Page 139 of What if It's Us

Three babies equals three times the risk.

Three times the complications.

Three times the fear.

“Ledger,” I moan loudly, biting down hard as the next rolling wave of pain crests and subsides, leaving me feeling hollowed out and raw. “I need Ledger!”

“I’ll get the car!” Griffin yells, and the others scatter for keys, for bags, for the kind of direction that only appears in emergencies and military maneuvers.

“Ambulance!” Darius and I shout at the same time. No way in Hell am I delivering three babies in the back of Griffin’s car no matter how badly he would kill to be able to tell that story.

Harrison steers me gently to the bench. The cold leather bites through my leggings and I notice, with shame and some pride, that I haven’t cried yet. I’m a professional. Even in this.

Coach kneels in front of me, his brows furrowed so deep they nearly touch. In another life, he could be my father, the way he takes my hand and tries to steady my breathing with his own.

“You’re doing great, kid,” he says, voice gruff, the encouraging sort of lie coaches are trained to tell. “Just keep breathing.”

I nod, but the tears come anyway, smarting and hot, mortification finally replaced by fear. The cold is everywhere, in my hands, in the sweat slicking my back, in the rink, in Coach’s calloused palm around mine. Harrison has my other hand, his skin clammy against mine. It’s sweet that he’s still holding my hand, until I notice my fingers have gone numb from his grip.

“Sorry,” he says, releasing me. He looks as if he expects a baby to pop out and start skating in circles. “I mean—maybe don’t push yet, okay?” His face crinkles as he rubs the back of his neck with his hand just like Ledger does when he’s stressed or worried. “Or maybe do? Fuck, Mar, I don’t know the protocol here.”

“Me either, Harrisoooooon.” I grab my stomach and wince at the next wave of pain and agony that continues to tear apart my insides. Then I grab Harrison’s jersey and pull him as close to my face as I can get him so I know he hears me. “But please don’t let me have these fucking babies in a hockey arena because the very last thing I want to do right now is rip off myalready soaking wet pants in front of all of you and introduce my children to a literal fucking slip and slide at the ripe old age of thirty seconds! For fuck’s sake they’re only thirty weeks old! It’s too early!”

“Ambulance is two minutes out! Ledger’s on his way to the hospital right now!” Griffin shouts, running back onto the ice in his socks, having tossed his skates somewhere. I release my hold on Harrison and breathe a sigh of relief—however temporary that relief is.

“Thank God,” I mutter.

“Okay! Okay!” Coach barks with the news of the impending ambulance. “Darius backboard! Grab the backboard. Griffin, get the doors! The rest of you, let’s go. We’re getting Marlee to that ambulance right fucking now.”

The world blurs as a dozen hands and a team of husky albeit sweaty, stinky men propel me toward the rink entrance, one contraction at a time. I swear to God I feel more like a sack of potatoes than a mother-to-be. I catch flashes of the ice, the smeared advertising decals, the linoleum tile, boots clomping and skates clacking, the ceiling beams swooping by overhead like a panic attack in architectural form. For as long as I’ve worked in this arena, you would think I could tell where I am with my eyes closed, but seeing only the ceiling as I’m carried down the hall…it feels like I’m lost in a labyrinth.

A labyrinth of pain, distress, and uncertainty.

Please God make it stop!

Let my babies be okay!

Please get me through this.

Ledger! I need you!

The guys are trying to be gentle, but Darius takes a turn on the backboard that sends my body nearly sliding off it, and Harrison nearly drops one end trying to keep my head proppedup on a bundle of wadded up t-shirts. Bodhi mutters, “This is just like the time when?—”

And Griffin says, “Not the fucking time, Pickle Pants!”

And suddenly there’s the bitter cold outside, and streetlights, and the neon blink of an ambulance.

Paramedics are already rushing toward me before the guys can even set me down; one of them, a lean woman with a bleached ponytail and eyebrows sharp as scalpels, sizes up my condition in a single glance and says, “Premature triplets? Let’s move!”

I barely register the feeling of my body being sluiced onto a stretcher, the slick pressure of medical hands swapping with the clumsy ones of my hockey guys. My team of hockey guys, my family, stands at the curb, jerseys untucked, numb with shock, and I want to tell them they did a good job, that everything’s going to be okay, but the morphing contractions pull the words straight from my spine and turn them into a feral moan.

The ambulance doors slam shut and I can see nothing but Ponytail’s face above me. She’s putting an oxygen mask over my nose and leaning in so close her nose almost touches mine. “We’re going to Pacific Children’s,” she says, “Ledger’s going to meet us there and Corrigan is already on deck waiting for your arrival. You’re in good hands, Marlee.” She smiles at me like a friend I’ve known for years. “Let’s get these babies to safety.”

The ambulance screams down the road, knocking me from side to side like some godawful amusement park ride. Ponytail is still barking directives into her radio, her hand squeezing mine so hard I can feel her pulse matching mine, telling me with wordless certainty that she won’t let go even if the world explodes.

At the ER, the arrival is a blur of lights and clean-shaven faces and the abrupt coldness of transfer from ambulance to hospital. The boom of doors, the roll down endless corridorslined with rectangles of false sky in the ceiling. Somewhere in the fluorescent fray, I lose track of my body, as if my mind has crawled out and is hovering overhead, watching from a respectful distance as the medical team work furiously around me. My feet are locked into nothing, my hands have become someone else’s business, and every time I try to catch a glimpse of control, I realize it’s already been handed off, to the paramedics, to the triage nurse, to the doctor whose voice is calm enough to make you think this happens every fucking Tuesday.

And then Corrigan is by my side. Her hair is up, her scrubs are perfect, and her eyes, sharp and lucid as always, even softer when they land on me. “Hey, Mama,” she says in my ear as I stare up at her while trying to breathe through this damn oxygen mask. I almost weep at the sound of her voice. “Ledger’s on his way. I promise.” She takes my hand, warm and dry and certain. “You are not going to do this alone.”

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