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Pure adrenaline suddenly rushes through me.
I don’t like how she’s sitting on the fountain, so I help her off the stone. She lies down on the soft dirt, her knees bent and legs naturally spread. She’s trying to shimmy off her panties, but more tears invade her eyes and the contractions painfully grip her limbs.
Being helpful and all, I reach beneath her skirt and pull her underwear off for her. They’re wet. Maybe her water already broke.Fuck. This is happening, isn’t it?Fuckfuck.
“It’s okay if I look?” I ask still trying to be calm even if I’m silently screamingI can’t believe this is fucking happening.
“Yes,” she says into another scream. “Hurry!”
On one knee, I quickly peer between her legs. No baby’s head is breaching through Jane. Good signs? I have no clue, but I can one-hundred percent tell she’s dilated. A lot. And that definitely means labor. Meredith Grey would be so proud of me, I think.
She might need to push, but I can’t be sure. That uncertainty wedges a knife in my ribcage. I hate not knowing. Hate not being thebestperson for this job. Because I know that’s Farrow. But I’m gonna do my best. “Take big breaths,” I tell her. “Everything seems fine. No baby yet.”Facts.Sticking to those sweet facts.
“Are you sure?” She groans into another anguished noise, which only causes me to movefaster. I’m unhooking my radio, twisting the knob that changes frequencies.
“Pretty sure,” I tell her. “As sure as I can be.” Again, I stay calm for Jane. “Ambulance is on its way. You’ll get out of here in no time. Then you can laugh about how you almost had a garden baby.”
Jane focuses on my voice and her breathing.
“You can call her Olive Garden Moretti.”
She almost laughs, the noise caught in her throat. “Thatcher…hates that restaurant.”
I know.“I don’t know what he’s got against it. Their breadsticks are dope.”
Jane fights through another contraction, and I check between her legs. No head, but she’sextremelydilated and she seems to be resisting the natural urge to push.This baby is coming.
Am I about to deliver a baby?
Jane and Thatcher’s baby, to be exact.
My pulse is so loud I’m surprised that I hear slight chatter in my ear. But that chatter—it’s a gift from the heavens themself. I lift my mic to my lips. “Donnelly to SFO? Can you hear me?”Please.
“I…you’re coming in…clear,” Akara responds.
Thank fucking God.
I don’t jostle the radio in case it messes the signal. “Get Farrow on the line. Jane’s going into labor, and I need some instructions. I have no cell service, and I canbarelyhear you.” Where’s Web MD when you need it most?
Akara tells everyone else to stay off comms, leaving the channel open for Farrow.
“Here,” Farrow says, a little crackly but audible. “How far apart are her contractions?”
“I think every minute or so.” I peer back underneath her skirt.Oh shit.I speak softly into the mic. “I can see the start of a head.” My stomach knots, and I almost think of asking Farrow about maternal mortality rates. Like what are the odds of everything going okay with me delivering a garden baby. But I’m not about to ask those questions in front of Jane.
I can’t bring myself to let them into the air.
“Jane needs to push, now,” Farrow says. Just like that all ill thoughts drive away. I’m focused in.
I touch her knee. “It’s time to push, Jane.”
She’s crying again and muttering,no, no, no, then intakes a sharp breath. “I don’t want to do this without him. I don’t want to.” She wants her husband. She wants Thatcher, and she’s sobbing. My heart splits open because I know I’m not a good stand-in for the love of her life.
I wouldn’t want this either.
In my mic, I say, “Farrow, give me a run-down of what to do as fast as you can.” He does. I listen. It’s scaring the fuck outta me, really, because he adds,in case this happens, you need to do this—and I’m hoping and praying she won’t land in a worst case scenario. “Alright. Now get Thatcher on the line.”
Thatcher is in my ear in a millisecond. “Donnelly—”
