her voice remaining calm and objective. “The second twin is showing signs of moderate distress.”
