Page 9 of Knocked Up
I wake again when Braxton’s arms are beneath my knees and behind my back. “Hey,” he says, almost sounding shocked I’m not sleeping. He lifts me out of his car and my hands that have somehow found their way to his shoulders push against him.
“I can walk.”
“Let’s not risk it today.”
I struggle against his hold and give up. The man’s built like a mountain and I’ve seen his strength in action, when he pinned me against a wall, dropped to his knees, and threw my legs over his shoulders.
My body warms, despite the chill in the air.
Braxton strolls into the emergency room like he doesn’t have a hundred and thirty pounds in his arms, and my cheeks burn as heads turn in our direction. He ignores them, sauntering right up to the front desk.
“May I help you?” The woman behind the counter glances at us with little change in her expression. It must not be the first time she’s seen a woman carried into the ER like a bride.
“She needs to be seen,” Braxton says, before I can answer. “She’s pregnant and has fainted twice in the last half hour and she’s puking.”
Her black eyes drift to me. “Name?”
“Cara Thompson,” I whisper. My throat is dry and every tiny movement of Braxton’s arm makes me feel like I’m on a roller coaster. Tilting my head back, I meet his gaze. “Please put me down. I’d feel better on my feet.”
Thick black brows pull together before he nods. He sets me on the floor gently, carefully, like I’m cracked porcelain and one jarring move could shatter me.
I think I might, anyway.
All of this is so, so horribly wrong.
“Thank you.” I cling to the counter in front of us. I give the receptionist my midwife’s name and thankfully, Braxton brought me to Portland Regional where Pam has admitting privileges.
With a few rapid clicks of her fingers on the keyboard, I answer a handful of questions and she gestures to the chair. “Have a seat. We’ll be with you soon.”
A sweat breaks out along my forehead and I wipe it away. “Please,” I say, my voice hoarse. It hurts to talk. I push my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop what I know is about to happen.
Not here. Not in the waiting room. Not in front of Braxton again.
“I need a bowl.”
The woman looks up. Whatever she says has her moving quickly and a kidney-shaped pale pink tub is thrust in front of me.
Braxton’s hand goes to my side and he holds me to him as I bend forward, gagging.
“Oh shit.” I moan, unable to help myself. This is the most miserable month of my life. Why women go through this willingly is beyond me at this point. Why they choose it multiple times is baffling.
In the background, the woman’s fingers are still wildly typing on her keyboard and she pushes from her chair. “I’ve bumped you up in the queue. We’ll get you back to a room.”
“Thank you,” Braxton says. “Appreciate it.”
“Cara Thompson,” a new, male voice says and Braxton helps me turn toward the direction of double doors that have swung open. A young man in teal scrubs is standing there, eyes scanning the room, and stopping on me as Braxton helps us toward the door.
“Thank you,” I mumble. “I’m sorry for everything.”
His hand on my waist tenses. “Stop apologizing.”
For a brief moment, I feel bad we’re getting moved to the back so quickly. The waiting room is full and more than one sickly-looking person scowls at me as we pass them. I push them out of my mind. This is the worst I’ve been and I’m barely able to move I’m so exhausted.
Everything on my body hurts down to my bones like I’ve run a marathon without proper training.
All I want to do is collapse into a bed and sleep for the next seven months, and if it has to be in a hospital room, I’m more than willing.
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