Brave Enough(73)

I press the button to open the garage door. The cool interior air brings attention to the wetness between my legs. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” I whisper, rarely ever using that kind of language now that little ears hear every word we say. And often repeat them.

Another contraction hits and I cry out. That can’t have been more than two minutes at the most. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!

Sweat breaks out across my upper lip and a sense of panic starts to erupt in my chest. If this is real labor, which it seems to be because it’s escalating, we won’t have time to make it down the mountain.

My mind races as I run through my options, wishing I’d listened to Tag about staying in Atlanta for the last month of my pregnancy. I wanted to be here, though. Our home. And Willow loves it here so much. Just like I did when I was her age. I didn’t think it would be a problem, but what if I am in labor? What if I can’t make it down the mountain? What if I’ve risked the safety of our son?

The thought is agonizing. It brings with it a searing pain to my heart. Behind my eyes, too, as tears rush in.

I hear the scuffle of feet behind me seconds before I feel Tag’s hand at my lower back.

“You coming? Or are we going without you?” he teases. When I turn to face him, his expression falls and turns to one of alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I’m going to make it down the mountain,” I say in a trembling voice, all the while silently praying that God protect my baby from my own stupidity.

“Wh-what do we do?” he asks, his words hushed, his eyes full of fear.

“Let’s go back into the house. We can do this. Right?” When the color leaves his face, I prompt, “Right?”

“Yes. Yes!” he replies, his second response more certain that the first. He sets Willow on her feet. “Walk behind us, cricket. I’m gonna carry Momma.”

That’s the only warning I get before he sweeps me off my feet and walks briskly back to the house. He takes the front steps two at a time, pausing to look back for Willow, who is running as fast as her little legs will carry her. Tag starts toward the stairs, but I stop him.

“Maybe we should do this in the living room, near the kitchen. Just in case we need things from there.”

He changes his direction, taking me to the couch and depositing me gently on the cushions. When he straightens, he takes his phone out of his pocket. “I’m calling 911.”

“Okay,” I say, breathing through pursed lips as another contraction squeezes my uterus. “Oh God! Call your mom, too. Maybe she’ll know what to do.”

He tells the 911 operator what’s going on and where we’re located, then hangs up and dials his mom, who is only a few dozen yards away at her house. “Mom, Weatherly’s in labor. We can’t make it down the mountain. Can you help?”

Her response must’ve been short because Tag hangs up within seconds. My contraction has eased and my brain is working a little more clearly.

“We’ll need towels and boiling water,” I tell him. “At least that’s what they always need in the movies. Maybe you should Google midwifery,” I suggest.

So he does. He’s still spouting off all sorts of facts when Stella arrives. She’s cool and collected and takes charge immediately.

A sense of hopefulness and peace settles over me and I think that, if the paramedics don’t get here in time, my child and I will be in good hands.

—

I never imagined I’d be here, that I’d be lying in a hospital bed after having delivered my baby at home with the help of my husband and my mother-in-law. Yet here I am. Tag is in the rocking chair in the corner, rocking our son, Jenner, as he sleeps. He’s humming quietly, a look of perfect happiness on his handsome face. All I can see from the bundle in his arms is the one chubby hand that still holds his father’s finger. He went to sleep clutching it. As long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget this picture.

Stella took Willow with her to meet my parents at the hotel so they can rest. It’s been a stressful couple of days and none of us have had much sleep. I started bleeding uncontrollably after Jenner was born. I’d lost an alarming amount of blood by the time the paramedics arrived. They rushed me here, where I underwent emergency surgery to remove some parts of the placenta that weren’t delivered properly. That’s what led to the postpartum hemorrhage. I must’ve scared the life out of Tag. He hasn’t left my side. Asleep or awake, evidently he’s been with me from the moment I went into labor until right this minute. I can tell that he’s tired, and that he’s in desperate need of a shave, but otherwise, he looks like the happiest father in the world.