Chapter 3 James
James
“You’re pregnant.”
I don’t know how to handle women, but I have no experience with pregnant women.
Like, none. Zero. Zilch. Hell, if I could go into negative percentages, that would better illustrate how little experience I have with pregnancy.
Throughout my dating life, I’ve been diligent never to get a woman pregnant.
My bandmate’s wife was pregnant earlier this year, but I tried my best to ignore her growing stomach and shut down any talk of her pregnancy symptoms. One mention of morning sickness or Lamaze classes and I was out of there.
So, to say that I’m ill-prepared for this situation is putting it mildly.
“Uh huh,” Georgie confirms before bursting into tears again, burying her face into my chest.
Holy hell, are her tear ducts attached to a freaking sprinkler system? How much can one woman cry?
She slumps against me. My arm around her waist tightens, and I tap her back with an awkwardness I haven’t felt since middle school. After a minute, she steps back and manages a juddering breath without any more tears falling.
Her luminescent, watery eyes find mine. “That’s… that’s what caused the wreck. I was having some pains and… I think my water broke,” she groans as she stumbles, gripping her belly in a protective hold. “And then I hit the gas pedal instead of the brake by accident.”
I swallow roughly, repeating her words, praying I misunderstood her. “You think your water broke? So, you’re…”
She nods.
“You’re… in… labor,” I reason, my words coming out as slow as molasses. “You’re having a baby.”
“Based on the waves of pain…” She nods again as she weaves on her feet, unsteady. “I… I don’t feel so good. I feel… kinda woozy.”
That’s all the warning I get before she collapses into my arms. Oh, fuck.
Stumbling backwards, I somehow keep both of us upright.
With serendipitous timing, the teenager appears on the other side of Georgie, and together we half-carry, half-drag her safely to the side of the road.
I sit my ass down on the red dirt and cradle Georgie’s head in my lap, stroking her soft mahogany hair.
“Do me a favor, kid. Georgie’s purse is on the front seat of her car. Will you grab it and bring it to me, please? She’ll need it at the hospital.”
He responds with the enthusiasm of an overeager puppy. “Sure, Mr. Harper.”
I nod my thanks, not surprised he recognized me. That’s what happens when four boys from the same small town form a band in high school that goes on to become the biggest band country music has seen in decades. In Nashville, we’re famous, but here in Homesboro, Alabama, we’re royalty.
The kid hands me Georgie’s purse just as the wail of the ambulance siren splits the air, flooding me with relief.
Two EMTs jump out of the ambulance and hurry toward us.
As best I can, I explain what happened as they assess her.
“She was driving behind me when her water broke. She hit the gas instead of the brake and rear-ended me.”
“Was she having contractions?” the EMT with graying hair asks once they’ve transferred her onto the gurney.
“Yeah, I think so. At least, she thought she was.” I rub the furrow between my brows, trying to remember how she described it. “Said she was having waves of pain.”
“When did she lose consciousness?”
“After I got her out of the truck. She said she felt woozy and then just… passed out.”
The older EMT keeps firing off questions while the younger one secures Georgie to the gurney. I stand there clutching her purse, dazed by how fast everything’s spiraled. Less than ten minutes ago, I was sitting at that stoplight, singing along to Sweet Home Alabama.
Unsure of what to do, I trail behind them as they wheel Georgie to the back of the ambulance and lift her into it.
“Sir, do you have a ride to the hospital? Or do you need to ride with us?”
My eyebrows raise. “What? Uh…”
“We need to leave now, so if you’re riding with us, hop in. Otherwise, you can meet your wife at the hospital in Hunstville.”
My jaw slackens. Wife? Then my gaze flits to Georgie on the gurney, her hands folded atop her rounded belly, and a thin gold band on her fourth finger winks at me.
Remembering the fear in Georgie’s crystalline blue eyes when she told me she was scared, I jump into the back of the ambulance before my common sense can surface. It’s a split-second decision. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want her to be alone. I don’t want her to wake up and still be scared.
The younger EMT closes the ambulance doors behind me, and I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into this time.
“How far along is she?” The EMT asks me as he probes her head, checking for injuries.
“Uh,” I hesitate. He thinks I’m her husband, so this seems like information I should know. “Eight or nine months,” I guess. That’s how long pregnancies last, right? “Sorry, I’m having trouble thinking.”
The EMT looks up, studying me for the first time. “You were in the wreck, too. Right?”
“Yeah, I was, but I’m fine.”
“Did you hit your head? Any dizziness or pain?”
“No, no. I’m a little banged up, but okay. I’m just… worried.”
“Still be good for you to get checked out when we reach the hospital,” he nods with a frown and resumes looking over Georgie.
While the EMT is distracted, I open Georgie’s purse, feeling like a total creep for snooping through it, but I need to find her ID. And hopefully, a phone so I can call her husband. Her real husband.
There’s enough snack food in here to feed a little league team. Chips, candy, granola bars, crackers. I guess pregnancy cravings are no joke.
When I find her wallet, I flip it open to see her identification. Georgette Davies. The address on her driver’s license lists an apartment in Tuscaloosa. Thumbing through her cards, I can’t find a health insurance card.
Next, I pull out a wad of crumpled paperwork from her purse. Job postings. Clinic forms. Motel receipts. ATM withdrawals. And an old eviction notice. Rummaging through the papers, I take a moment to read them more carefully, and a picture emerges.
It’s not a pretty picture. I don’t think Georgie is moving. I think she’s homeless.
So, no health insurance. Based on the ATM receipts, no savings. Nowhere to live. Likely, no steady job. And she’s pregnant.
No wonder she admitted to being scared.
Also, no evidence of a husband other than the ring on her finger.
The papers from the medical clinic don’t list her husband’s name or phone number, but I do find her due date, which is still six weeks away.
Jesus, it just keeps getting worse.
Finally, at the very bottom of her bag, I pull out a small cell phone. The phone is a cheap pay-as-you-go flip phone that’s seen better days.
In her saved contacts, there are only three: Mom, D.D., and the medical clinic where the paperwork is from. That’s it, just those three numbers.
Maybe D.D. is her husband? But when I open the contact, there are no calls or text messages between Georgie and D.D. Seems doubtful that’s her husband, then.
I rub a hand over my face. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I close the purse and look at her pretty, pale face. With her eyes closed and her dark hair fanned out beneath her, she looks like some kind of twisted Sleeping Beauty.
A low moan fills the back of the ambulance, and I throw the purse down, leaning over to grab Georgie’s hand. Relief fills me when her eyes flutter open.
She turns her head to me. “You stayed,” she whispers, squeezing my hand. “No one ever stays.”
The words slice through me, sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel, their weight settling deep in my chest.
And then Georgie’s eyes roll back, and her body goes limp again.