Page 150 of Moonlighter
“Gotcha,” I wheeze.
Outside, there are no taxis. There aren’t any cars, period. We see people out walking ecstatic dogs and giggling children. There are even diners inside the restaurants on Madison.
But the only cars are buried in snowbanks.
Duff gives a low whistle. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Let’s walk,” Eric says. “We’ll go slow. And if you can’t make it, I’ll carry you.”
There’s no way I can let him do that. Not on bad knees, and not for fifteen blocks. “I can make it,” I say.
“Eric, change shoes with me,” Duff says.
We all look down at Eric’s Vans. Duff is right. His work boots are better suited to the snow.
“Okay, thanks.”
They swap right there in the snow, while I try to imagine walking to Madison and a Hundredth Street in eight inches of snow.
“This will be a story we’ll tell her,” Eric says, wrapping an arm around me and gently leading me up the street. “It was snowing when you decided to be born. There were no busses. No taxis. The subway stopped running. But you decided to come to us, anyway.”
“Okay. Yes.” Tears spring to my eyes. I can picture Eric walking down a snowy street, holding a little girl’s hand, telling her this story.
“One foot in front of the other,” he says. “You’ve got this.”
And I do. At least until the next contraction. And then I’m standing there with snow soaking my shoes, whimpering in pain as my body squeezes the air out of me.
“Lean on me,” Eric coaches. “That’s it.”
“Eric,” I wheeze. “I decided it’s a yes on that epidural.”
“Right. Soon,” he says. As soon as I catch my breath, we’re walking again. We cross Eighty-ninth street, and Eric helps me over the snowbank that’s blocking the corner.
The sidewalk here is thick with snow. “We should walk in the street,” I point out.
“Next block,” he agrees.
We’re almost to Ninetieth when Eric yells suddenly. “Hey, kids!”
The group ahead of us halts in their tracks. “What?”
“I need that sled!” He lets go of my hand and jogs a few paces toward them. “It’s an emergency.”
“I just got this out of our storage unit!” a boy’s voice argues. “We’re going to the park!”
“Give you fifty bucks for it,” Eric says. “The lady needs to go to the hospital.”
The kid is eight or ten years old. He looks wary. “A hundred,” he says.
“Jesus Christ.” Eric is pulling out his wallet. “I got eighty. Come on.”
The transaction goes through, and I can hear Duff laughing as he catches up to us, still lugging my hospital bag.
Eric trots back to me, a drugstore plastic sled in tow. “Climb aboard, Engels.”
I climb gratefully onto the sled, and Eric takes off at a trot. Madison Avenue glides by, its shops advertising last minute holiday ideas and drink specials.
But the next contraction takes my breath away. I must have screamed because the sled stops, and Eric and Duff both peer down at me.
