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But for some reason, I didn’t call her on it.
She’d had a very long day, and I couldn’t blame her for her anger or her annoyance at the situation.
She was still having to work full-time thanks to the pandemic—though at home and taking calls for the hospital, doing a Teladoc type service for the virus and whether a person needed to come into the ER or not—and she was at her wits’ end.
Thinking that I would help her out, I got each of the girls’ dinners ready. Fed them. Got them their baths. Did a load of laundry and followed that up with cleaning up the kitchen.
It was only an hour later that I found out why Conleigh hadn’t been helping me or offering to help me at all.
Because she was too busy birthing our third kid in the bathroom tub.
I gaped at her when I walked into the bathroom and saw her leaning over the tub moaning.
“Are you in labor?” I gasped in outrage.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Have been for a while now.”
“And you’re just now telling me?” I all but roared.
“Yes,” she paused. “I’m having this baby at home, Linc James.”
I looked at her in horror.
“Home? This isn’t the nineteen hundreds, Conleigh! This is 2020! We have to go to the hospital,” I ordered.
She was already shaking her head.
“I called your parents and mine over. They’re on their way. I need them here with me. I can’t do this with just you,” she whined.
“Baby,” I tried to guide her to where she needed to be mentally. Which hopefully would guide her to where she needed to be physically—the freakin’ hospital.
“No,” she said. “I want our babies there. I want my mom and your mom there. I want you there. I can’t have any of that if we go to the hospital. They’re only allowing one person into the delivery room. I just can’t do it. We’re having the baby here.”
And by God, she did.
Book:Talkin’ Trash
CHAPTER 4
Trust me, I don’t want your man. I’m not even sure why you want your man.
-Downy to a suspect’s wife
DOWNY
“Atcchhoooo!” I sneezed, making sure to turn away from everyone and cover it up with my elbow. Still, people looked at me like I’d just committed an act of treason. When my eyes met that of an older lady shopping for melons, two in each hand at about chest level, who was glaring at me, I threw up my hands. “It’s freakin’ Texas, woman! It’s smack-dab in the middle of allergy season! I swear to God, the thanks I get…”
My wife, Memphis, who was on the phone, sighed. “Did you take your Claritin this morning like I told you?”
I thought back to the pill that was still sitting on the kitchen counter and winced.
“Ummm, maybe?” I drawled, knowing that she would catch me.
She ignored my obvious dumbassedness and moved onto more important things.
“You can’t do that in public, Downy. Speaking of, why are you in public?” she asked.
There was a long, meaningful pause before I said, “I’m working?”
