Page 99 of Books and Hookups

When I heaved myself out of my office chair, pain shot across my abdomen, all the way around to my back. The Braxton Hicks contractions were cute three months ago, but now they were obnoxious. I rubbed my belly with one hand and kneaded my back with the other as I hobbled to the door.

I opened it to find my mom beaming at me. I threw myself at her and hugged her as hard as I could.

She stroked my hair. “It’s good to see you. Thanks for inviting me over.”

After one last squeeze, I released her. “Thanks for coming.” I led her into my apartment. “Can I get you a drink? Water? Seltzer? I don’t have much else.”

“I’m here to take care of you,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down?”

My euphoria fizzled out. “I didn’t ask you here to take care of me,” I grumbled. “I can take care of myself.”

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Still, you should sit. One thing I learned as a mother is to follow Winston Churchill’s advice: you should never stand when you can sit, and never sit when you can lie down.”

“I can’t believe you’re citing Winston Churchill,” I huffed. “Though lying down sounds amazing.” I lowered myself to the sofa. “I’ve still got to finish reading through my draft later tonight.” I pointed at the laptop where I’d left it on the coffee table.

“Your book?” She joined me on the sofa. “You have a draft?”

I nodded.

“That’s fantastic, honey.”

“Yeah, I think if I work on it for another couple days, it’ll be good enough to send to my editor.” Good enoughwasn’t what I wanted. I wanted it to be perfect, but I was out of time. I’d make it perfect in revisions.

Mom hummed her approval, then glanced at the corner of the living room I used as an office. “Is that where the baby’s going to sleep?”

“I…I guess?” After that one brief flurry of putting the baby things away, right before Danny had fixed the crib, I’d forced myself to focus on my book. The mattress was still propped on its side, and the sheet was draped over the top of it. “I was hoping to get everything set up after I send my draft to my editor.”

“I can do that while we chat. Wouldn’t you rather have the crib in your bedroom so you don’t have to come all the way out here to feed her in the middle of the night? You can work out here while she sleeps during the day. Of course, you should sleep while she sleeps, if you can. You’re going to be tired as your body heals.”

Anger flared hot inside me. I hated being wrong aboutanything,including where to put the damned crib. But Dr. Dunne said the same thing about resting in The Book. How did my mom naturally know these things? Dr. Dunne might know a lot about pregnancy, but she was wrong about me. I was going to be a crap mother.

As much as I hated it, I could admit when I’d been wrong. “That sounds like a good idea. Why don’t we move it to the bedroom?” I reached for one end, but a twinge seized me, and I hissed, holding my back where the worst of it hit.

“Are you all right?” My mother steadied me under my elbow.

“Yeah, yeah. My back has been hurting for a few days. You think it might be sciatica? I read about that in The Book.” I pointed to the worn tome on my desk.

“Is it in your back and legs, or does it go all the way around to your stomach?” she asked.

I chuckled, stroking my belly. “The Braxton Hicks contractions want to get in on it too. They join the party when they can.”

Her smile disappeared. “Are you saying you’re having contractions with back pain?”

“It’s another fun symptom of pregnancy. I’ve almost blacked out my bingo card: swollen feet, stretch marks, forgetfulness, giant boobs?—”

“Lucie. That isn’t a pregnancy symptom. It’s a labor symptom. How far apart are the contractions?” She pulled her phone from her skirt pocket.

My heart pounded in my ears. “This isn’t labor. I’m not due for three more days. I havethree more daysto turn in my book!” My voice had gone shrill, but maybe it was time to be shrill. I stared at the bare crib mattress. I needed more time.

Shaking her head, my mother gripped my elbow and led me to the couch. “That’s not how babies work. They come when they’re ready, whether you are or not.”

I sank onto the couch. “That hardly seems fair. It’s my body. I should have some say in it.”

“You’ll get to make a lot of decisions on your child’s behalf before she’s eighteen. But this isn’t one of them. Drink some water.”

I reached for my bottle of water. So far, so good. At my visit last week, Dr. Cheema had told me not to come to the hospital until the contractions were a minute long, five minutes apart, for an hour. She’d also told me a lot of things about making a plan to get to the hospital, packing a bag, and turning in that birth plan I’d been meaning to work on for months. “Can you hand me my notebook, please?” I pointed at my desk.

My mother went to the desk and returned with my notebook and a pen. “For recording the contraction times?”

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