“I can tell,” Cathy replied with a slight grimace. “Is he okay?”
“Looks okay to me,” the corpsman said. “Eight pounds even, and all the pieces are in the right places. Airway’s fine, and the kid’s got a great little heart.”
Jack picked up his son, a small, noisy package of red flesh with an absurd little button of a nose.
“Welcome to the world. I’m your father,” he said quietly. And your father isn’t a murderer. That might not sound like much, but it’s a lot more than most people think. He cradled the newborn to his chest for a moment and reminded himself that there really was a God. After a moment he looked down at his wife. “Do you want to see your son?”
“I’m afraid he doesn’t have much of a mother left.”
“She looks pretty good to me.” Jack placed his son in Cathy’s arms. “Are you all right?”
“Except for Sally, I think I have everything here that I need, Jack.”
“Finished,” the doctor said. “I may not be much of an OB, but I do one hell of a good stitch.” He looked up to see the usual aftermath of a birth, and he wondered why he’d decided against obstetrics. It had to be the happiest discipline of them all. But the hours were lousy, he reminded himself.
The corpsman reclaimed the infant, and took John Patrick Ryan Jr. to the nursery, where he’d be the only baby for a while. It would give the pediatric people something to do.
Jack watched his wife drift off to sleep after — he checked his watch — a twenty-three-hour day. She needed it. So did he, but not quite yet. He kissed his wife one more time before another corpsman wheeled her away to the recovery room. There was one thing left for him to do.
Ryan walked out to the waiting room to announce the birth of his son, a handsome young man who would have two complete, but very different, sets of godparents.