Another contraction tightened across my abdomen.
I gripped the metal railing outside the entrance.
“My water broke.”
“You said that.”
“They’re four minutes apart now.”
A nurse spotted me from inside and hurried toward the automatic doors with a wheelchair.
I closed my eyes.
“Adrian, I need you here.”
He sighed.
Actually sighed.
Like I had asked him to leave a movie early.
Then Margaret Cole’s voice floated through the phone.
“Is she still doing this?”
My entire body went cold.
Adrian muffled the phone, but not enough.
“Mom, please.”
Margaret replied:
“Women give birth every day. I only turn sixty once.”
Then someone laughed.
I could not tell whether it was her or one of the guests.
For months Adrian had promised that when labor started, nothing would keep him away.
He had downloaded contraction apps.
Packed a hospital bag.
Practiced installing the infant car seat twice.
He once told friends he would probably cry harder than I did.
Now he said:
“Can you get yourself checked in? I’ll come after dessert.”
I stared through the glass doors at the glowing hospital lobby.
“How long is that?”
“Claire.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Another contraction started.
The nurse reached me.
“Ma’am, can you sit?”
I handed her my bag.
Adrian was still talking.
“Just don’t turn this into another argument about my mother.”
Something inside me went completely quiet.
For eight years, I had tried to keep peace between Adrian and Margaret.
I had told myself that families came with difficult personalities.
That Adrian’s habit of calling Margaret before making decisions was merely closeness.
That her insults were generational.
That her constant questions about our mortgage, my salary and our savings were simply nosiness.
I had excused a thousand small things.
I stopped at one.
“All right,” I said.
Adrian hesitated.
“What?”
“Enjoy the cake.”
I ended the call.
The nurse looked at me carefully.
“Is someone coming?”
I looked at my phone.
There was one number I had refused to call for almost two years.
My father.
I pressed it.
Gideon Vale answered before the second ring finished.
“Claire?”
I had not said his name.
Not even hello.
He heard me breathe.
Then:
“Where are you?”
My eyes filled.
“Willowcrest.”
“What happened?”
“I’m in labor.”
Silence.
Then I heard movement.
Keys.
A door.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Not anymore.”
He disconnected.
The nurse wheeled me inside.
Twenty-three minutes later, Gideon Vale walked into Willowcrest Medical Center wearing an old charcoal coat, rain on his shoulders and absolute terror on his face.
