"Twenty minutes," I say. "Two hundred. Thirty minutes. Timer on."
"I know," he says.
"You don't know," I say. "But I am choosing to trust you and I need you to earn that."
"Noted," he says, and goes back to the dough.
Tomas has my hand. "How far apart?"
"Just started," I say. "I think. I don't know. What and where is the birth plan, so I can read it?"
"You wanted low lighting in the first stage, and you didn't want anyone to count aloud at you." He looks at me, continuing to walk me through the plan, which I knew by heart up until yesterday. But now, everything feels too real. This is really happening.
Matteo has finished his call. He comes to my other side. Carmen takes my other arm. The walk from the kitchen to the medical room is five minutes down the shell path in the dark, the water just audible below the hill, the yellow flowers doing their warm sweet thing in the air despite the hour. Tomas is on one side of me and Carmen on the other, and Matteo is ahead of us already on the phone again, and Santos catches up before we reach the door.
"Oven is on," he says, falling into step.
"Two hundred," I say.
"Two hundred," he confirms. "Timer set. Thirty minutes. Door stays closed."
"Good," I say, and breathe through another one and hold Tomas's hand and look at the path ahead.
Ready to give birth to our daughter. How would I have done it alone? It doesn't matter, because I don't have to.
The doctor arrives within the hour. I've been meeting with her every week, but with this pregnancy brain, I can't even remember her name.
"Right then. Let's go through the plan again, just to make sure you haven't changed it again."
She checks me over. Answers my questions in order. Tells me what is happening and what comes next and what is normal and what she is watching for, and she does it in the plain straightforward voice of someone who respects that I would rather know than not know, which is the right call.
"Everything looks good," she says. "You're doing exactly what you should be. This is going to take some time."
"How much time?" I ask, while still thinking about the damn bread in the oven. What's wrong with me? I can't even ask Santos why he's here, because no doubt he probably told someone to take over. Miss out on the birth of your child, to watch the bread? Not likely.
"When you're ten centimeters," she says.
"Okay so how many am I now?"
"Two."
Sigh. This means it's a long wait, and I need to stop panicking and just accept it for what it is. When she's ready to come, she'll come.
"I think it's time you went into the birthing pool," Tomas says. He's right. I nod my head. I need a distraction, because we have a long wait, and I'm not going to help the baby nor myself if I stress myself out too much.
Fourteen hours is a long time.
It is also no time at all when something this big is happening. The clock moves strangely. Minutes drag, then vanish.
Santos talks through most of it. This is useful. His voice is warm, his stories outrageous, and at one point he gives me a detailed account of a restaurant in Milan that serves six kinds of pasta from a wheel of cheese. During a contraction, he makes me laugh.
Tomas reads to me. First from the herb book, bay laurel and rosemary and sage, then whatever he can reach from the shelf beside him. Latin names, old remedies, stories of roots and bark. His voice is low and steady. I close my eyes and breathe to the rhythm of it.
Matteo stays close. He does not fill silence for the sake of it. He rubs my back when I lean forward. He presses his thumbs into the arches of my feet. He brings water before I ask. When the pain climbs too high, he takes my hand and kisses my knuckles one by one as if each finger deserves personal attention.
They all try.
Yet, I’m still scared.