Page 65 of Forever Christmas
Corabelle doesn’t complain about this. She has two more contractions en route.
I pull up to Emergency and race around the car. “You want to walk in or let me getyou a chair?” I ask.
“Don’t leave me until I’m with someone,” she says.
I am not going to argue with that. We walk into the waiting room and I set her down to race to the desk.
“Preterm labor, thirty-three weeks, baby with a heart condition,” I blurt out.
The woman picks up her phone. “We’ll get someone right out for her,” she says.
I hurry back to Corabelle. My car is illegally blockingthe drive, but I can’t leave her. I promised.
Thankfully, a man arrives with a wheelchair, so I take a moment to run out and move the car to one of the emergency parking spots.
My heart won’t slow down. I’m on a wild adrenaline rush, angry that this is happening again, supremely pissed that nobody took her risk seriously. As I wait to be buzzed back to the ER, I want to smash something.
I racealong the curtained partitions.
“Gavin!” I hear Corabelle say.
I turn and see her. They’ve already got her on a rolling bed and are hooking up an IV. Her pants are off and she’s covered in the gown.
“Is the baby coming?” I ask frantically.
“She’s only four centimeters dilated,” the nurse says. “Lots of time yet. We’re taking her up to obstetrics as soon as they send someone down.” She patsCorabelle’s arm. “Don’t worry.”
I lean over the bed, taking Corabelle’s hand. “How are you feeling?”
“All right,” she says.
She seems calm. Too calm. This makes my pulse race all the more.
“You’re handling this better than I am,” I say.
She pinches her lips together.
“Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I can’t feel him, Gavin. He’s not moving.” Her voice is casual, as if she has alreadyaccepted the worst outcome. Made peace with it.
Now my blood pressure threatens to pop my head off my body. I step outside the curtain, looking for a nurse. They have to act faster! We should have taken an ambulance.
Two young men come toward us. “Are you here for my wife?” I ask.
“We’re from maternity,” they say.
I yank the curtain out of their way. “Get her up!”
They don’t lose their chilleither. They are used to overwrought fathers. I want to tell them to hurry, that the baby is in danger.
But if it’s too late, it’s too late.
Maybe all our pregnancies will end this way.
Corabelle looks at me sadly as one of the men comes between us. They adjust the bed and release the brakes, then start pushing her along the aisle between curtained rows.
Another contraction hits while we’rein the elevator.
