“Amelia, why are you doing this?” I talk to the ceiling, knowing full well she’s sitting behind me.
“I feel bad, okay? I don’t usually feel bad about things, but I do this time.”
“That’s called being a sociopath. You should see someone about it.”
“Just let me help. I promise I’ll stay out of the way.”
Bash starts the car and pulls out of the driveway. We’re halfway to the hospital when he lowers his voice and turns to me. “It can’t hurt to have one more person on hand in case you need something.”
That’s when I realize I don’t have anything. Not my purse or phone or hospital bag. Not a damn thing.
Frustration bubbles up in me. I can see my pregnancy bag, which I reluctantly packed the other day, ready to go in my bedroom closet. Lot of good it does me there.
Fortunately, the hospital already has all of my info because I did a pre-admittance and submitted my forms ahead of time. Michael and I also did these online prenatal classes. Separately, of course, since he was always at school and I couldn’t get my ass out of bed.
As I squirm on the seat and squish around in that wetness, it really hits me.
These kids are coming.
Soon.
How bad can giving birth be? My water already broke. Soon, I’ll be in my hospital room. It’ll be fine. I can do this.
But regret slams into me over how much I haven’t done yet at home. Olly and I had planned to put the nursery in the room right next to ours. It already has a fresh coat of paint and is ready to go, but I was so afraid to jinx myself, I never bought anything for the boys. No cribs or rockers or onesies.
And now it’s too late.
The moment I step out of the car, my water breaks. Again. That’s not something my OB-GYN explained would happen, although she did say I had two placentas. I just never connected the dots.
So I stand in another puddle, humiliated, as a family stops to point at me. Yes, pregnancy is messy, people! I want to tell their kid to avoid sex at all costs.
A nurse runs out with a wheelchair. Smiling, she looks at my brother. “Is this the dad?”
He cringes, and I respond. “No. Dad’s not here.”
Michael should be here. He promised he would be.
Our argument comes flooding back.
You told him not to come home.
What possessed me to say that?
Because he listened to Amelia. Because he wouldn’t hear me out. Because I had to get in the last word.
And look where that’s gotten me.
“Shit, I should call him,” Bash says.
I sniffle, resigned about what needs to be done. “What good would it do? Olly’s in Chicago. Let him play his game. He’ll be back tonight. I might be in labor all weekend anyway.”
I’ll just have to do this alone.
* * *
A nurse helps me change into an ugly hospital gown. “Let’s get you on the bed and strapped into the fetal monitor.”
Once I’m lying on a bed, connected to a million contraptions, Bash and Amelia walk in with coffee. “We brought you one,” he says.
