28. Antonio
— ? —
Antonio
The hospital is forty-three minutes away.
I know this because I’ve driven the route six times in the past month, practicing, timing it at different hours, memorizing every turn and traffic light and potential shortcut. I told myself it was just being prepared. Cassandra told me it was being neurotic. She was probably right.
None of those practice drives prepared me for rain-slick roads and the knowledge that our baby is on her way.
“The keys are on the hook by the door,” Cassandra says, her voice steady in a way that mine absolutely would not be. “Hospital bag is in the closet. My phone is in my jacket pocket.”
“I know where everything is.”
“Then why are you standing there?”
Right. Moving.
I sprint into the house, grab the keys, grab the bag, grab her jacket with the phone, and sprint back out. Cassandra is leaning against the garden wall, one hand on her belly, breathing in a deliberate rhythm that tells me she’s having another contraction.
“How far apart?” I ask, helping her to the car.
“Six minutes. Maybe seven.”
“That’s good. That’s plenty of time.”
“I know it’s plenty of time. I’m not worried about time.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Your driving.” She settles into the passenger seat with a grimace. “You drive like a maniac when you’re stressed.”
“I do not drive like a maniac.”
“You once ran two red lights getting us to a premiere.”
“That was different. We were late.”
“We’re not late now. We have hours.”
I start the car, force myself to take a breath, and pull out of the driveway at a reasonable speed. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, the worst of the storm moving off toward the mountains, but the streets are still slick and the light is fading fast.
“Call the hospital,” Cassandra says. “Let them know we’re coming.”
I connect her phone to the car’s system and dial the maternity ward. A calm voice answers, takes down Cassandra’s information, asks about contraction frequency and duration.
“Six to seven minutes apart,” Cassandra reports, her breath catching slightly. “Lasting about forty-five seconds. Water hasn’t broken yet.”
“That’s perfectly normal for early labor,” the voice assures us. “Come in when you’re ready. We’ll have a room prepared.”
The call ends, and I focus on the road ahead. The route is familiar - I could drive it blindfolded at this point - but everything looks different in the gathering dark, with the streetlights reflecting off wet pavement and my wife making small sounds of discomfort beside me.
“Call my parents,” she says. “My mother will want to know.”
I dial again. Marta answers on the second ring.
“Cassandra? Is everything…”
“It’s Antonio. The baby’s coming. We’re driving to the hospital now.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath, then rapid-fire Italian that I can only half follow. Something about timing, something about meeting us there, something about a bag she already packed for this exact moment.
“We’ll see you soon, Marta.”
“Drive carefully!”
“I’m driving carefully.”
“He’s driving like a grandmother,” Cassandra adds, loud enough for her mother to hear.
“Good! Grandmothers drive safely.”
The call ends, and I allow myself a small smile despite the tension. This is happening. This is actually happening. The baby I’ve been waiting for, worrying about, dreaming of for months is finally coming.
“What are you thinking?” Cassandra asks.
“I’m thinking about my parents.”
“Your parents?”
“They never met you. They never knew I’d get married, have a child, build a family.” I keep my eyes on the road, but I feel her watching me. “Sometimes I wonder what they’d think. Whether they’d be proud.”
“They’d be proud,” she says quietly. “How could they not be?”
“I wasn’t always someone to be proud of.”
“Neither was I. We grew.” Her hand finds mine on the gear shift, squeezing briefly. “That’s what people do.”
Another contraction hits - I can tell by the way her grip tightens, the way her breath changes. I count silently while she breathes through it, waiting for the tension to pass.
“Five minutes,” she says when it’s over. “Getting closer.”
“We’re almost there.”
The road curves along the coast, the sea invisible in the darkness but audible through the cracked window - the eternal rhythm of waves against rocks, the same sound that’s been the backdrop to our rebuilding these past months.
I think about all the drives we’ve taken, all the conversations we’ve had in this car and others, all the distance we’ve traveled both literally and metaphorically.
We learned about the pregnancy while we were still separated. Still uncertain. And we chose each other anyway - not because of the baby, but because of everything we’d already rebuilt. Our daughter is a gift, but she’s not the glue. She’s not the reason we’re together.
She’s the reason we’re terrified and excited and completely unprepared for what comes next.
“Turn left at the roundabout,” Cassandra says.
“I know where I’m going.”
“You were about to go straight.”
“I was checking the rearview mirror.”
“You were panicking.”
“I’m not panicking. I’m focused.”
“You’re white-knuckling the steering wheel so hard I can see your tendons.”
I force myself to relax my grip. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
The hospital comes into view - a sprawl of lights against the dark hillside, modern and efficient and filled with people who do this every day. Who will know exactly what to do when we walk through those doors, who will guide us through whatever comes next.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“So am I.”
“What if something goes wrong? What if…”
“Don’t.” Her voice is firm but kind. “We’re not playing the what-if game right now. We’re going to the hospital, we’re going to have our baby, and we’re going to figure it out together. Like we’ve been doing for months.”
“When did you get so calm?”
“About three contractions ago. It’s either calm or screaming, and screaming seemed unproductive.”
I pull into the hospital parking lot, find a spot near the entrance, and help Cassandra out of the car.
She moves slowly, one hand on her belly, her face set in concentration.
Another contraction hits as we walk toward the doors, and she stops, leaning against me, breathing through it with the practiced rhythm the birthing classes taught us.
“Almost there,” I say.
“I know.”
“You’re doing great.”
“I know that too.”
“I love you.”
“I know that especially.”
The automatic doors slide open, releasing a wave of antiseptic-scented air. A nurse with a wheelchair appears almost immediately, and I realize the maternity ward must have called ahead.
“Mrs. Guerriero? We’ve been expecting you.”
Cassandra sinks into the wheelchair with visible relief. “Thank god. I was worried I’d have to walk all the way to the room.”
“Not a chance. We take good care of our mothers here.” The nurse looks at me. “Dad, you can follow us. Bring the bag.”
Dad.
The word hits me like a physical force. In a few hours, maybe less, I’m going to be a father. I’m going to hold my daughter for the first time. I’m going to become responsible for another human being in a way I’ve never been responsible for anything.
I grab the bag and follow my wife into the unknown.