Page 77 of Final Down

“Here,” Ellie says, slapping the wet cloth on my head.

My mom purses her lips and glares at my sister, who holds up her palms.

“What? I got the rag!”

I laugh again, and my mom’s mouth ticks up on one side.

“You guys, this isn’t funny,” Ellie cries. She stomps away but doesn’t go far.

“You promise this is going to be okay?” I say, looking my mom in the eyes, blinking away tears as I gulp breaths of air.

She blots my forehead and cheeks with the cool cloth, and it does feel amazing.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says.

And I believe her, because any other option is madness.

Within minutes, our kitchen is filled with firemen. I would enjoy this more if I weren’t turning inside out with every contraction that hits me. One of the paramedics wraps my arm to take my blood pressure while another begins to prep me for an IV. My dad’s voice comes from the background, and I do my best to call out for him, but it’s getting harder to yell.

“Reed!” I finally bellow out, and he steps into view, his cell phone plastered to the side of his head.

“I’m calling the team now. They’ll get him. He’ll get here. It’s going to be?—”

“Do not say okay!” I shout before roaring with another contraction.

I don’t even remember being moved to the stretcher, but I suddenly find myself being rolled through the house, through the double patio doors in the dining room that are never fully opened, and through the back gate where my dad stores the garbage cans.

Could I seriously not fit through the door?

My mom climbs into the ambulance with me, waving off protests from the medics. My dad has a lot of friends, and when he drops their chief’s name, they relent. I’m glad, because I’m freaking out. I need someone with me who has done this before, and the two male firefighters don’t count.

“Did he get Wyatt?” I ask my mom as they pull the doors shut.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure he will. Your dad is relentless for his little girl.” Her eyes glisten as she runs her hand through my hair.

I glance up as far as I can and realize how awful I must look. I haven’t worn makeup for three days because I haven’t left the house, and this sweatshirt has a spaghetti stain on the front. Plus, the washcloth hair is not doing me any favors.

“I’m hideous,” I whine, and my mom chuckles at my expense.

“You’re beautiful. And you got this.”

I respond with a tiny nod, then focus on the whirl of blue sky and clouds, and the occasional street pole I can see out the back window. We get to the hospital in minutes, and I’m taken to a private room and hooked up to what feels like a thousand monitors the minute they roll me in.

Nothing feels the way the blogs and podcasts suggested it would, but that’s probably because I’m early. Dr. Mazel entersthe room as a new cramp takes over my body, and she rests her palm on my swollen belly while I breathe my way through it.

“Looks like someone decided to get to the party early,” she says, and the ease in her tone makes me relax for a moment.

“He wasn’t invited today. Not yet,” I answer while she maneuvers a tray of tools into position and guides one of the nurses to bend a light as she settles on a rolling stool at the base of my bed.

“Lesson number one, Peyton. Your kids don’t care what your plans are,” she says, guiding my feet to the footrests at the end of the bed. The nurse helps me scoot down, and my mom holds my hand up top while my doctor looks at the business downstairs.

“Everything looks good. Peyton, let me know how this feels,” she says, putting pressure on one side of my insides. I grunt from the force, but it isn’t painful.

“Good, and this,” she says, repeating with the same result.

She stands from her seat and holds her gloved hands together.

“I’d like to slow this labor down. I don’t think it would be wise to stop it, but we can normalize things a little, give the baby more time to get fully into position, and maybe give you some time to mentally prepare. How does that sound?”

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