Commander in Chief
Page 39
Without the president.
“Mrs. Hamilton! Goodness me,” exclaims a nurse as she sees me waddling in, clutching my huge stomach, discomfort and fear written all over my face.
Fear that is multiplied, seeing as I need to deliver this baby while my husband tries to solve a national security crisis.
I shudder and try to push those thoughts away as another contraction comes. I moan and feel a puddle of water at my feet.
“Let’s get the first lady a wheelchair! NOW!”
“Page Dr. Conwell!”
I feel my body being guided into a wheelchair and before I know it, I am in a hospital bed.
I feel needles pricking my skin, see monitors arranged all around me and doctors rushing in. It seems everyone wants to help deliver the president’s baby.
My legs are propped up and a cloth is draped over them, for modesty. But honestly, at this moment, I couldn’t give a damn about modesty; I want this baby out and in my arms.
I hear some murmurs and the deep, soothing voice of a doctor addresses me: “Mrs. Hamilton, it seems the baby has shifted in your belly and we are going to have to perform a C-section.”
“Is the baby okay?!”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry, we have everything under control. I will do everything I can to deliver this baby as quickly and safely as possible.”
I feel my heart sink in my chest, weighted down by uncontrollable fear.
I gulp back the scream welling in my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
Get your shit together, Mommy, I tell myself. You got this.
“Okay, Charlotte, here we go. You shouldn’t feel a thing, maybe some slight pressure . . .” I hear the doctor’s words in the distance, but I am somewhere else.
If Matt can’t be here with me, I am going to him.
With my eyes still shut, I think of Matt . . . his hands wrapped around my waist as he hugs me from behind and meets my eyes in the mirror while I get dressed.
His deep voice gently singing into my belly early in the morning.
His mouth planting soft kisses on my forehead as he says good night.
How his fingers feel against my skin when he rubs my back.
How when he’s half asleep, he pulls me closer to him, subconsciously using his body to shield me against anything and everything.
How he nuzzles his head in my neck after we make love, his soft hair gently tickling my cheek as he sinks his nose and inhales my scent before releasing a sound of pure male satisfaction before falling asleep.
I feel tears well up again, and I miss him more than ever before. I want more than anything to have him here, his eyes looking into mine, holding my hand, telling me everything will be okay, telling me I am doing great.
I hear monitors beeping. I turn to the side and see Stacey is beside me, holding my hand.
I asked her to come in before the C-section began, because she is the closest friend I have in the White House. I consider her like family.
She looks at me with her sweet and strong blue eyes, gently nodding to me, squeezing my hand in comfort and encouragement. I smile back at her, feeling so much love and gratitude toward her it gets stuck in my throat and I can’t do anything other than tell her with my eyes how grateful I am for all she does for me.
I turn back to look at the ceiling.
I focus on my breathing. Inhale . . . and exhale . . .
In a few minutes I’ll finally be able to see and hold my little baby . . . the one I’ve helped and seen grow inside me . . . the one who dances in my belly when he hears my or Matt’s voice . . . the one who kicks when he’s (or I am) hungry . . .
And then I hear a sound. A baby’s cry.
I start to cry, tears pouring out of my eyes of their own will.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Hamilton.”
I hear applause erupt around the room as I see a little bundle of white blankets approach me.
I reach out my arms instinctively, wanting nothing more than to hold him.
The nurse gently places him in my arms and I am met with the most beautiful, innocent, chubby pink face I have ever seen.
Long, spiky eyelashes and brilliant gray eyes stare back at me and I have never felt happier, more complete, more blessed than I do now.
I feel so filled with love, I feel my heart cracking into pieces in my chest.
I see myself in him. I see Matthew in him. I see the beginnings of a family.
All too soon the nurses have to take him away to have his vitals checked and make sure everything is healthy.
I ache for him, and more than ever I ache for Matt.
I close my eyes for a second and feel myself drifting off into sleep, exhausted by everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.
I fight to open my eyes, but they keep fluttering closed.
Far off in the distance, I hear a voice I could not mistake for anyone else’s. Deep, commanding, overwhelmingly male, demanding: “Where is she?”
I hear shuffling and the sounds of shiny black shoes belonging to ten Secret Service agents running along the marble floors of the hospital.
“I need to see her now!”
“Mr. President—” I hear a voice respond.
I hear the door open and shut and I feel his presence fill the room. I whisper his name.
“Mr. President, congratulations . . .”
I instantly feel his hands reach for me, cupping my face, enveloping it in warmth.
His thumb catches a tear falling from the edge of my eyelashes as I sob, “Matt . . .”
I open my eyes and see him gazing back at me, his eyes brilliant and deep, tender and soothing. “I’m here, baby.”
36
JUNIOR
Charlotte
Eighteen minutes after he walked into the hospital, Matthew Hamilton holds his firstborn son.
I’ve never been so proud to be his first lady.
He caresses my cheek, pride shining in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, smiling weakly.
“He looks like you, Mr. President,” I hear.
He winks at me, his arms all for his son, his eyes all for me—staying on mine for a long time, like mine stay on his. Then he looks down at our son, his eyes raking him up and down, glimmering with happiness after I know the night he faced was probably the darkest night of all. “He’s perfect, baby,” he says, then presses a kiss to my forehead.
He leaves his lips there for long, delicious seconds, as if he wants to brand that kiss on me. I feel his love for me down to the marrow of my bones.
When he eases back to smile at me, his tortured eyes show me the pain he’s witnessed, the darkness that will always stay. It sends my pulse spinning, a need to comfort him hitting me with such force, it’s overwhelming.
I reach out to hold the back of his head, trying to cradle him even though I’m in bed and weak, and he’s the one standing, the one holding it together—like he always is.
Once in my private room, with my parents, Matt’s mother, his grandfather, and Matt, I watch his address to the nation from his desk in the Oval on TV, one that was aired while I was delivering.
He’s wearing a somber black tie and black suit, and he looks directly at the camera as he speaks. “As of twenty-two hundred hours, we engaged in air combat over the hostile region of Islar. The mission was successful. We have confirmation that the five terrorists behind the attack have perished.”
Silence.
“These are sad times for us as a country, every time one of us dies to ensure that here, we can keep on living our lives to their fullest. We need to honor those sacrifices, ensure that we continue prospering as we have until now, not only financially, but as human beings. Now more than ever we need to stand together. We need to fight the fights that matter. For freedom, for security, for our loved ones. We’re a kaleidoscope, all different, but what unites us is our love of this country. Our pride in being American. American we were born. American we will die.”
There were two American casualties. The media called it a victory, but Matt and I know better. No one wins in a war. But you protect your own. We don’t have only one son; the citizens of the United States are our family.
Two days later, I’m allowed back home, and Matt and I have to plan a whole process of introducing the baby to Jack.
Down the hall from our bedroom, I decorated the baby’s room by having the walls painted with pastel-colored forests and installing a white crib with a baby-blue coverlet. So many baby toys have arrived since the announcement of him being a boy, we’ve donated at least two-thirds of them to charities. This is one privileged little boy, and I’ve been amazed by the love our baby has been getting from America.
“Mrs. Hamilton! Goodness me,” exclaims a nurse as she sees me waddling in, clutching my huge stomach, discomfort and fear written all over my face.
Fear that is multiplied, seeing as I need to deliver this baby while my husband tries to solve a national security crisis.
I shudder and try to push those thoughts away as another contraction comes. I moan and feel a puddle of water at my feet.
“Let’s get the first lady a wheelchair! NOW!”
“Page Dr. Conwell!”
I feel my body being guided into a wheelchair and before I know it, I am in a hospital bed.
I feel needles pricking my skin, see monitors arranged all around me and doctors rushing in. It seems everyone wants to help deliver the president’s baby.
My legs are propped up and a cloth is draped over them, for modesty. But honestly, at this moment, I couldn’t give a damn about modesty; I want this baby out and in my arms.
I hear some murmurs and the deep, soothing voice of a doctor addresses me: “Mrs. Hamilton, it seems the baby has shifted in your belly and we are going to have to perform a C-section.”
“Is the baby okay?!”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry, we have everything under control. I will do everything I can to deliver this baby as quickly and safely as possible.”
I feel my heart sink in my chest, weighted down by uncontrollable fear.
I gulp back the scream welling in my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
Get your shit together, Mommy, I tell myself. You got this.
“Okay, Charlotte, here we go. You shouldn’t feel a thing, maybe some slight pressure . . .” I hear the doctor’s words in the distance, but I am somewhere else.
If Matt can’t be here with me, I am going to him.
With my eyes still shut, I think of Matt . . . his hands wrapped around my waist as he hugs me from behind and meets my eyes in the mirror while I get dressed.
His deep voice gently singing into my belly early in the morning.
His mouth planting soft kisses on my forehead as he says good night.
How his fingers feel against my skin when he rubs my back.
How when he’s half asleep, he pulls me closer to him, subconsciously using his body to shield me against anything and everything.
How he nuzzles his head in my neck after we make love, his soft hair gently tickling my cheek as he sinks his nose and inhales my scent before releasing a sound of pure male satisfaction before falling asleep.
I feel tears well up again, and I miss him more than ever before. I want more than anything to have him here, his eyes looking into mine, holding my hand, telling me everything will be okay, telling me I am doing great.
I hear monitors beeping. I turn to the side and see Stacey is beside me, holding my hand.
I asked her to come in before the C-section began, because she is the closest friend I have in the White House. I consider her like family.
She looks at me with her sweet and strong blue eyes, gently nodding to me, squeezing my hand in comfort and encouragement. I smile back at her, feeling so much love and gratitude toward her it gets stuck in my throat and I can’t do anything other than tell her with my eyes how grateful I am for all she does for me.
I turn back to look at the ceiling.
I focus on my breathing. Inhale . . . and exhale . . .
In a few minutes I’ll finally be able to see and hold my little baby . . . the one I’ve helped and seen grow inside me . . . the one who dances in my belly when he hears my or Matt’s voice . . . the one who kicks when he’s (or I am) hungry . . .
And then I hear a sound. A baby’s cry.
I start to cry, tears pouring out of my eyes of their own will.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Hamilton.”
I hear applause erupt around the room as I see a little bundle of white blankets approach me.
I reach out my arms instinctively, wanting nothing more than to hold him.
The nurse gently places him in my arms and I am met with the most beautiful, innocent, chubby pink face I have ever seen.
Long, spiky eyelashes and brilliant gray eyes stare back at me and I have never felt happier, more complete, more blessed than I do now.
I feel so filled with love, I feel my heart cracking into pieces in my chest.
I see myself in him. I see Matthew in him. I see the beginnings of a family.
All too soon the nurses have to take him away to have his vitals checked and make sure everything is healthy.
I ache for him, and more than ever I ache for Matt.
I close my eyes for a second and feel myself drifting off into sleep, exhausted by everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.
I fight to open my eyes, but they keep fluttering closed.
Far off in the distance, I hear a voice I could not mistake for anyone else’s. Deep, commanding, overwhelmingly male, demanding: “Where is she?”
I hear shuffling and the sounds of shiny black shoes belonging to ten Secret Service agents running along the marble floors of the hospital.
“I need to see her now!”
“Mr. President—” I hear a voice respond.
I hear the door open and shut and I feel his presence fill the room. I whisper his name.
“Mr. President, congratulations . . .”
I instantly feel his hands reach for me, cupping my face, enveloping it in warmth.
His thumb catches a tear falling from the edge of my eyelashes as I sob, “Matt . . .”
I open my eyes and see him gazing back at me, his eyes brilliant and deep, tender and soothing. “I’m here, baby.”
36
JUNIOR
Charlotte
Eighteen minutes after he walked into the hospital, Matthew Hamilton holds his firstborn son.
I’ve never been so proud to be his first lady.
He caresses my cheek, pride shining in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, smiling weakly.
“He looks like you, Mr. President,” I hear.
He winks at me, his arms all for his son, his eyes all for me—staying on mine for a long time, like mine stay on his. Then he looks down at our son, his eyes raking him up and down, glimmering with happiness after I know the night he faced was probably the darkest night of all. “He’s perfect, baby,” he says, then presses a kiss to my forehead.
He leaves his lips there for long, delicious seconds, as if he wants to brand that kiss on me. I feel his love for me down to the marrow of my bones.
When he eases back to smile at me, his tortured eyes show me the pain he’s witnessed, the darkness that will always stay. It sends my pulse spinning, a need to comfort him hitting me with such force, it’s overwhelming.
I reach out to hold the back of his head, trying to cradle him even though I’m in bed and weak, and he’s the one standing, the one holding it together—like he always is.
Once in my private room, with my parents, Matt’s mother, his grandfather, and Matt, I watch his address to the nation from his desk in the Oval on TV, one that was aired while I was delivering.
He’s wearing a somber black tie and black suit, and he looks directly at the camera as he speaks. “As of twenty-two hundred hours, we engaged in air combat over the hostile region of Islar. The mission was successful. We have confirmation that the five terrorists behind the attack have perished.”
Silence.
“These are sad times for us as a country, every time one of us dies to ensure that here, we can keep on living our lives to their fullest. We need to honor those sacrifices, ensure that we continue prospering as we have until now, not only financially, but as human beings. Now more than ever we need to stand together. We need to fight the fights that matter. For freedom, for security, for our loved ones. We’re a kaleidoscope, all different, but what unites us is our love of this country. Our pride in being American. American we were born. American we will die.”
There were two American casualties. The media called it a victory, but Matt and I know better. No one wins in a war. But you protect your own. We don’t have only one son; the citizens of the United States are our family.
Two days later, I’m allowed back home, and Matt and I have to plan a whole process of introducing the baby to Jack.
Down the hall from our bedroom, I decorated the baby’s room by having the walls painted with pastel-colored forests and installing a white crib with a baby-blue coverlet. So many baby toys have arrived since the announcement of him being a boy, we’ve donated at least two-thirds of them to charities. This is one privileged little boy, and I’ve been amazed by the love our baby has been getting from America.
