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“We got this,” we both say in return.
But I’m not sure we got this. The babies are coming early. She’s having twins. And she’s endured more stress during this pregnancy than most women
. We are on a ship in the middle of the ocean, with a storm brewing only a few miles from us, and an evil half-brother chasing us. This is the opposite of fine.
But none of that is helpful to say to Kai.
So instead, we finish cooking the food. And then we sit at the table and try to eat. But after two bites, Kai can’t stand to sit anymore. Or eat.
She gets up abruptly.
“Kai?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” she says, tears forming in her eyes.
Shit.
Both Beckett and I push our chairs back roughly as we stand abruptly.
“You can’t what?” I ask.
“Do this.”
Oh shit. We are only on hour one, and I’ve already had a breakdown, and now Kai is having one.
“Sure, you do,” I say, moving over to rub her back. But apparently, I did the wrong thing, because she swats my hand away. “That doesn’t help. The pain…”
She closes her eyes as another contraction hits, overpowering everything else going on in her brain.
I try rubbing her back again, and this time, she lets me.
Finally, the contraction ends, and a tear falls. I wipe it away quickly with my thumb. I can’t stand to watch her in pain.
“What do you need? How can I help you? What did the books say about how to help with the pain?” I ask.
She huffs. “You think I had time to read the baby books when we were being chased by a crazy man?”
“I’m sorry.” Apparently, I’m not going to say the right things.
I look to Beckett, who just shrugs like he doesn’t have a clue what to do either.
“Research it,” I snap at him.
He nods and grabs his laptop; he starts typing furiously while we wait for another contraction.
“Moving around can help. Don’t stay in one spot. Try moving your hips and see if that helps alleviate the pain,” Beckett says.
Kai starts moving around more, but then a contraction hits, and she stops moving. I walk behind her, grab her hips gently, and sway them back and forth. It seems to help because she doesn’t cry or groan through this contraction. She just lets it happen.
But ten minutes later, another contraction comes, and she’s cursing and crying again.
Fuck, I can’t do this.
“Try positive affirmations. Don’t call them a contraction. Call them a wave,” Beckett yells.
“It’s just a wave. Just like the tide. We like the water; the babies are going to love the water. This is just a wave helping us meet the babies,” I say, trying what the internet says.
“I hate fucking waves,” Kai screams through another contraction, now less than five minutes apart. We’ve only made it two hours so far. We have at least six more to go before we have any chance of getting a doctor here. And with how fast things seem to be speeding up, I don’t feel like we have five minutes to wait, let alone six hours.
