Page 122 of Possessive Mafia Vows

I haven’t asked.

This is Kyle’s last trip to the States until after the baby arrives. There’s no way he’s risking being on the other side of the Atlantic when our baby is born.

I walk barefoot through to the kitchen, fill a glass with fresh orange juice from the fridge, and peer out at the sea. It’s like a sheet of shimmering blue glass. A butterfly flits around the wildflowers growing knee-high on either side of the path leading to the front door. I never imagined this would be my life one day; the universe clearly had other plans.

I rinse out my empty glass when I’m finished and stand it upside down on the drainer. Then I open the door to the fridge and start shifting the food from the shelves to the kitchen counter. I’ve already started on the salad drawer at the bottom when the next contraction rips through my belly.

Panting, I lean over the counter, eyes closed, and suck in deep breaths, trying to breathe through the pain which is unlike any of the practice contractions I’ve felt before. My belly is solid as a rock. It feels tight, like someone has wrapped a metal band around me and is tightening the screws.

When it subsides, I cross the room and sit down heavily in one of the chairs around the pine table, trying to rub the ache away.

“I’m not in labor.” I say the words out loud as the fridge starts beeping at me for leaving the door open. “Okay, okay, I hear you.” I go back and close it.

The food sits forlornly on top of the work surface, wondering what’s next. Ripe, juicy tomatoes, locally caught salmon, a block of cheddar cheese, crisp apples, Greek yogurt, and jars of pickles.

I check the time on the oven clock. 6:15.

I fill the basin with soapy water, finish emptying the fridge of its contents, and spray it with antibacterial spray. When it’s spanking clean, I replace the food, fill the coffee machine withwater, and move onto the oven. Might as well be productive as I’m awake early.

The time reads 6:23 when the next pain hits.

This one is stronger than the last and leaves me feeling drained when it passes.

But, determined to finish cleaning the kitchen, prepare the new bassinet, pack the hospital bags, and run some errands before Kyle gets home, I crack on with the oven.

Then I start pulling everything out of the cabinets. The more I look, the more fingerprints and smears I find. Packets of biscuits that I’ve opened on a craving and left to go stale. Crumbs that I never spotted before. A squeezy jar of honey that has dripped onto the shelf.

I spray and scrub and work myself into a frenzy, stopping whenever a pain rocks my belly, withdrawing into myself, and breathing through the agony. By the time the kitchen is spotless, and my damp hair is clinging to my forehead and the back of my neck, the contractions are coming every five minutes.

The clock on the oven says that the time is 9:42.

I must be in labor.

I didn’t want to acknowledge it, but the pains are getting stronger. I can feel them in my back as well as in my belly, and each one is lasting longer, leaving me drained as they fade.

I’m not due for another four weeks though.

And Kyle isn’t due back in Ireland for another six hours.

Perhaps if I soak in the tub for a while, it will slow the labor down or even stop it completely.

I leave the faucets running and grab a fluffy towel from the rack. The smell of the lavender-scented candles in the bathroom soothes away the lines that I can feel between my eyes, as I drag my hand back and forth through the warm water.

It’s fine, I tell myself. The information that I received via the maternity app said that the practice contractions would become more frequent closer to the due date. I’m worrying about nothing.

I drag the oversized T-shirt that I wore in bed over my head and am about to climb into the tub when water gushes out from between my legs.

It’s followed by a pain that keeps me on my knees, panting, while I grip the side of the tub and wait for it to pass.

“Fuck!”

I clamber unsteadily into the tub and lean back, submerging my belly.

I haven’t prepared my overnight bag.

The new sleepsuits that I bought for the baby have been washed and sorted into various piles according to size, but I haven’t unpacked the bottle sterilizing unit or collected the stroller or thought about formula if I have problems with breastfeeding.

I feel my uterus tightening as another pain crashes through me. The warm water helps. A little. But there’s no denying that our baby is too impatient to ride it out for the next four weeks.

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