Page 64 of Forever Christmas
Chapter 24: Gavin
I wake in the armchair to Corabelle’s screaming cry.
I’m up instantly, jumping the coffee table.
“What is it?”
“I’m having contractions.”
“Real ones or those Hicks ones?”
“These aren’t practice,” she says. “It’s real. I remember.”
The obstetrician had assured us that Finn’s premature labor was due to his heart condition, part of nature’s correctionstrategy. But now I wonder if he isn’t the biggest quack in the universe. I’m so angry I can barely see straight.
“Car or ambulance?” I ask her.
“We can’t afford an ambulance,” she says.
“Screw the money,” I say.
She sits up. “I made it last time. I’ll make it this time. The hospital is close.”
Corabelle is right. By the time we wait on an ambulance, we could be halfway there.
“Can you walk?”I ask.
“I think so,” she says, but almost trips with her first step.
No way. I pick her up, trying not to squish her belly, and head to the door. The keys are on a tray and I snatch them, leaning to catch the knob with the hand under her knees.
Then we’re out. I don’t bother with the deadbolt, just the knob lock, and carry her out to the SUV.
“Towels!” she says. “I’ll ruin the seats if mywater breaks!”
“Screw the seats!” I say.
“Please, Gavin. Go back in, get towels, and lock the door.”
Everything should be Corabelle’s way right now. I haven’t forgotten.
I race back to the apartment, snatch a couple towels, and pause to lock everything properly.
“Thank you,” she says.
I spread the towels on the seat, then help her in and race around the front of the car.
By the time I’vepulled out onto the road, her breathing has sped up again.
“This is pretty quick,” she says. “I must have slept through the early ones. This is definitely it.”
I count on my fingers as I drive. We’re at thirty-three weeks. A little later than Finn, but still pretty early.
The contraction passes, and Corabelle lets out a long breath. “I guess we’re never going to finish a birthing class,” shesays with a hard laugh.
Corabelle does not joke. She’s at peak stress, and I don’t know anything to say or do to help her.
I white-knuckle it at each red light, and run a few when there are no cars and no traffic cameras to snap me.
