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“Lenny, hold my hand.”
He does. He’s my best friend now. We’re in this together, he and I.
“When was your last contraction?”
I can’t answer him. I’m too busy trying to breathe.
“Only 5 minutes ago. I’ve been timing them,” Lenny answers.
I yank my hand away. Whose side is he on, anyway?!
“All right. Up and at ’em, Natalie.”
Connor doesn’t wait for me to reply. He steps over the mound of groceries that separate us and hooks his hands underneath my arms. Even with the baby weight, he lifts me easily from the bench and carries me like a bride toward the street.
“I’ll put your groceries back in the fridge! You can come back and get them another day!” Lenny promises.
“Thank you!”
I make a mental note to send him a wonderfully extravagant gift to thank him for all his help just as soon as we finish this wholly unnecessary trip to the hospital.
“Remind me to wash these sweatpants and bring them back to the store tomorrow when I go to pick up our groceries,” I tell Connor as we slide into a cab.
He doesn’t hear me because he’s telling the driver to book it to the hospital. It shouldn’t take long to get there. It’s just down the street, but there’s a ton of traffic and the driver is going the speed of molasses. I don’t mind though because he’s playing good music. I ask him to turn it up and he gives me a thumbs-up like, Yeah, you get it, sister. I grin and I’m having a great time until another contraction hits and HOLY HELL GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME.
I groan then and the cab driver kind of freaks out.
“What’s going on back there?” he asks in a thick Boston accent.
I growl at him to mind his own business. Then Connor leans forward and apologizes. “She’s in labor.”
“Are you kidding me?! I don’t pick up women in labor. Don’t you watch the news? I don’t want no baby getting born in the back seat of my cab. Get out. Both of you.”
“It’s only a few more blocks,” Connor points out, keeping his cool.
Still, the driver zips over to the side of the road, shoves his car into park, and hops out to quickly yank the back door open. He waves us out and wishes me good luck, but that’s it. We’re on our own.
I can tell Connor doesn’t want to leave it like that, but I’d rather he was with me in the delivery room and not getting booked into the county jail after assaulting this cab driver. I grip his arm and implore him to drop it. Thankfully, he listens.
“Are you okay to walk the rest of the way?” Connor asks with a guilt-laden tone.
“I’m fine, I swear.”
It’s a beautiful day. I’m wearing comfy sweatpants and the last contraction passed, so now I feel like I’m just going on a breezy afternoon walk.
“This is better, actually. It’ll make the baby come quicker if I stay on my feet and keep moving.”
Connor’s eyes widen in panic. “Yeah, I don’t think we need to worry about the baby coming quicker.”
He has his arm wrapped around my shoulders as he guides me across the street. My hands are pressed over my baby bump and I’m breathing hard even though we’re only a half-block into our walk. I’ve stayed fit my whole pregnancy, continuing to run up until month eight, but then the little gummy bear inside me grew too big and I had to stop. For the last few weeks, Lindsey’s been forcing me through prenatal yoga classes, which are boring as hell, burn about five calories per hour, and put me right to sleep. So yes, walking a few blocks takes it out of me, and once we see the entrance to BHUMB’s main hospital, I want to weep tears of joy.
I want to shout at the top of my lungs for someone to get me a wheelchair stat, but this is not the movies and I am not that crazy. Instead, Connor directs me toward the central bank of elevators so we can hop on the first one that opens and ride it all the way up to the labor and delivery floor. Once there, we’re admitted as another contraction grips me in its clutches.
I turn and grab Connor’s scrubs with both of my fists, biting out every word as I speak. I sound murderous. “Epidural. Get me an epidural. I want one now.”
He carefully releases each one of my fingers from their death grip on his scrubs and prods me along.
The next part is a blur of activity. I’m admitted and given a nice hospital gown and a fancy ID bracelet. They run tests, during which I tell anyone who will listen that I am slowly dying from pain. They assure me I’ll survive and I jokingly tell them they’re wrong. Their medical licenses should be stripped. Every single one of them.
