Page 70 of The Christmas Eve Delivery

She shrugged. “Maybe, but at that point, it would have been globs of wet paper. At least this way, there was something to grab onto without it dissolving under our fingertips. That would have been a real mess. Did you pack a bag this time? How long do you think you’re staying?”

I shrugged. “Well, with the storm, I’m staying as long as you’ll let me.”

She wasn’t yelling at me. She seemed too tired to even care. I didn’t know if I could handle the thought of her giving up on us.

“You might as well go out and get your things.”

I didn’t want to leave her side. What if she had another one of those pains while I was gone?

“I’m not going to lock you out. Go get your things,” she said.

I ran out to my car to grab my bag. I swear the temperature was even colder than it had been five minutes earlier. I stomped the snow off my boots as I made my way across the porch, and before I stepped back inside, Lydia started yelling.

I dropped my things and ran inside.

She was bent double, holding on to the back of the couch, panting as if she were in a great deal of pain.

“I don’t think,” she managed to say between pants, “that these are false labor pains.”

Her eyes met mine, and they were full of panic. I brushed the hair out of her face.

“You’re going to be fine. You’ve got this.”

“I kind of don’t want this right now,” she said before she grimaced and shut her eyes again. Okay.

“Aren’t you supposed to breathe through the pain? That’s what they do in the movies, right?” I asked.

She pursed her lips and began huffing.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she cried.

“You’re fine, you’ve got this.”

“I’m not fine! Stop saying that,” she groaned loudly.

“What do I need to do?” Her pain had become my panic. I was a smart man, and I didn’t know what I was doing, and I was very well aware that movies were not adequate medical training. Half the time, they weren’t even accurately portraying childbirth.

“I should call your doctor,” I said. “Where’s their phone number?”

She pointed toward the inn’s front desk. “Birthing center in Ines, number is on a sticky note.” She sounded completely out of breath before she grimaced again.

“Birthing Center in Ines,” I repeated several times as I looked around the various notes on the front desk. “Got it!” I said, as I found a sticky note stuck to the computer monitor.

I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. The phone just rang.

“Nobody’s answering,” I complained.

“They probably all went home because of the storm,” Lydia said.

“That’s stupid. This is New York. We have snowstorms all the time.”

“Maybe they’re closed because it’s Christmas Eve,” she said.

I hung up the phone and then tried calling them again.

“Answer the phone,” I pleaded.

This time there, was a click and a voice at the other end of the line.

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