“You have changed, Dad.” She stands and waddles over to him, taking his hand. He jerks, eyes going down to where their skin meets. “And I understand. This isn't the last time we'll see each other.”
“It's not?”
“Of course not.” She holds her arms out. “Can I have a hug?”
Leo pulls her in, hard. He whispers something I can't hear.
“Yes. Of course,” she says.
And then he lets her go and offers me his hand. I shake it.
And Leo Warrick turns abruptly on one heel, walking like a man with ghosts chasing him.
We walk slowly back to the car and climb in. Amanda lets out a huge sigh of relief, but her hands are on her knees, forearms pressing against her belly, head down, eyes wide.
“He didn't ask for money,” I comment as I turn on the car and the air conditioning kicks in. Amanda's turned toward the halfway house, staring at it.
“What?”
“I thought he would.”
She tilts her head. “I can see why. But he didn't. All he asked for was a chance to see the babies after they're born.”
“All,” I murmur.
Her voice is shaking now. I reach for her hand, the fragile shell of my wife needing me.
“He spent all those years not seeing me. And now all he wants is...”
All that my wife can do now is cry. And all that I can do is hold her.
Because all I can do is this:
I can give her my all.
Chapter 20
Amanda
I'm drinking my one and only daily breve when my back starts aching like crazy.
And for someone carrying fifty-eight pounds of extra weight around, back pain has to be bad to be worse than baseline.
“Ohhh,” I say, the little pity sigh leaking out, then turning into a longer, lower, deeper groan. Andrew's head pops up from the report he's reading on the couch, lounging in sweat pants and no shirt. I’ve told him his new reading glasses give him a hot-geek look, and he thinks that’s silly, but I find it incredibly arousing.
But not now.
“What's wrong?”
“I'm fine,” I start to say, but as I lean forward to start the arduous process of getting up out of a soft chair, all I can say is, “Fi–”
Followed by another “Ohhh.”
The frown he gives me makes his glasses slide slightly down his nose. He takes them off, stands, and offers me his hands to help me up. As I stretch, I roll my pelvis forward and realize I can't.
I can't move.
“My back,” I gasp.
“The doctor said this might happen. Back labor can be the start.”
“But I'm not supposed to labor at all! The c-section is scheduled for Thursday!”
“Maybe the boys decided Sunday is a better day to be born.”
“They need to listen to their mother!”
“They are. Just not the right mother. Mother Nature has entered the game and she has a different mission.”
I walk slowly to the kitchen, Andrew right behind me. I'm reaching for a water bottle when my hips turn into wrenches. Bones grind against each other as the contraction pulls on my swollen midsection with a fierceness that is nothing like the contractions that hit me nine weeks ago. I grip the edge of the counter.
All the air in the world is sucked away, my body unable to so much as blink.
And then I'm wet.
Andrew looks down at the ground, eyes widening. “That's–you're–your water broke!”
“I have to call Shannon,” I gasp as the grip on my womb lessens. I'm wearing light socks, now soaking wet around my ankles.
Giddy laughter chokes my throat.
“It's time,” I tell him, the look we share too poignant to describe. Then he starts texting as I pick up my phone and hit Shannon's number.
This is really happening.
“Hey,” she says, sounding bored. “Did you know that there is an actual, quantifiable number of times you can tolerate picking dropped cups off the floor from a toddler who’s discovering object permanence? It's 238, for the record.”
“My water just broke.”
“What?”
“My water just broke. I'm in labor.”
“You can't be! You're having a scheduled c-section.”
“Well, tell that to the twins, because they have other ideas.”
“Oh my GOD! DECLAN!” she screams. “Don’t leave yet! You have to stay home with Ellie till I can get a sitter here!”
“WHY?” he bellows back.
“AMANDA'S IN LABOR!”
She sounds like her mom.
“LABOR?” I hear him boom.
“I'll meet you at the hospital!” she gushes. “Maybe you'll have a vaginal birth after all!”
“Maybe?” I've become so resigned to the idea of the c-section that her comment makes adrenaline spike through me.
Or maybe I'm just dehydrated. The floor looks like Walden Pond right now.
Andrew's phone rings.
“What?” he snaps.
Declan's voice comes through, though I can't hear the words. A great whoosh of fluid pours out of me, and I freeze.
Cord prolapse. Cords and amniotic fluid. Random portions of childbirth class start flooding into my brain.
“We really need to go now,” I urge.
“José's pulling the car around. He already covered the backseat with plastic.”
“He did?”
“Last week. Just in case.”
“Wow. That's... thorough.”
“Suzanne's right behind you, so Gerald told José and it was on his mind.”
José's knock on the door makes us both look. The bag has been sitting by the door, ready just in case, but I never thought we'd reach in case.
Once we scheduled the c-section for Thursday, I thought that was it.
Thought we had four more days.
Shakes take over my body as I stand there. Andrew hands me a stack of kitchen towels and I hold them, staring dumbly.
“For between your legs,” he says.
“I'm going to gush the entire time and have to be in public like this?”
“Is it any worse than having your breasts exposed at a wedding and falling into a pool to rescue a dog?” he quips.
“I guess we're about to find out.”
José takes in the scene as he comes into the kitchen, eyebrows shooting up as he watches me waddle/drip.
Waddle/drip.
Waddle–
“Stop!” he says firmly, running upstairs, emerging within seconds as Andrew thumbs toward the front door, my bag in hand. As my husband disappears, José rushes down the stairs, a bedsheet and stack of towels in hand.
He thrusts one big bath towel into my hands. “Here. Put it between your legs.” Then he takes the sheet and twists it, as if he's going to tie it to a joist and escape out a window. He places it on the floor between my legs.
Andrew returns and halts dead in his tracks. “José? What are you doing?”
“Andrew. Take that end.” He points behind me. “Amanda, hold the towel up between your thighs. All the way up.” One end of the sheet in his hand, he juts his chin at Andrew. “We're making a toga.”