ALEX
I look out the car window at the steely sky and find that I like this idea. New York shuts down whenever there’s any accumulation. And I need a day of quiet just to stop my mind from spinning.
“S’posed to start around five and keep going for two days,” Duff adds.
“I’ll go out shopping,” Eric says. “I might want to pick up a couple of things if I’m going to be snowed in at your place.”
“I like that idea,” I say, squeezing his hand. “We might get that day off after all.”
And that’s what happens. Eric buys out Eli’s again, stuffing the fridge with prepared foods. He makes a quick trip to the Gap for a change of clothes, too.
By the time he returns, fat flakes are already falling from the sky. And I’ve cued up three different movies to watch with him.
We pass a quiet evening together on the sofa. When we wake up the next morning, New York lies under a thick layer of snow. And it’s still coming down.
I spend an hour or two returning email, even though Engels Cable Media is staffed only by telecommuters for the day. My first task is writing a brief but apologetic email to Whitbread for bursting into his office to accuse him of leaking sensitive information.
He still hates me, and he’ll probably assume that all our new troubles are my fault. And if I’m unable to buy parts for the Butler by mid-February, I’ll finally be the failure he’s always hoped I’d be.
But no matter. I have a fresh pot of decaf and warm slippers. Eric has left the apartment for an hour to work out in my building’s basement gym. And even that is too far away. It’s such a comfort to have him with me right now. There aren’t even words to describe it.
Whenever he walks into a room where I am, I just feel happier. And when he smiles at me, I light up inside. I really do love him. And I’m going to repeat it until he believes me.
He probably already does, though. He’s pretty smart.
I can’t show him the way I’d like. I’m so pregnant that sex sounds like more work than fun. My back aches intermittently today, too. It’s hard to believe that I’m going to be pregnant for at least two more weeks. If I get any larger, I’ll burst.
When Eric returns from the gym, he takes a shower and joins me on the bed, where I’m propped up with my book. “It’s still snowing,” he reports. “But it’s supposed to stop around midnight. The subways are all down, the airports are shut, and no cars can cross any of the major bridges.”
“That sounds ghastly,” I say.
“All the hotels are full because nobody can leave.” Eric grabs a book off my bedside table and opens it. What to Expect from Childbirth.
“You are not reading that!” I gasp.
“Why not? You did.”
“I give you five minutes, tops. Ten if you read the introduction.”
He opens the book then peers at me over the top of it. “You think I’m not man enough to read about childbirth? Like I can’t handle it?”
“You’ll see,” I promise.
I go back to my own book. But a few minutes later he makes a small gagging sound.
“Uh huh,” I say. “What was it that got to you?”
“Mucus plug.”
“Keep reading, big boy. You haven’t gotten to placentas yet.”
“I can take it,” he says, sounding a little smug.
“There’s a chapter about eating your own placenta.”
“What?” he yelps. “You’re just fucking with me now.”
“You wish, tough guy.”
“Do you have a birth plan?” he asks.
“No.”
“It says here you need one.”
“I have eighteen days,” I point out. “And I haven’t figured out if I want an epidural. That’s chapter three.”
“Hmm,” he says, flipping pages.
We go back to reading, but my back is killing me. I spend an inordinate amount of time adjusting my pillows.
“You okay?” Eric asks.
“Sure. My back just aches. I’ve been spending a lot of time on my feet.”
He looks at me over the top of the book. “That’s a sign of early labor.”
“Really? You’re on page fifty, and you’re an expert now?” Just like a man.
“Hey, Bingley?” he says.
“Yes, my liege!”
“For a pregnant woman, what are the signs of early labor?”
Oh, this is rich. He’s using my own butler against me?
“My lord, some signs of early labor include: fluid leaking from the vagina, cramping, and lower back pain.”
“Thank you, Bingley.” He closes the book. “Is it your lower back?”
“Well, sure,” I grumble. “But doesn’t your lower back ache sometimes?”
Eric shakes his head slowly.
“Mine does.”
“Fine,” he says quietly. “But if you think you might be in labor, raise your hand, okay? The snow might be an issue.”
“I’m not in labor!” I can’t be. “It’s too early.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “Okay. You’re the expert.”
I try to keep reading, but it’s no good. I can’t follow the story because now I’m panicking a little. “The, uh, backaches come and go.”
Eric closes the childbirth book. “How often do they do that?”
“I’m not sure. It aches right now.”
“Bingley!” Eric says. “Time this. Starting now.”
“Yessir.”
He rolls toward me. “Come here.” When I adjust my giant body, he reaches around and starts rubbing my lower back.
“Ohhhhhh…yes. Yes yes yes. Keep doing that. Please.” It feels so good, I want to weep. After a couple minutes I exhale, and the pain leaves.
“Better?”
“Yeah.” We lie together in silence for a while. Until I say, “Uh oh.”
“It hurts again?”
“Yep. Bingley, how much time has passed?”
“Nine minutes, my queen.”
“Okay,” Eric says softly. “Nine minutes is no big deal. The book says you could have contractions for twenty-four hours before it’s even time to go to the hospital.”
“Right.” I blow out a breath. “I’m nervous. I’m not ready.”
“I’ll bet nobody is ever really ready,” he says kindly. “But you’ll be fine.”
“You don’t scare easily.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t. Not much scares me. Not even a mucus plug.”
I giggle. “Most men would be running for the door right now.”
“Not me.” He kisses me on the nose. “I told you. I’m here for this.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves. “Would it be a bad time to tell you that my mother had me on the back seat of the car? She didn’t make it to the hospital.”
He stops smiling. “Why not?”
“I showed up really fast.”
“Is that…” He clears his throat. “A hereditary thing, you think?”
“Probably not, right?” We blink at each other for a long moment. “What time did you say it was going to stop snowing?”
“Midnight.”
“And what time is it now?”
“Six forty-seven p.m.!” Bingley announces. “It is five hours and thirteen minutes until midnight.”
“Thank you, Bingley,” Eric says with a sigh.
“You just thanked a computer program,” I point out.
“I’ll thank all kinds of inanimate objects if the baby can just sit tight for one more night.”
She doesn’t.
By nine p.m., my back pains turn into front pains, and the space between them narrows from nine minutes down to four.
Eric spends half the time rubbing my aching back, and half of it staring out at the fat snowflakes falling past the window.
When he calls down to the front desk to ask about road conditions, the doormen are not optimistic.
“We don’t plan on making it home tonight,” they tell him.
“The plows have been doing their best, but they’re running out of places to put the snow.
Madison Avenue has at least two fresh inches on it already. Nothing is getting through.”
And when I come out of the bathroom, I overhear a whispered conversation between Eric and Duff, who’s on shift again out in the hallway. “No way,” Duff says. “The Mercedes has rear wheel drive and performance tires. We wouldn’t make it two blocks.”
“Can Max get an SUV up here? He must have a Jeep or a Hummer somewhere in that collection of his.”
“I’ll call it in. But he’s all the way downtown.”
Oh God. Eric told me not to panic. But I’m now starting to panic.
“Alex,” Eric says in a calm voice when he returns to the bedroom. “New plan. We’re not going to NYU. Mount Sinai is only eighteen blocks away. We can walk it.”
“Walk it?” I squeak. And before I get a chance to voice my objections to this plan, another contraction hits me. I sit down on the edge of the bed and rub my lower stomach. It’s tight, like a giant rubber band.
“Breathe,” Eric reminds me.
“It’s—really starting to hurt,” I pant.
“Okay. Okay. Okay,” he says in a voice that’s a lot less calm than it was a few minutes ago. “We’re going to put some boots on you, and a coat. And we’re going to go outside and see if we can get a taxi. If we can’t get that, I’ll call 911 and see what they want us to do.”
“Okay,” I agree. Eric has a plan. Plans are good.
I stand up. And that’s when I feel a popping sensation, followed by a flooding sensation. “Oh!” I gasp. “Water. Broke.”
Then things begin to move very fast. And by “things,” I mean Eric.
First, he brings me a dry pair of yoga pants.
Then he brings me a coat and a pair of hiking boots I’d forgotten I owned.
Those must have come from the back of my closet.
He even laces up the boots while I breathe through another contraction.
And, wow, I thought I knew pain before. “These aren’t fooling around,” I gasp.
“I know,” he says, bundling me into my coat.
“My b-bag for the hospital is in the front hall closet.”
“Bag?” he asks. “Okay. Sure. Let’s go.”
And then I’m in the elevator with Eric and a freaked-out Duff. “What happens if we can’t get to the hospital?” the young man asks.
“We’re getting there,” Eric says.
“But what happens if—”
“Shut it!” I gasp as another contraction digs in.
Eric glances at his phone. “Three minutes? Shit.”
The moment the elevator doors open, Duff shoots out, running for the street like a man on fire. “Taxi!”
Eric and I exchange a glance. “Just don’t say mucus plug. I don’t think he can take it.”
“Gotcha,” I wheeze.
Outside, there are no taxis. There aren’t any cars, period. We see people out walking ecstatic dogs and giggling children. There are even diners inside the restaurants on Madison.
But the only cars are buried in snowbanks.
Duff gives a low whistle. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Let’s walk,” Eric says. “We’ll go slow. And if you can’t make it, I’ll carry you.”