Page 20 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
Mrs. Mason shifts her concern into a gracious smile. “Thank you for bringing my daughter in.”
“Of course,” I say. I mean it. I’d carry her up twenty flights of stairs if the nurse told me the elevator was broken.
They lean in, a little family knot of murmurs and hair smoothing. Good. She has a net. I step back, let their comfort wrap her up, and slip out through the curtain to the corridor because I have a call to make.
I hit call on Duke. He picks up on the first buzz. Background noise says parked engine, low radio, Gunner’s baritone making a crack about cold coffee.
“Where are you?” Duke asks.
“I’m at the hospital with Melanie. Ran into her while picking up our Chinese order, and she had pain,” I say, keeping it clipped. “I’m staying until she’s released.”
“You went for crab rangoon and turned into a birth coach?” Gunner mutters, amused.
“Shut up,” Duke says, but he’s smiling. I can hear it. Then, to me: “You’re where you should be. We’ve got the rest. Client’s still snug. I’ll text you if anything shifts.”
“I left the food,” I add, brain unhelpfully offering logistics. “Hostess said she’d deliver.”
“Gunner will survive,” Duke says dryly. “Stay with her, Lucas. Holidays are soft targets—people make bad choices when they’re stressed. Safer she’s got someone who can read the room.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Copy.”
“And Lucas?” Duke’s voice drops a notch. “You good?”
“Always,” I lie. He lets it pass like a good friend.
I pocket the phone, take one breath against the cinderblock wall, and go back inside the curtain.
Melanie’s color is better. The nurse has a pitcher of water stationed like a sentry. Mel’s already halfway through cup three. The band prints more boring mountains. Boring is excellent.
The OB on call—a woman with kind eyes and comfortable shoes—arrives, scans the strip, asks a handful of calm questions, and does a fast exam. “Good news,” she announces, peeling off gloves. “Baby looks perfect. You’re not dilating. Those tightenings are practice—Braxton Hicks. Totally normal.”
I feel something unclench in my ribs so fast I almost sway.
The doctor smiles at Mel. “This far along, hydration is queen. Add rest to that. Ease up on the heavy lifting and stress where you can. If anything changes—fluid, bleeding, timeable contractions—you come back. Until then…” she taps the belly monitor gently, “your little tenant is happy.”
Melanie’s eyes flood with tears, and she laughs, hands over her face, relief spilling out in a messy, gorgeous exhale. Mrs. Mason wipes her cheek with a tissue and kisses her forehead. Amelia breathes out like she’s been holding her lungs hostage for an hour.
The nurse unstraps the bands, hands me a wipe and some tape to wrangle cords because apparently I look like a man who can coil anything. And you know what? She’s right.
Discharge papers materialize. “Take it easy,” the doctor repeats. “Feet up. Netflix. Water.”
“That I can do,” Mel says, voice shaky-soft with gratitude.
“Good,” I say. “I’m taking you home.”
She starts to protest, but Amelia is already checking her watch. “I have to run back to work for the evening shift,” she tells Mel, wincing. “And Mom needs to drop me. I hate leaving you, but I’ll be back after nine.”
Mrs. Mason squeezes my arm, light and grateful. “Thank you for staying. Truly.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. It’s not nothing. It’s the only thing that’s felt correct in twenty-four hours.
We exit as a slow-moving unit: nurse with a wheelchair, Amelia balancing the hospital bag and her coat, Mrs. Mason holding two extra cups of water. I bring the SUV around and help Melanie in, buckling her because her hands are full of discharge forms and stubborn pride.
“Text when you get home,” Amelia says through the window. “I mean it. Lucas, if she tries to assemble anything, confiscate her Allen wrenches.”
“Copy,” I say.
“I’m fine,” Mel protests weakly, then winces when a small tightness rolls under her palm. “Mostly fine.”
