Page 8 of Stowaway Whirlwind
Her reddened face twists in pain, and she doubles over again. “No! They’re just…I just need to change and get to my dad’s, and—” A low, guttural groan cuts her off mid-sentence, and she pants for air with her hands now braced on her knees.
“I’d wager that was your water breaking. And the fact that you’re already in so much pain means we probably don’t have time to make the two-hour drive to your dad’s place. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“But they’re not real contractions,” she argues, though she doesn’t sound so sure anymore.
“No arguments. I told you I’d take care of you, and I’m not driving you anywhere but the hospital.” I leave her leaningagainst the office door, find my keys in my duffel bag, and jog across the parking lot.
I pull to a stop next to Goldie and hop out of my pride and joy—a cherry red 1995 Ford F150 with an extended cab that I saved up for and bought used right out of high school. Goldie is panting harder, looking both miserable and terrified. Her groans are coming closer together, and I’m willing to bet she’s been in a hell of a lot more pain than she’s been letting on.
“Time to go, honey.” I help her shuffle toward the truck with her hand clutched in mine, and I boost her up onto the bench seat. Russell, who had been watching the scene unfold with brows raised to damn near his peppery hairline, waves me away when I tell him I’m taking her to the hospital.
I pull into the ER lane and leave Goldie in the truck while I run inside to find a nurse. He follows me outside with a wheelchair, and I help Goldie out and into the chair. Someone curses and yells at me to move my truck, so I race to find a parking spot—which takes way too damn long—then run inside the building with Goldie’s backpack.
When I can’t find her in the waiting room, I ask the nurse at the front desk, “Where’s Goldie—I mean, Marigold?”
“Are you the father?” The nurse asks me with a kind smile, tapping away at the keyboard the whole time.
My heart is racing. I don’t know how these things work—if I’ll be allowed into Goldie’s room if the staff know I’m not the father. I barely know the girl, but this powerful sense of responsibility toward her and the baby can’t be ignored. So, without hesitation, I lie. “Yes, I’m the dad.”
Chapter 4
Goldie
Someone shoves a clipboard in my hands as I’m wheeled into a hospital room, overwhelmed by the activity and sounds of the busy hospital, the scent of whatever cleaner they use clogging my nose. The nurse fires off questions about how far along I am, where I was previously treated since the hospital doesn’t have me on file as a current patient, and more. I can’t answer as my head pounds when another contraction, worse than all the rest, has me doubling over after the nurse makes me stand and tries to move me to the bed.
I’m already crying from the pain, but I want to cry harder when I remember that Davis has my backpack with my medical history and prenatal paperwork. I should have grabbed it before he helped me out of his truck. If Davis leaves me here without bringing me my backpack after figuring out that I’m more trouble than I’m worth, I don’t know what I’ll do. If or when I’ll be able to contact him since he has my phone, too.
My hands shake as I try my best to fill out the paperwork after I get situated on the bed. Fat teardrops wet the forms, further blurring the questions. I thought I was prepared to give birth in an unknown hospital by myself. Thought I would have time to calmly fill out everything I needed to before I was this faralong. Thought that I had made peace with the fact that I would be giving birth without Aunt Lydia, who had gone to all of my prenatal appointments, by my side.
I was so wrong.
And when I’m peppered with questions about health insurance, the nurse frowns when I tell her that I’m uninsured. Because of my age and the measly income I made while waitressing in Nevada, I was covered by Medicaid, but now that I’m in Texas and out of time to apply for emergency coverage, I’m screwed.
How am I supposed to do this? How am I going to—
“Davis?” I breathe out his name when he rushes into my room, carrying my backpack, which he drops to the floor as soon as he gets to my side.
Davis cups my cheeks, his brows pinched with concern. “I’m here, honey. What can I do?”
Davis
I follow the nurse down the hallway, my boots pounding the floor, and I push past her into Goldie’s room. My heart stops when I see how small and scared she looks in the hospital bed, her face flush and slick with sweat.
“Davis?” She asks with disbelief, her eyes brimming with tears.
I bend and cup her cheeks after pushing back some loose strands of hair stuck to her temples. “I’m here, honey. What can I do?”
The woman in charge introduces herself as Nurse Martina. She writes Goldie’s name—Marigold Lewis—on the whiteboard with a dry-erase marker and then tells me, “Let’s start with getting her hoodie off, Dad.”
“Oh, he’s…” Goldie blinks and doesn’t finish her sentence, leaving me to wonder if she’s just as lost as I am about the rules regarding non-relatives.
Under my breath, I ask her, “Do you want me to leave?”
“N-No. Please stay. I-I don’t want to be alone right now,” Goldie whispers before shutting her eyes tight while pressing a hand to the side of her belly.
Nurse Martina motions to Goldie’s hoodie. “Off,” is all she says.
I help Goldie lean forward in bed, and when she doesn’t make a move to remove the hoodie as she concentrates on trying to breathe through what I’m guessing is another contraction, I do it myself. She raises her arms so I can finish pulling it off over her head, and she slumps back. The bruising and claw marks on her arms have faded substantially overnight, thankfully, or I’m sure the hospital staff would be hustling me out of here, assuming I was the one who hurt her.
