Page 43 of Because of Them

The mental to-do list I’ve been carrying around grows longer every day. Wash all the clothes we bought for the babies, put sheets in their cots, pack the hospital bag, get the car seats installed, practice folding the pram, remember how to swaddle a baby, buy zip up swaddles instead. On and on and on.

But right now, I need to find a tiny sliver of calm. I hobble to the kitchen.

Reaching over my head to pull a glass from the kitchen cupboard, my stomach twists once more. Everything is tight and tense and painful. I try to breathe through the pain, but panic steals the air from my lungs. This can’t be happening. Not yet.

The pain recedes, leaving a sweaty film over my skin. I reach to the counter for support, wishing I had someone to lean against. Wishing I had someone to whisper in my ear and tell me everything was going to be okay. Wishing Michael was here. Somehow knowing that he would know what to say.

Despite all my reservations, despite how immature he might seem at times, he has managed to surprise me over the past couple of months. He showed up, fully, after the shock wore off, and I’m grateful for that. Before I found out I was pregnant, I would have laughed if someone had told me Michael would make a great dad. He was goofy and spontaneous and flirtatious. Nothing like the nurturing father I would have wanted for my future kids.

I hate that my ex-husband set a bar so high, hate that I will always compare others to him. But little by little, Michael has proved my cautious nature wrong. He might not be the typical, settled down and ready to step up father-to-be, but that’s okay. Instead, he works hard every day to be everything that I need. To learn how to be better. He’s changed.

Pulling my phone from my cardigan pocket, I limp my way to the couch and call him.

“What’s wrong?” He answers on the first ring, his voice two pitches higher than his usual timber.

“I think I’m having contractions.” Saying the words out loud sends a new rush of panic over me. It’s too early. I’m not packed. We didn’t buy any premature sized clothes, only the ‘tiny baby’ onesies and not the ‘born seventeen weeks too soon’ ones. The car seats aren’t in the car.Fuck, will the babies be okay. What’s the survival rate for babies born at twenty-three weeks?

Michael asks questions but the line goes static in my ear.The room spins. My voice shakes when I try to answer him.

“Audrey? Are you home?”

My lips tremor as I hum an agreement, unable to form words.

“I’m coming.”

My cheeks become wet as the tears pooling in my eyes spill over. I hum again, sobbing through shaky breaths.

Michael stays on the line as he calls out a rushed goodbye to whoever he was with. He stays on the line while the phone connects to the Bluetooth in his car. Even though I do nothing but sit and sob and quietly panic, he stays on the line, whispering reassurances I don’t really hear.

He bursts through the unlocked front door, never breaking his stride until he drops to his knees in front of me. And only when he has one arm wrapped around my waist does he finally end the call.

“You came,” I sob.

He lifts up higher on his knees, surrounding me with his arms and pulling me close. I relax into his embrace, clinging to his arms until my fingers tingle.

“How many?” he asks. “And how often?”

I try to count backwards in my head but lose track with each gasping breath.

“I don’t know. A few. One earlier this afternoon but I thought it was just a cramp. A few more since then. Scattered, though, I think. It’s too early. The babies.”

“I’m going to call the hospital. Keep breathing.”

With one hand drawing slow, gentle lines against my spine he calls the hospital. I focus on the trail of goosebumps he leaves behind with each stroke, following the movement with my breaths. My head falls against his chest.

He relays what I told him to the midwife on the phone, then stands as he hangs up.

“When was your last contraction?” he asks.

“While you were on your way over here.”

“Okay, wait here.” He squeezes my hand before walking away down the hall.

My heart begins to race as soon as he steps out of the room. Nausea rifles through me, but Michael returns after only a few minutes, bringing with him an unexpected calm, and a duffle bag over his shoulder.

He helps me stand and guides me to the front door, locking it behind us. With a hand on my back, he takes my weight as he helps me into the car and leans over me to do the seat belt up. Before closing the door, he cups my cheeks between his hands and plants a kiss on my forehead. He holds me still, lingering with his lips against my skin until another tightening in my belly makes me cringe.

This one is somehow less intense than all the others. The searing pain still slices me in two, but having Michael so close keeps me calm. His tender touch on my cheeks, his spicy wooden scent, his soft whispers in my ear. They swirl together, skating over me like the gentlest breeze and settle right over my heart. Then they seep in, along with every other emotion I’d been trying to deny.

---