Page 19 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
Silence, then Amelia: “What’s wrong?”
“Possible early contractions. We’re heading to Saint Pierce General now.”
“I’m on my way,” she says. “I’ll call Mom. Tell Mel I’m bringing the hospital bag because I know she left it behind the couch.”
“I did,” I admit, half laughing, half crying. “I was saving it for dramatic effect.”
Lucas squeezes my fingers. “You’re doing great.”
We pull up to the ER drop-off. He parks in a spot I’m pretty sure says “no,” flashes someone a look that says “yes,” and is at my door in a heartbeat. Inside, he steers me to triage with efficient calm, relays to the nurse exactly what happened, and the time between cramps—he was counting. Of course he was counting.
The nurse guides me into a wheelchair. “We’ll monitor,” she says in the soothing tone of someone who has seen everything and can handle it all. “We’ll make sure baby is happy.”
“Okay,” I breathe, gripping the sides. “Okay.”
Lucas bends to eye level. The busy waiting room blurs, and it’s just his face and the ridiculous steadiness I told myself I didn’t need.
“I’ll be here,” he says softly. “If they let me, I’ll stay.”
I want to tell him about Freddy, about the truth, about the way his hand on mine makes me feel like I’m tethered to the ground instead of floating away. I want to confess the panic and the Chinese food and the stolen breath in the baby store, and ask him if he meantcomplicatedlikeimpossibleor just…messy.
Another wave builds, and I just nod, tears spilling hot and fast. “Okay.”
The nurse pushes me toward double doors. Lucas straightens, ready to track.
“I’ve got you,” Lucas says toward the nurse, but more toward me.
And even though I’m rolling into a room full of beeping machines and bright lights, my heart unclenches an inch.
Because maybe I can do this on my own. I’ve been saying it all day.
But right now, with Lucas keeping pace at my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, I don’t have to.
7
Lucas
Hospitals are designed to make civilians feel safe. Bright lights. Calming paint. Posters about handwashing with cartoon bubbles. For me, they flip a switch: too many variables I don’t control. Doors I can’t clear. Machines I can’t fight.
Melanie winces on the triage bed while the nurse straps two disks to her belly with a stretchy band—one to catch the baby’s heartbeat, one to track tightening. I focus on the readout because numbers make sense when nothing else does. The paper spits a steady line of little mountains. Good variability. Spikes when the baby wriggles. The “contraction” line is less regular—small humps, inconsistent spacing.
“Braxton Hicks maybe,” the nurse says, warm and competent. “Let’s hydrate and watch.”
Mel nods, biting her bottom lip. My hand is already there before I think, thumb brushing that lip away from her teeth. “Breathe with me,” I say, quiet. In. Out. I match her pace until her shoulders drop half an inch.
The curtain rattles, and Amelia barrels in like a short-range missile, hair in a lopsided bun, hospital bag slung cross-body. “Move,” she orders no one in particular, then squeezes Melanie’s hand and glares at me like I’m in charge of pain as a concept. “How long has this been going on?”
“Started at Dragon Garden,” I say. “Intervals irregular. She could still talk through them. Pain peaked around seven, but dropped fast.” My voice sounds steady. Inside, I’m an unspooled wire.
Amelia’s eyes soften. “Thank you for getting her here.”
“Where’s Mom?” Mel asks, wincing as the nurse tightens the band a notch.
“Parking,” Amelia says. “She refused to hand the keys to the valet because he ‘looked twelve.’”
I stand to make space when Mrs. Mason sweeps around the curtain. She goes straight to Melanie, fingers in her hair, murmuring mother-code. Then she looks at me, sizing me in one pass: height, purpose, intent.
“Lucas,” Amelia says, standing to introduce. “He—uh—was with Mel when it started.”
