Family Ties~Chapter 8~ 🤰~Labor Day~ 👶

   Just as Hastings predicted, the visit was just the tonic Poirot needed. He didn't even complain about drafts. In fact, he kept his bedroom window open just enough to let night breeze in.  The lack of city traffic was another calming effect. No cars driving by. No cop cars with sirens blaring.

   The house was a two story home with the proverbial white picket fence that Isabel joked over dinner.  "I have to walk in or out sideways just to get through."

   For the next few days, Poirot surprised Hastings and Isabel by having breakfast made for them.  "The proper English breakfast. Or, at least as English as a Belgian can manage."

    "You didn't have to do all of this, Poirot."  Hastings insisted as he sat down to eat. "You're here to relax."

    Hercule Poirot made a show of sighing as he served Isabel her breakfast and then got up his own meal.  Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon.  "You should know me, mon ami.  I am not one who can sit by, in idleness. You have been kind enough to invite me for a rest. Poirot, he does his best 'resting'  by, as you say, 'mucking in' ."   He cringed at the saying.  "Besides,  your wife needs to conserve the strength.  Oh, you are out of porridge." 

    Porridge would turn out to be the least of their issues by late that night.  While Hastings had a busy day and couldn't wait to settle down,  Isabel couldn't get comfortable.  She walked downstairs for a snack and then realized she wasn't even hungry. Then she took a walk outside.  In spite of season, and the fact that it was the middle of October, the weather was co-operating quite well.  It felt more like winter transitioning into Spring instead of Summer giving way to Autumn.

  Still, she needed to wear the patchwork dressing gown she'd had for years.  It was something her grandmother made for her, how long ago, and Isabel was loathe to cut it up and use it for wash rags.  It would pretty much  have to come apart on its own.

   "Isabel?"  Hastings called from the window. "You coming up?"

  "In a few minutes, hon.  I'm feeling rest...."  her word stopped in mid-syllable.  Stolen by a sharp pain. A pain that wouldn't let her take another step until it eased up.  She didn't want to alarm the house until she was sure.  Slowly, as the pain subsided, Isabel began walking along the porch and then turned around and walked back. She was tempted to sit on the porch swing but decided to keep walking.

   Isabel was half way across the porch when another pain stole her breath.  No doubt now.  Hardly five minutes apart. A contraction.

    "ARTHUR!!!!"  She called,  loud enough to alert not only her house but maybe even the house next door, not to mention across the street.  Isabel Hastings didn't care. She was in labor!

   The door flew open but it was Poirot. "Madame Hasti....?"

    "Get Arthur, Hercule.  I'm in labor!"

     Poirot crossed himself and headed back in the house, heading back up stairs as fast as he could recall himself ascending a flight of stairs in quite some time.  In no time, Hastings was down the stairs;  suitcase in one hand, and arm in one sleeve of his house coat.  He had his pants on and slippers but kept his pajama top on.  Not that Hastings cared, and Poirot chose not to comment on it. First things first.

    Upon reaching Isabel,  Hastings handed Poirot the hospital bag and got his wife in the car before getting behind the wheel.

   "Damn! The keys!  Where are the...bloody  car keys?"  Hastings swore and promptly apologized.

   Between groans, Isabel reminded her husband.  "Kitchen. Key hook. Next to....oh!....PHONE!"

    Poirot was out of the car and back in the house, appearing a minute later with the keys, along with the house keys which he used to lock up the house.

   "It will do neither of you, or the baby any good to come back to a house, bereft of furniture,"  a breathless Poirot explained. "Now quickly, mon ami. Let us get to the hospital.  We are, neither of us, qualified to deliver a baby!"

                               ~~~~

    It was the oddest thing.  Hastings had been driving for years. As soon as he was able to begin learning how to drive,  Arthur Hastings was behind the wheel.  And today, he couldn't figure out whether to race or crawl.  How did he get his pregnant wife to the hospital in a hurry without killing everyone in the car?

    "Have you thought about colleges?"  Hastings asked, if for no other reason besides giving Isabel something else to think about as she sat, slow-breathing. in the seat next to him.

   "What?"  Isabel only glanced at her husband  and then focused her attention on the road. "Arthur, love, can we talk about the child's edu....OUCH!"

    "Drive, mon ami!"  Poirot advised from the back seat.

     And so he did.

                       ~~~~~~

    Parking in front of the hospital,  Hastings kissed his wife. "Be back in a second."

   "Arthur!"  Isabel shouted after him as she watched him rush through the revolving door of the hospital; returning in a blink with an orderly pushing a wheel chair.

    "We have to get your wife to delivery. Give the front desk your information and then meet us on four." a tall black man in a white uniform advised Hastings as he wheeled Isabel through the front door backward, with Hastings and Poirot close behind.  The orderly barely gave the couple a second to kiss and then wheeled her into the elevator.  He returned to the front desk to find Poirot giving the receptionist pertinent information.
 
      "How long does it take by the way?" Hastings asked.

     "For your wife to give birth?  Hard to say?  Is this your first child?"

     "Oh...uh yes. Sorry. It's late.  We were about to turn in when Isabel screamed the house down. "

    The nurse smiled,  "Then be thankful. Most babies decide to show up in the middle of the night, when husband and wife are asleep. As to your question, it's hard to say.  I would say, five hours at least.  Then again, it's not always easy to predict. Just ...be prepared to wait. "

    "Do you need anymore information?"  Hastings asked. "I can fill out...."

     "Just a few medical details. Your dad already told us the basics."

   It was on the tip of Hastings' tongue to ask, "Dad?"  when he realized  who the nurse was referring to.   He filled out the rest of the information and then returned the clipboard, with the form, back to the receptionist.

    "If you would like to wait, the delivery room is on four, and there's a more comfortable waiting room."

    "Thank you."  Poirot nodded to the receptionist. "You have been most helpful.

    From the desk, the two headed for the elevators and took the first that opened.  Two nurses walked out, laughing about...who knew.

    On the fourth floor, they were greeted with a nurse's station, and were pointed to the right hall.

     "That was pleasant."  Hastings said, mildly irked at the lack of civility.

     "Do not fret, mon ami. I can see, from where we are, the maternity waiting area. There is a light haze of smoke emanating from a small alcove, halfway down the hall. I suspect other fathers, they are waiting also."

   "We'll all be dead of smoke inhalation by the time our kids are born."

     To Hastings' relief, not long after he and Poirot arrived in the waiting room,  the only other man in the room was greeted by a nurse, who gave him the good news,  "Mother and daughter are doing fine."  At which time,  the man stubbed out his cigarette in the first sand filled ashtray he found and left the room with the nurse.

    "Oh, that reminds me!"  Hastings realized. "You wouldn't happen to have some change, would you, Poirot?  I have to make a phone call and  I left all my change on the bedside table."

   "Bien sûr."  Poirot fished out some loose change from his right pocket and handed it to Hastings.  "Who do you have to call at this late hour?"

   "The garage foreman, Bruce Scheider.  I need to let him know I won't be in tomorrow. Thanks."   Arthur Hastings turned to go to the pay phone at the corner of the room and then stopped.  "How come you have change now? You're usually the one asking me."

   "I do, occasionally keep small coins. Not often enough I suppose.  However, I judged this to be one of the times that spare change, it might come in useful."

   Hastings nodded and went to make his phone call as Poirot stood at the window.  Where the sky looked dark when they arrived at the hospital, the darkness was replaced by a canopy of white cloud that looked more to be for snow than rain.

   Snow. Winter. Christmas. How forlorn the parents of Rhoda and Celia Watson would be this coming holiday.  Deprived of both their daughters and grandchildren.  A travesty as well as a crime.  Wherever 'Honorable'  Peter Elkins was, he should only remain there.  His life and career in England,  it was over.

    Imagining himself as a judge trying Peter Elkins case,  Poirot glared into Elkins eyes, black as his soul and prepared to pronounce sentence on the man when his dreamscape was interrupted.

    "Well, there's that done anyway.  I got hold of Scheider and told him not to expect me tomorrow.  He congratulated me and told me to call the garage as soon as I heard."

   "That was most kind of him."   Poirot said.

    "Bruce is a good man. I can trust him."  Hastings followed his friend's focus.  "Looks like we might get...."

   "Snow, more likely.  I do not think you are dressed for it."

   "I'm thankful to be dressed at all."  Hastings confessed as the men sat on one of the waiting room couches.  "Truth to tell, old boy,  happy as I am about the baby, I'm equal parts nervous wreck.  What does that say about what kind of father I'll be?"

   "Mon ami," Hercule Poirot smiled at the friend he missed working with.  "you will be the best father you can be.  You love your wife and so you love your child."  Poirot shook his head.  "The....DIShonorable Counselor Peter Elkins did not care for the women of whom he took advantage.  He used his position for his good, but not always for the citizen.

   Hastings couldn't help but smirk.  "Right.  Me; the perfect father."

    Poirot shook his head. "Not perfect, my friend. No one is perfect. Even that darling child, making his way into the world,  or HER way; that baby will not be perfect. But the child will love you.  He will trust to you, and his mother, his future.  You are nervous because you care enough to do the best for the little one.  This is the most commendable cause for nerves."   Poirot paused. "Are you still nervous?"

  Snoring.

   Poirot looked to find Hastings,  his head on the flat top of the sofa, his mouth open. Eyes closed.

   Rising from the couch, Poirot left the room and went to the nurse's desk.

    "Hello. Would you have a blanket for a tired father to be?  Captain Hastings has just dozed off on the sofa."

   The head nurse giggled. "That's good. Makes waiting go faster. You go back. I'll bring a few blankets in."

   "Merci."

    No sooner was Poirot back in the waiting room when the head nurse returned with two pale blue blankets. The first of which she handed to the granddad-to-be and the other she draped over the snoring Hastings.

   Poirot thought of correcting the woman's assumption about his being the baby's grandfather but decided against it.  Not that it was or wasn't the nurse's business; he simply liked the idea of being the baby's grandfather, whether it was true or not.

                         ~~~

    "Captain Hastings,"  a woman's voice, a nurse, roused Poirot from his attempt to sleep sitting on a hospital sofa.  He must've managed near enough to a nap . He felt tired. Like he'd been awakened.  The first thing he did was take the suitcase he got out of the car as soon as Hastings fell asleep.

    "Nurse? Is the baby...?"

      "Mother and son are doing fine."

     "Thank heaven!"  Poirot walked over to the sofa and tapped the new father on the shoulder.  "Hastings. "

   Hastings started awake like he'd been jolted by a nightmare. "What's wrong?  Where's the car?"

    "Nothing is wrong, Mr. Hastings."  The nurse leaned over him. "I just thought you might want to see your wife and son."

    Wide awake now,  he asked the nurse to repeat what she'd just said, so he was sure he wasn't dreaming.  "It's a boy?"

   "You have a son. Come on. I'll take you to see him. Your wife asked that I take you to see the baby first, so she can get freshened up.  Having a baby takes a lot out of woman.  Especially at this hour of the morning." 

    The nurse nodded towards the window, where the first bit of sunlight was beginning to break through the night sky.  Hastings checked his wrist watch. Nearly seven in the morning and a light snow was falling.

    "Not to worry. I don't think it'll stay.  Let's go see the new addition to your family."

     The nurse,  whose badge read Barbara Vyning R.N.  escorted the men down the left corridor where the nurse entered a room with a large window that looked on rows of sleeping infants.  Some wrapped in pink blankets, others wrapped in blue.  Newest arrivals were moved to the front row.  Sure enough, second from the right was a little boy, wrapped in a soft blue blanket and yawning as the nurse carefully picked him up.

   "Like father, like son, mon ami."  Poirot patted Hastings on the back.  "I just hope he does not snore like his dad." 

   Hastings couldn't even think of protesting such nonsense!  He didn't snore. And who cared if he did.   He was gazing on his son.

    As soon as Nurse Vyning placed the baby back in his tiny bassinet, she left the nursery and directed Hastings and Poirot to Isabel's room.

   "The hospital bag!"  Hastings noticed. "I thought you left that in the car."

    "I did.  But when you were asleep, I took it upon myself to correct my forgetfulness."  Poirot slipped a hand into his left pocket and took out Hastings' car keys.

    "You better keep them for now.  In the state I'm in,  I'll only leave the keys with Isabel and try and start the car with the baby."

    "You would not get a foot out of the room."  Poirot insisted.  "The nurses, they are on their guard. Is that not true,  Madame Vyning?"

   "Better believe it." Her tone was light but the words did their job.  Kind as she might be, she would act to protect the newborns in her care.

    Down another section that Hastings didn't even realize existed,  they entered a room at the end of the hall.  Nurse Vyning put up a hand to stop the two while she introduced them to what sounded like a tired new mom.

   She returned to the door and waved them in.

    "Arthur!"  Isabel held her arms open to hug her husband.  "Have you seen the baby?"

    "We have. He is beautiful! Handsomest baby in the nursery."

    "Is that true, Mr. Poirot, or is my husband just spinning yarns."

    "I assure you, Madame Isabel, your husband; he is speaking the gospel truth."
Poirot set the carrying case on a wide plush chair, possibly for the husband. This husband was content to sit at the foot of the bed.  He was in the middle of asking a question when he grimaced and then swore.

   "The camera!  I forgot the flamin' camera."

     "No you didn't."  Isabel said in a sing-song voice that suggested she had a secret.  "I knew you'd be too flustered to think clearly, when the day arrived, so I packed it for you."

  Arthur Hastings smiled.  "My brilliant wife,"  he said, opening the small travel suitcase.

   "Don't you forget it."  Isabel giggled and then yawned.  "Where IS that son of ours? I need a nap."

   As Hastings fished out the small, rectangular camera with its miniature telephoto lens, Nurse Barbara Vyning returned, cradling a blanketed infant, whom she presented to Isabel Hastings.  At that moment, Isabel Hastings could have been a pat of butter under a noonday sun;  she just about melted at the sight of the adorable little face, that made little faces as he slept. She inhaled the scent from the crown of his head of off=brown hair.

   "Any ideas for names?"  Nurse Vyning inquired.

   "How about.....?"  Isabel looked at her husband. "Aaron Arthur Hastings?"  The name was approved of all round.

    Double checking to make sure there was film in the camera, Hastings went to the foot of the hospital bed and directed Isabel, "Smile, hon."

    Truth was, he hardly had to ask.  His wife hadn't stopped smiling since the newborn baby had been placed in her arms. 

   "Alright, gentlemen. Time we left to let mom ...."

  "Just a favor before we go, please."  Hastings pleaded with the supervising nurse. "A few more photographs."

  The nurse thought to protest and then changed her attitude. "Promise?"

    "Honest."  Hastings crossed his heart. 

     "Just as well since I'll have you tossed out anyway." 

    Before she could change her mind,  Hastings handed the nurse his camera and showed her how to use it. Then he ever-so-carefully lifted little Aaron Arthur.

   "You're going to have to sit down, Mr. Hastings. There isn't enough room in here to back up and you're too tall to fit into the frame."

   Oh so slowly,  Hastings settled down into the chair once Poirot closed and removed the case ; setting it on the floor of the small closet which faced the bed. 

  The sight of Hastings with his new son was cause for joy.  Sharp contrast with the casualness in which Peter Elkins did away with his own wives and unborn children.  That harsh recollection gave way to more wistful considerations. And his mind traveled to the photograph on his bedside table.  He and Virginie in their wedding day photo.  There were any number of photos in the album that more-than-hinted at a scene like this.  Then Cancer ate away at the dream, as fire would devour photographs.

   "Poirot?"  A voice brought him out of his dreamscape. It was Hastings. "You okay?"

   "Apologies. I am somewhat fatigued."  Poirot offered the explanation which was honest enough.  Sleeping, or trying to sleep on a hospital sofa did not invite content, dream-filled rest.

   "We only need to take one more photograph and we can go."  He motioned to the chair.

    "Pardon?"  Poirot wondered.

     "Sit down and I'll hand you the baby, then take the photo."

    "I have not held a baby for too long."  Poirot vaguely recalled holding a nephew;  the newborn son of one of his brothers.  He said this as he lowered himself into the chair and let Hastings settle the newborn baby into his arms. Little Aaron Arthur Hastings stirred, as if he was being awakened for school and refused to get up. 

  Despite his concerns that he would not hold the baby properly, or that the infant might slide out of his arms,  no such worry was founded. Instead, the newborn fit snugly into the the crook of his arm, with his head resting on Poirot's elbow;  his coat providing the cushion the baby's head needed.  Seeing one of the baby's balled-up fists, Poirot caressed it with his finger and the baby's tiny hand grasped it.  Hastings took the photo as his long time friend and former colleague smiled down at the newborn. 

   In the book of  "Baby's First Photos" this picture would be labeled,  "Aaron Arthur Hastings with "Papa"  Hercule Poirot.  

                      ~END~