Anna-Maria Mella is kneeling on the bed in the delivery room. She is hanging on to the steel bars of the headboard so tightly that her knuckles are white. She pushes her face into the gas mask and breathes deeply. Robert is stroking her sweat-drenched hair.
“Now,” she yells. “It’s coming now!”
The labor pains are like an avalanche rushing down the side of a mountain. All she can do is go with them. She squeezes and pushes and bears down.
Two midwives are standing behind her. They are shouting and cheering as if she were their winning horse in a trotting race.
“Come on, Anna-Maria! One more time! Just once more! You’re such a good girl!”
It burns like fire when the child’s head starts to emerge. And then, when the head is finally out, the child slides out of her like a slippery salmon in a stream.
She hasn’t the energy to turn around. But she hears the furious, demanding cry.
Robert takes hold of her head in both his hands and kisses her smack in the middle of her face. He is crying.
“You did it!” he laughs through his tears. “It’s a little boy!”