Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-27 06:41 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-27 06:41 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 19
Title: Expecting, Chapter 19: What Goes Around...
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for mild ickiness
Words: ~3000
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: As mentioned on the previous chapter, here's the bill in question.
Clips referenced: Stephen's driver.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 19
What Goes Around...
Today
On the far side of a panel of glass stood Moreau, with Watson beside her, and one of the other doctors keeping an eye on the proceedings while pretending to be busy elsewhere in the room. In Moreau's arms, wrapped in a pastel yellow blanket, was what to Jon's admittedly untrained eye looked like a healthy, normal, and absolutely adorable baby boy, with light brown skin, tiny round features, and the faintest dusting of black hair.
He was almost too small, yes, and his face was wrinkled and his eyes tightly shut; but then the little mouth opened in a yawn, and the world shifted on its axis.
Jon could gladly have stayed there for hours, but after what seemed far too short a time Moreau was putting the little form back down.
"Five pounds, eight ounces," she told Jon as they walked back down the hall, still grinning broadly, "eighteen and a half inches long. He's small, but it's impossible to tell if that's a result of his mother's sex or just a fluke, and besides he's not too small. And we'll get more data, very soon, we have a waiting list a mile long, and now that this one's a success it'll get longer. It's a success. It's incredible. The first male pregnancy — I've actually done it!"
"I think Stephen had something to do with it," said Jon wryly.
"Oh, of course — I don't mean — I'm just very excited, Jon, you can understand that."
"Where is Stephen? Can I see him?"
Moreau made an obvious effort to sober up on his behalf. "Not yet."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
June 21, 2007
37 Weeks
Jon had had a thoroughly exhausting day. Yes, he was on vacation, which meant he didn't have to be a newsman or a commentator or a voice of reason or a comedian; but it also meant that he was home when the kids got back from daycare, which in turn meant that, at the behest of a certain delighted almost-three-year-old who insisted on being chased, he had spent much of the afternoon being a ferocious tiger.
He made sure to pick a new animal every time he did this sort of thing. It wouldn't do to have his kids develop particularly strong associations of fear and pursuit with, oh, let's say, bears.
At half past four he declared himself duly defeated, managed to redirect Nate's interests towards a set of Duplos strategically placed in the den, and moved Maggie's playpen nearby, so that both children plus the television could be seen from the sofa.
Fifteen minutes later Tracey, who had been lounging on the deck with one of the Harry Potter books, poked her head in. "Oh, you're all ready!" she exclaimed. "I was about to remind you. It hasn't started yet, has it?"
"Nope. We've still got ten minutes."
"Good. I'll make popcorn."
She joined him on the couch a few minutes after that with two steaming bags of microwave popcorn, the kind coated with more butter than a person on a healthy diet would consume in a week. "I bet this is the most excited anyone's ever gotten about something on C-SPAN."
"I dunno. The debates over farm appropriations bills draw quite a crowd."
When she laughed, he added, "Seriously, though, Demetri said he found some group online that's organizing Colbert Nation meetups to watch whenever Stephen's at some event."
"That's crazy," sighed Tracey. "He's not that watchable."
"Don't tell me that," protested Jon. "I'm his executive producer."
"I know, and I would watch his show, but it makes my brain want to claw its way out my ears. And you're not a C-SPAN executive."
"True." Jon took a handful of popcorn, bit down, burned his tongue. "Ow!"
"Should've let it cool. Hang on, I'll get some water."
"Thanks, hon." Eyes still glued to the screen, he called after her, "It's the same reason I watched Moreau's speech earlier. I'm interested."
The eventual agreement had been this: Moreau and Watson ("It's a very literary hospital, isn't it?" Tracey had asked when Jon explained it; to which he replied, "Get this: They've also got a Dr. Livingston and a Dr. House") agreed to accompany Stephen on a four-day trip to the capitol. Neither would appear at the actual veto; furthermore, both would testify before Congress in the bill's favor. The entire medical team had tried to avoid making political statements — Stephen's pregnancy made them targets already — but they could hardly refuse an official Congressional summons from the bill's sponsors.
As for how that summons came to be issued...well, Jon didn't like to bring it up, but when you cover Washington for long enough, you make more than just enemies.
Sure enough, the doctors' testimony on C-SPAN 2 had been eloquent, well-argued, and supported with meticulously cited studies. Watson was very matter-of-fact, but Moreau wove personal anecdotes in with the statistics, and even cracked a few jokes before coming to a serious and moving conclusion. She would have made a formidable lawyer. Or a great politician, for that matter.
"I know you're interested, but Moreau — well — she makes sense," said Tracey guiltily as she returned. "I don't mean to belittle your friend, but his logic is painfully circular."
"C'mon, Trace, you know he's more complicated than he looks."
"I know. You talk about him enough. But you've told me so many horror stories, I still don't get what you see in him."
Jon didn't have time to think very far through this, because the gentle voice of C-SPAN was saying "On now: S.5, a bill to amend the Public Health Service Act to provide for human embryonic stem cell research, is presented to the President," and he quickly turned it up.
He didn't really know what he was expecting. Another part of the agreement had been a fairly strict gag order: Stephen was to talk to no press and say nothing political at all. Best-case scenario, he wouldn't say anything at all, just stand behind the desk in the Oval Office and look photogenic.
"My fellow Americans," began the President.
Jon didn't listen to the speech; he already knew what it would say. Instead he looked around at the carefully arranged adorable children, mostly in their parents' arms (no doubt "snowflake children," also adopted from leftover in vitro embryos), before settling on Stephen.
Beautiful, beaming Stephen, standing at the President's right shoulder, looking as though he might burst from sheer happiness. Jon stopped noticing his sore tongue, stopped noticing anything at all except that smile.
"...especially like to thank Stephen Colbert for being here today. Mr. Colbert is so committed to this cause that he has adopted one of these children and elected to carry it himself, via a dramatic new medical procedure. Mr. Colbert, thank you."
"Thank you, sir," replied Stephen, accepting the offered handshake. "It's such an honor to be here. Please call me Stephen. And may I say, sir, that when the press release comes out announcing your pregnancy, I will be the first to send flowers."
"My pregnancy? Stephen, I'm afraid you know something I don't."
"No need to be modest, sir. When you veto this bill, it will leave hundreds of embryos to be simply thrown out unless someone adopts them, and I know you wouldn't shirk your part of that responsibility."
"While I appreciate your confidence, Stephen, Laura and I already have two beautiful daughters..."
"Oh, so do I! And two sons. I'll show you pictures some time."
The man looked just a bit thrown by this, but he backtracked quickly. "You gotta remember, Stephen, I'm quite a bit older than you are. And older pregnancies, they're a lot riskier. It would be unresponsible to subject a baby to that kind of risk."
"Oh, I see," replied Stephen, not missing a beat. "Perfectly understandable. Very noble of you. I'm sure some of the male senators who voted against the bill are still young enough to do it. I'll have an intern watch the wires for announcements."
"That's a good idea," said the President, trying (and failing) to disengage his hand gracefully from Stephen's grip.
"I'm still naming this one after you, though," continued Stephen.
"I really appreciate that." He didn't look very appreciative. In fact, he looked a bit like a rat in a maze who has just realized that it has no idea how to get out and has forgotten which way it came in.
"Because you're vetoing this bill."
"Well, Stephen, you've gotta let me go here first."
"Oh! Sorry!" Stephen quickly released his hand. "Entirely my fault, sir. Didn't realize. It's just the excitement of being here. Terribly sorry."
The President nodded, smiled in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring but didn't quite manage it, and took his seat; the camera zoomed in slightly, cutting most of Stephen as well as the children out of the frame.
Coming to himself again, Jon realized he was shaking with silent laughter. He glanced at Tracey; her mouth was hanging open, a handful of popcorn frozen halfway to it.
"You hear that?" he exclaimed. "That is classic Stephen! Acting on a completely wrong assumption, but charming, straightforward, amazingly ballsy even without knowing it, genuinely convinced that it's a moral duty to do this and, unlike some Senators I could name, actually doing it — and that is why I love him!"
His wife raised her eyebrows.
"Uh...I mean..."
"Better not tell him that," said Tracey lightly. "He's the most homophobic man I've ever seen; he'll take it all wrong and freak out on you."
"Yeah," said Jon, turning back to the screen. "Yeah, he probably would."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
July 3, 2007
38 Weeks
Henry parked the car right outside of The Daily Show's studio. He knew he wouldn't be there long.
The host was in the middle of a segment with one of his correspondents, so he couldn't say hello; but the correspondent, the guy who did the Apple commercials, was the center of attention, so the camera didn't catch Stewart's look of confusion, followed by concern.
Henry was immediately recognizable by his uniform: blue jacket, red bow tie, red-and-white striped pants, stovepipe hat with white stars on a blue band. Stephen, who had picked it out, insisted on calling him Sam.
"John Hodgman, everybody. We'll be right back," said Stewart to the camera, then leaned in, made his excuses to Hodgman, and came over to the side of the audience bank where Henry was standing. The studio was much larger than Stephen's, and the seats packed. All those eyes either followed Stewart or went straight to Henry, which was more than a little unnerving.
Fortunately, Stewart was unfailingly friendly. "Hey, Sam. How are you doing?"
"I'm all right, Mr. Stewart."
"What brings you here this evening?"
"It's step two of the medical emergency plan. Step One: Save Stephen, defined as calling the hospital and making sure he's comfortable until the ambulance comes. Step Two: Get Jon, defined as, well, me coming here."
A series of emotions flashed in quick succession on Stewart's face. "Wait right there," he ordered, and jogged over to what Henry guessed was the stage manager. She had a sort of Bobbyish quality to her. "Where's Sam?"
"She has off today, Jon."
"What about Jason?"
"He called in sick, the way he always does when Sam has the day off."
"Dan?"
"Filming a piece on location."
"Who's the correspondent with the most seniority in the building right now?"
"That would be John Oliver."
"Right." Stewart took off for backstage.
A minute later he was striding out with a younger correspondent in tow. "And the guest is Robin Williams, he's got a movie out today, here are the notes but you won't even need them, he basically does a little stand-up routine and all you need to do is sit still and laugh."
"I'm not so sure I can do that," replied the correspondent, eyes wide behind his thick glasses.
"Nonsense. You'll be fine."
"Could you do something — ceremonial?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Anything. Just so that it feels, well, official."
"Fine. Here." Stewart pulled the microphone off of his suit and, with all the gravity of one pinning a medal onto a general's chest, affixed it to the tie of the other man. "I, Jon Stewart, do solemnly bestow upon you, Senior Correspondent John Oliver, the rights, duties, and privileges of the host of The Daily Show, to be carried out faithfully in my stead until such time as I am able to return and take them up again. How was that?"
Oliver brightened. "Brilliant! That's just splendid, thank you."
"Atta boy." Stewart clapped him on the shoulder, then jogged over to Henry and murmured, below the sound of the audience's applause, "Tell me about it on the way."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
The ride lapsed into silence. Jon had pressed for as many details as possible, but Sam had not been present until the ambulance was called, so all he knew was secondhand and sketchy.
In short, contractions had started, and the prescribed medication hadn't stopped them, and then they'd started to get distressingly regular.
The C-section wasn't scheduled for another week. I guess little George decided he was tired of waiting.
("George William Colbert," Stephen had declared one afternoon. "So he's a George W., but he's also named after Papa Bear."
"That's fine," Jon had replied, because though he knew it wasn't healthy, he was not going to tell Stephen how to handle his kid unless it was a matter of life and death. "I'll just pretend you named him after Clooney and Clinton."
"Jon, you wouldn't dare!" had been Stephen's scandalized reply; and he had looked so shocked, as if someone had suggested that he name the child for Marx and Lenin, that Jon had burst out laughing, and soon Stephen was visibly fighting to keep himself from smiling....)
He wouldn't come out without the Cesarean. He couldn't. True, there was a path, of sorts: this was an area of information that Jon hadn't asked about and Stephen had never detailed, but he knew that there were certain discharges involved in pregnancy, so they had to have some kind of outlet. But there was no way a baby would fit through...whichever outlet it was.
Still, if he's going into labor, they'll have to do the C-section, right? Is that what they do with women who can't deliver normally, if they go into labor too early? I don't even know. I think so.
He toyed absently with the end of his tie. Outside the window, the lights of New York City flew past.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
The press, of course, were at the hospital already. They had been circling this story for the whole nine months, and coverage had reached a fever pitch in the past few weeks. When the car had squeezed through the crowd of news vans and Jon climbed out, reporters descended on him like vultures to a kill.
"No comment," he said over and over, stepping on toes and nearly getting smacked in the face with microphones as he pushed his way through the gaggle.
They were running on instinct; they couldn't help it. He knew they couldn't help it. He made his living pointing out that they couldn't help it.
This knowledge did not mean he would forgive them if they kept him from getting to Stephen.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
July 4, 2007
38 Weeks
Moreau had said Stephen would be unconscious for at least another hour. She offered a few ideas for how Jon could fill the time, and he took them.
In the enclosed garden where patients exercised during the day, where they had eaten lunch when Stephen was in for observation, he walked the perimeter a few times; when he began to feel out of breath, he sat down on a wrought-iron bench under an orange tree and pulled out his cell phone.
He called Tracey, explained the situation, and apologized for being out so late. She laughed and said that was just like him, and then, although he hadn't known he needed it, spent a while talking about nothing at all, so he could stare up into the dark cloudy night and not have to think too much for a while.
Eventually he ended this call and phoned Tina, bringing her up to speed as well. She returned the favor: Stephen's kids had all fallen asleep, even Sally, who had tossed and turned and fretted but finally dropped off, and been sleeping soundly for half an hour by the time Jon called.
Then, because Stephen had at some point given him every number conceivable in case of the worst, he found a house in Charleston in his contacts and briefly left the details on their answering machine.
Precisely fifty-seven minutes later, the nurse with the freckles came down the path.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
This time it was Dr. Livingston who held the baby. Moreau opened the door of the ward.
Livingston was a tiny woman, half a head smaller even than Jon; but Moreau was taller, and from back behind the pair Jon couldn't see past them. And then he looked down, and two little eyes were looking up at him with a gaze that had only just started taking things in but hadn't yet worked out what it was to be curious about them.
Jon smiled.
George William Colbert didn't smile back, or blink, or indeed have any reaction at all. He probably didn't realize there was anything to react to.
Jon kept smiling anyway. It seemed like the best thing to do.
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for mild ickiness
Words: ~3000
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: As mentioned on the previous chapter, here's the bill in question.
Clips referenced: Stephen's driver.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 19
What Goes Around...
Today
On the far side of a panel of glass stood Moreau, with Watson beside her, and one of the other doctors keeping an eye on the proceedings while pretending to be busy elsewhere in the room. In Moreau's arms, wrapped in a pastel yellow blanket, was what to Jon's admittedly untrained eye looked like a healthy, normal, and absolutely adorable baby boy, with light brown skin, tiny round features, and the faintest dusting of black hair.
He was almost too small, yes, and his face was wrinkled and his eyes tightly shut; but then the little mouth opened in a yawn, and the world shifted on its axis.
Jon could gladly have stayed there for hours, but after what seemed far too short a time Moreau was putting the little form back down.
"Five pounds, eight ounces," she told Jon as they walked back down the hall, still grinning broadly, "eighteen and a half inches long. He's small, but it's impossible to tell if that's a result of his mother's sex or just a fluke, and besides he's not too small. And we'll get more data, very soon, we have a waiting list a mile long, and now that this one's a success it'll get longer. It's a success. It's incredible. The first male pregnancy — I've actually done it!"
"I think Stephen had something to do with it," said Jon wryly.
"Oh, of course — I don't mean — I'm just very excited, Jon, you can understand that."
"Where is Stephen? Can I see him?"
Moreau made an obvious effort to sober up on his behalf. "Not yet."
June 21, 2007
37 Weeks
Jon had had a thoroughly exhausting day. Yes, he was on vacation, which meant he didn't have to be a newsman or a commentator or a voice of reason or a comedian; but it also meant that he was home when the kids got back from daycare, which in turn meant that, at the behest of a certain delighted almost-three-year-old who insisted on being chased, he had spent much of the afternoon being a ferocious tiger.
He made sure to pick a new animal every time he did this sort of thing. It wouldn't do to have his kids develop particularly strong associations of fear and pursuit with, oh, let's say, bears.
At half past four he declared himself duly defeated, managed to redirect Nate's interests towards a set of Duplos strategically placed in the den, and moved Maggie's playpen nearby, so that both children plus the television could be seen from the sofa.
Fifteen minutes later Tracey, who had been lounging on the deck with one of the Harry Potter books, poked her head in. "Oh, you're all ready!" she exclaimed. "I was about to remind you. It hasn't started yet, has it?"
"Nope. We've still got ten minutes."
"Good. I'll make popcorn."
She joined him on the couch a few minutes after that with two steaming bags of microwave popcorn, the kind coated with more butter than a person on a healthy diet would consume in a week. "I bet this is the most excited anyone's ever gotten about something on C-SPAN."
"I dunno. The debates over farm appropriations bills draw quite a crowd."
When she laughed, he added, "Seriously, though, Demetri said he found some group online that's organizing Colbert Nation meetups to watch whenever Stephen's at some event."
"That's crazy," sighed Tracey. "He's not that watchable."
"Don't tell me that," protested Jon. "I'm his executive producer."
"I know, and I would watch his show, but it makes my brain want to claw its way out my ears. And you're not a C-SPAN executive."
"True." Jon took a handful of popcorn, bit down, burned his tongue. "Ow!"
"Should've let it cool. Hang on, I'll get some water."
"Thanks, hon." Eyes still glued to the screen, he called after her, "It's the same reason I watched Moreau's speech earlier. I'm interested."
The eventual agreement had been this: Moreau and Watson ("It's a very literary hospital, isn't it?" Tracey had asked when Jon explained it; to which he replied, "Get this: They've also got a Dr. Livingston and a Dr. House") agreed to accompany Stephen on a four-day trip to the capitol. Neither would appear at the actual veto; furthermore, both would testify before Congress in the bill's favor. The entire medical team had tried to avoid making political statements — Stephen's pregnancy made them targets already — but they could hardly refuse an official Congressional summons from the bill's sponsors.
As for how that summons came to be issued...well, Jon didn't like to bring it up, but when you cover Washington for long enough, you make more than just enemies.
Sure enough, the doctors' testimony on C-SPAN 2 had been eloquent, well-argued, and supported with meticulously cited studies. Watson was very matter-of-fact, but Moreau wove personal anecdotes in with the statistics, and even cracked a few jokes before coming to a serious and moving conclusion. She would have made a formidable lawyer. Or a great politician, for that matter.
"I know you're interested, but Moreau — well — she makes sense," said Tracey guiltily as she returned. "I don't mean to belittle your friend, but his logic is painfully circular."
"C'mon, Trace, you know he's more complicated than he looks."
"I know. You talk about him enough. But you've told me so many horror stories, I still don't get what you see in him."
Jon didn't have time to think very far through this, because the gentle voice of C-SPAN was saying "On now: S.5, a bill to amend the Public Health Service Act to provide for human embryonic stem cell research, is presented to the President," and he quickly turned it up.
He didn't really know what he was expecting. Another part of the agreement had been a fairly strict gag order: Stephen was to talk to no press and say nothing political at all. Best-case scenario, he wouldn't say anything at all, just stand behind the desk in the Oval Office and look photogenic.
"My fellow Americans," began the President.
Jon didn't listen to the speech; he already knew what it would say. Instead he looked around at the carefully arranged adorable children, mostly in their parents' arms (no doubt "snowflake children," also adopted from leftover in vitro embryos), before settling on Stephen.
Beautiful, beaming Stephen, standing at the President's right shoulder, looking as though he might burst from sheer happiness. Jon stopped noticing his sore tongue, stopped noticing anything at all except that smile.
"...especially like to thank Stephen Colbert for being here today. Mr. Colbert is so committed to this cause that he has adopted one of these children and elected to carry it himself, via a dramatic new medical procedure. Mr. Colbert, thank you."
"Thank you, sir," replied Stephen, accepting the offered handshake. "It's such an honor to be here. Please call me Stephen. And may I say, sir, that when the press release comes out announcing your pregnancy, I will be the first to send flowers."
"My pregnancy? Stephen, I'm afraid you know something I don't."
"No need to be modest, sir. When you veto this bill, it will leave hundreds of embryos to be simply thrown out unless someone adopts them, and I know you wouldn't shirk your part of that responsibility."
"While I appreciate your confidence, Stephen, Laura and I already have two beautiful daughters..."
"Oh, so do I! And two sons. I'll show you pictures some time."
The man looked just a bit thrown by this, but he backtracked quickly. "You gotta remember, Stephen, I'm quite a bit older than you are. And older pregnancies, they're a lot riskier. It would be unresponsible to subject a baby to that kind of risk."
"Oh, I see," replied Stephen, not missing a beat. "Perfectly understandable. Very noble of you. I'm sure some of the male senators who voted against the bill are still young enough to do it. I'll have an intern watch the wires for announcements."
"That's a good idea," said the President, trying (and failing) to disengage his hand gracefully from Stephen's grip.
"I'm still naming this one after you, though," continued Stephen.
"I really appreciate that." He didn't look very appreciative. In fact, he looked a bit like a rat in a maze who has just realized that it has no idea how to get out and has forgotten which way it came in.
"Because you're vetoing this bill."
"Well, Stephen, you've gotta let me go here first."
"Oh! Sorry!" Stephen quickly released his hand. "Entirely my fault, sir. Didn't realize. It's just the excitement of being here. Terribly sorry."
The President nodded, smiled in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring but didn't quite manage it, and took his seat; the camera zoomed in slightly, cutting most of Stephen as well as the children out of the frame.
Coming to himself again, Jon realized he was shaking with silent laughter. He glanced at Tracey; her mouth was hanging open, a handful of popcorn frozen halfway to it.
"You hear that?" he exclaimed. "That is classic Stephen! Acting on a completely wrong assumption, but charming, straightforward, amazingly ballsy even without knowing it, genuinely convinced that it's a moral duty to do this and, unlike some Senators I could name, actually doing it — and that is why I love him!"
His wife raised her eyebrows.
"Uh...I mean..."
"Better not tell him that," said Tracey lightly. "He's the most homophobic man I've ever seen; he'll take it all wrong and freak out on you."
"Yeah," said Jon, turning back to the screen. "Yeah, he probably would."
July 3, 2007
38 Weeks
Henry parked the car right outside of The Daily Show's studio. He knew he wouldn't be there long.
The host was in the middle of a segment with one of his correspondents, so he couldn't say hello; but the correspondent, the guy who did the Apple commercials, was the center of attention, so the camera didn't catch Stewart's look of confusion, followed by concern.
Henry was immediately recognizable by his uniform: blue jacket, red bow tie, red-and-white striped pants, stovepipe hat with white stars on a blue band. Stephen, who had picked it out, insisted on calling him Sam.
"John Hodgman, everybody. We'll be right back," said Stewart to the camera, then leaned in, made his excuses to Hodgman, and came over to the side of the audience bank where Henry was standing. The studio was much larger than Stephen's, and the seats packed. All those eyes either followed Stewart or went straight to Henry, which was more than a little unnerving.
Fortunately, Stewart was unfailingly friendly. "Hey, Sam. How are you doing?"
"I'm all right, Mr. Stewart."
"What brings you here this evening?"
"It's step two of the medical emergency plan. Step One: Save Stephen, defined as calling the hospital and making sure he's comfortable until the ambulance comes. Step Two: Get Jon, defined as, well, me coming here."
A series of emotions flashed in quick succession on Stewart's face. "Wait right there," he ordered, and jogged over to what Henry guessed was the stage manager. She had a sort of Bobbyish quality to her. "Where's Sam?"
"She has off today, Jon."
"What about Jason?"
"He called in sick, the way he always does when Sam has the day off."
"Dan?"
"Filming a piece on location."
"Who's the correspondent with the most seniority in the building right now?"
"That would be John Oliver."
"Right." Stewart took off for backstage.
A minute later he was striding out with a younger correspondent in tow. "And the guest is Robin Williams, he's got a movie out today, here are the notes but you won't even need them, he basically does a little stand-up routine and all you need to do is sit still and laugh."
"I'm not so sure I can do that," replied the correspondent, eyes wide behind his thick glasses.
"Nonsense. You'll be fine."
"Could you do something — ceremonial?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Anything. Just so that it feels, well, official."
"Fine. Here." Stewart pulled the microphone off of his suit and, with all the gravity of one pinning a medal onto a general's chest, affixed it to the tie of the other man. "I, Jon Stewart, do solemnly bestow upon you, Senior Correspondent John Oliver, the rights, duties, and privileges of the host of The Daily Show, to be carried out faithfully in my stead until such time as I am able to return and take them up again. How was that?"
Oliver brightened. "Brilliant! That's just splendid, thank you."
"Atta boy." Stewart clapped him on the shoulder, then jogged over to Henry and murmured, below the sound of the audience's applause, "Tell me about it on the way."
The ride lapsed into silence. Jon had pressed for as many details as possible, but Sam had not been present until the ambulance was called, so all he knew was secondhand and sketchy.
In short, contractions had started, and the prescribed medication hadn't stopped them, and then they'd started to get distressingly regular.
The C-section wasn't scheduled for another week. I guess little George decided he was tired of waiting.
("George William Colbert," Stephen had declared one afternoon. "So he's a George W., but he's also named after Papa Bear."
"That's fine," Jon had replied, because though he knew it wasn't healthy, he was not going to tell Stephen how to handle his kid unless it was a matter of life and death. "I'll just pretend you named him after Clooney and Clinton."
"Jon, you wouldn't dare!" had been Stephen's scandalized reply; and he had looked so shocked, as if someone had suggested that he name the child for Marx and Lenin, that Jon had burst out laughing, and soon Stephen was visibly fighting to keep himself from smiling....)
He wouldn't come out without the Cesarean. He couldn't. True, there was a path, of sorts: this was an area of information that Jon hadn't asked about and Stephen had never detailed, but he knew that there were certain discharges involved in pregnancy, so they had to have some kind of outlet. But there was no way a baby would fit through...whichever outlet it was.
Still, if he's going into labor, they'll have to do the C-section, right? Is that what they do with women who can't deliver normally, if they go into labor too early? I don't even know. I think so.
He toyed absently with the end of his tie. Outside the window, the lights of New York City flew past.
The press, of course, were at the hospital already. They had been circling this story for the whole nine months, and coverage had reached a fever pitch in the past few weeks. When the car had squeezed through the crowd of news vans and Jon climbed out, reporters descended on him like vultures to a kill.
"No comment," he said over and over, stepping on toes and nearly getting smacked in the face with microphones as he pushed his way through the gaggle.
They were running on instinct; they couldn't help it. He knew they couldn't help it. He made his living pointing out that they couldn't help it.
This knowledge did not mean he would forgive them if they kept him from getting to Stephen.
July 4, 2007
38 Weeks
Moreau had said Stephen would be unconscious for at least another hour. She offered a few ideas for how Jon could fill the time, and he took them.
In the enclosed garden where patients exercised during the day, where they had eaten lunch when Stephen was in for observation, he walked the perimeter a few times; when he began to feel out of breath, he sat down on a wrought-iron bench under an orange tree and pulled out his cell phone.
He called Tracey, explained the situation, and apologized for being out so late. She laughed and said that was just like him, and then, although he hadn't known he needed it, spent a while talking about nothing at all, so he could stare up into the dark cloudy night and not have to think too much for a while.
Eventually he ended this call and phoned Tina, bringing her up to speed as well. She returned the favor: Stephen's kids had all fallen asleep, even Sally, who had tossed and turned and fretted but finally dropped off, and been sleeping soundly for half an hour by the time Jon called.
Then, because Stephen had at some point given him every number conceivable in case of the worst, he found a house in Charleston in his contacts and briefly left the details on their answering machine.
Precisely fifty-seven minutes later, the nurse with the freckles came down the path.
This time it was Dr. Livingston who held the baby. Moreau opened the door of the ward.
Livingston was a tiny woman, half a head smaller even than Jon; but Moreau was taller, and from back behind the pair Jon couldn't see past them. And then he looked down, and two little eyes were looking up at him with a gaze that had only just started taking things in but hadn't yet worked out what it was to be curious about them.
Jon smiled.
George William Colbert didn't smile back, or blink, or indeed have any reaction at all. He probably didn't realize there was anything to react to.
Jon kept smiling anyway. It seemed like the best thing to do.