“I'm sure I'll–”
Raw, vulnerable fear pervades his every cell. I swear I can smell it on him as his fingers dig into my shoulders and he repeats starkly, “Do you understand?”
Suddenly, I really can't breathe. The emotion is too much. My body's sensations are too much.
Gravity itself is too, too much.
And my womb is filled with two babies who need to be okay.
“I do.” His kiss is short, a perfunctory brush of lips that says there's no time for more, because we have to act now.
“I need to get dressed,” I say, body in a new state of vigilance. Every twinge could be the next contraction, and I'm going mad reading my nerves as they send messages to my brain about where my skin and bones are in space and time.
Everything pinpoints. For this second, all that I am is my hand, clasping the cloth of my nightgown. And in the next second, I am my arms, going up, pulling the cloth over my head. And for the following second, I am my nose, snagging on the cloth, pulled over my chin.
And so on, and so on, each second a world I inhabit.
Enough seconds piled on top of each other become a breath. And each breath a heartbeat.
Three, in fact.
I'm moving for three.
“You want me to pack the bag for you?” Andrew asks, my answer on the tip of my tongue, a reflexive no that isn't good enough for this moment.
My no is a relic of a time when I had the luxury to think I didn't need help.
“Yes,” I say, giving in, his terse nod more of a relief than I wish it were. Slipping my feet into simple flat shoes, I waddle to the nightstand, find my half-empty water glass, and drink. Then I stretch slowly, arms back, shoulders popping slightly as blood flows under my skin, legs aching with weight but gratified to have movement.
I sigh.
“Another one?” he asks, floating to my side so fast, it's like he's levitating.
“No. Just...” My tears take over.
“You're fine,” he says, kissing the tear off my cheek. “The babies are fine. Everyone will be fine, Amanda.”
“How do you know? We have no control over anything.”
“We sure as hell do,” he counters. “I'm getting you to the doctor now. You're hydrating. We're following the expert's advice, and that's control.”
“That's not control.”
“It's as close as I can get, so I'll take it.”
Bang bang bang
The door downstairs opens, Gerald's voice floating up. “Andrew? Amanda? I'm ready when you are. You need help carrying Amanda down?”
Gerald's presence takes the reality of this crisis up a notch.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp.
“Andrew texted José. I'm filling in for Mort while he's on workman's comp. I was worried.” Gerald and Andrew exchange a powerful look that instantly makes me feel safer and terrified.
“I can walk,” I whisper. If any two guys in the world can carry a pregnant me down a flight of stairs, it's Gerald and Andrew, but this is already going sideways.
I don't need the memory of that added to this.
“We're good. Give us a minute,” Andrew shouts. “You’re sure you can walk?” he whispers to me.
I nod.
I take one, two, three steps toward the door, gaining confidence as no contractions hit. The clock says 6:33. We're only twenty minutes or so from the doctor's office, but Andrew's insistence on going now makes sense.
Better to wait in the parking lot there than to worry here.
I'm slow. Really slow. And our stairs are big.
Really big.
The estate Andrew's dad and mom bought when the boys were little is a sprawling home designed to impress. The staircase wraps around the wide entry hall, and there are twenty stairs from the second floor to the first. My hips rotate as I take each step down, ligaments recalibrating, babies moving with each step.
Thank God.
“I've got your purse and bag. Do you need my arm?”
“The bannister's fine. I'm just slow.”
“Take all the time you need. Any more contractions?”
“No–”
Damn it.
As I start to reply, one grips me, hard, lower this time, then suddenly lighter, spreading up over my belly like fingers playing tight piano strings. It's easier to breathe through and fades faster.
“We need to go directly to the ER,” Andrew says.
“Would you just STOP?” My voice starts soft and low, but by the last word, I explode. Bending down a little, I take a deep breath, eyes fixed on my hand. I listen to him breathe behind me.
The last breath comes out like an exasperated sigh.
“I know you're worried,” I grind out, literally gritting my teeth. “But I don't need the pressure, either. We have a plan. What time is it?”
“Six forty-seven.”
“That means it's been over fifteen minutes since the last contraction. They're slowing down. If you want to help, stop barking orders at me about the ER and get me some damn water.” That came out harsher than it should, and two different Amandas suddenly take up residence inside me.
One feels guilty.
One feels terrified.
One feels angry.
Guess there are a few more Amandas in there.
“Here.” A bottled water is in my hand before I can blink. Andrew's heat radiates behind me, his body close. In my peripheral vision, I see he's got my small bag open. He must have put the bottled water in there.
“Thank you.” I unscrew the cap and drink half the bottle, hoping the hydration really does stop the contractions.
“I'm sorry.”
I halt with the water still upright, tongue blocking the flow before I choke on the spot. Andrew isn't exactly free with his apologies, so this catches me off guard.
I slowly lower the bottle. “You are?”
“I'm not trying to add to your stress. Or your pain. The opposite. I just–you're right.”
An apology and a “you're right”? Did I die and somehow not notice?
“I am?”
“I–I–I just...” Something in his voice makes me turn as his shadow changes, lowering. When I look behind me, I expect to see his face, but instead he's sitting two steps above me, one hand over his face.
And he's crying.
Crying.
He’s not sobbing; silent tears are running down. The bag is resting on the stair tread beside him, and I see he has a backpack on his shoulders. He reaches for my hand, threading our fingers, lacing him into me.
“Take all the time you need,” he says slowly, earnestly. If I could bend forward, I would kiss him, wipe his face, hug him until he squeezed the fear out of me.
But he has fear, too.
And he's mature enough to show it to me.
We make it to the car, emotion radiating off him, but we're silent. Gerald is, too, moving the car smoothly on the roads, the silence a strange comfort in the enclosed space. By the time we pull up to the medical building, the contractions are there, but they’re bearable.
Still present, but not as dire.
It's when I climb out of the back of the car that I realize I've been lulled into a false sense of security.
Because one rips through me as I have one foot still in the car.