Page 54 of Betsy
Marcus’s face blanched. He looked back down at the phone in his hands.
“What do we do?” Jimmy’s head whipped around, his voice panic-stricken. His gaze landed on me as if I’d have the answer.
“There’s a hospital ten miles away.” Marcus sounded like he was undergoing a second puberty. His voice was high and cracking. “We get off at the next exit and turn right.”
I squinted out the windshield at the green road sign hanging in the distance over the interstate. The next exit was in half a mile, and we were in the lane beside the HOV lane. So all we had to do was cross three lanes of traffic on a major interstate that currently resembled a parking lot. No problem.
Betsy bolted out of her seat and lunged for the door.
“Where are you going?” Dave beat me to the question.
She paused, her fingers gripping the handle. “To help get Tricia to that hospital. Or do you want to deliver her baby right here in this Frankenstein bus?”
Dave just stared and swallowed hard.
Betsy opened the door and jumped down to the asphalt below. She sprinted to the car in the lane to our right. After she knocked on their window, the driver reluctantly lowered the glass. I could barely make out his reflection in the Chevy’s side mirror but imagined the curiosity mixed with wariness there. At least, that would’ve been my reaction. One too many news stories on road rage and guns.
Betsy gestured wildly with her hands. The driver poked his head out of the lowered window and looked back at us. He nodded at something Betsy said, and then his back-up lights came on as she ran to the car in front of her. More pointing behind her, then waving her arm in front. The car started to creep forward, space widening just enough for Dave to wrench the wheel all the way to the right and crawl the bus’s shoulder into it.
Tricia made a strangled noise followed by a low cry of pain. Marcus, Jimmy, and I all looked at each other for half a second before jumping out of the bus. Were we in Mini Coopers, we couldItalian Jobit in and out of this traffic. Instead, we were more like Sandra Bullock inTwo Weeks’ Notice—except with a woman about to have a baby!
I slid to a halt next to a minivan and frantically knocked on the window. The driver, a woman who looked to be about thirty with kids in car seats behind her, clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white and refused to look or even acknowledge me.
“Ma’am,” I tried again. “Ma’am. My friend is in labor. Can you pull forward as far as possible?”
Her gaze flicked to me and her chin dipped, but she didn’t lower the window. As long as she made as much space as possible, that was all that mattered.
I ran to the next car.
The four of us played Frogger on I-5, weaving in and out of cars across the lanes and inching out as much space as possible. Dave worked the bus like threading a two-ton length of string through the eye of a needle. Once he made it to the right shoulder of the road, we scrambled back inside, and he hit the gas like the zombie apocalypse wanted Tricia’s newborn’s brains for breakfast.
Tricia was panting by the time Dave swung the bus into the emergency room drop-off area. I jumped out of the passenger side and ripped open the door for Tricia to exit. Betsy had an arm around Tricia’s waist to support her. I held out my hand to help Tricia down the long step to the ground.
“She’s having a baby!” Dave yelled behind me.
Tricia hissed, then groaned as her body tightened the second her feet hit the ground. Her grip on my hand could crush bones, but I’d gladly sacrifice being able to play the guitar again to wipe the pain etched into her face away.
After a moment, she was able to straighten and take slow steps forward. Dave raced out of the automatic doors with a wheelchair in front of him. He took the corner too quickly and the chair went up on one wheel, looking like it might tip over altogether.
Tricia squeezed my hand. “Don’t let Dave push me.”
I chuckled but dutifully took the handles from Dave once Tricia had taken a seat.
After answering the questions from the triage nurse—accompanied by several yells that she felt like she had to push—Tricia was whisked back to a room in Labor and Delivery, Betsy with her so she wouldn’t have to be alone.
Jimmy sat in one of the waiting room chairs, phone to his ear as he talked with his wife. Marcus appeared to be texting, and Dave had disappeared, presumably to find coffee.
Me? I paced the floor. Was there someone I should call for Tricia? I had no idea how to get ahold of her husband. I should’ve asked for his information. Battalion name or something at least. He should know that his child was about to make her debut into the world.
I raked my fingers through my hair feeling helpless. I couldn’t call Tricia’s husband, but what about her mom? Though I didn’t have her phone number either, I at least knew how to get it.
I dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed the church secretary. After explaining the situation, she gave me Tricia’s mom’s number. I called and explained again. Her mom grabbed her keys as soon as I said the word labor. She told me she’d make the Red Cross call to inform Tricia’s husband. When I hung up, I stared at my phone. Was there anyone else I should contact? Anything else I could do?
The concert. The tour. I should call the rest of the venues and cancel. There was no way we’d continue without Tricia. I looked through my contacts to find the coordinator I’d been talking to for tonight’s show.
“She did it.”
Betsy’s voice jerked my head up.
