“Shit. Crap. This is a mess! Are you okay?”
Queenie reaches for me as I plant one hand on the dash and grip the armrest, huffing through a groan as another massive contraction rolls through me. It’s a full thirty seconds before this one passes.
“You should put your hazards on and park the SUV because I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while. Then call 9-1-1. I’ll call Jake and tell him where we are.”
“Okay. I can do that.” She shifts the SUV into park. Her phone is set in the cradle on the dash. We’re still a good ten minutes from the hospital, and that’s without an accident blocking the intersection or the snow. There are now five cars involved and a lot of people yelling at each other.
It takes me two tries to pick up my phone. Giving birth in my car is not ideal. Giving birth in an intersection where an accident has happened is even less ideal.
I call Jake, this time audio and no video.
“Hey, babe. It’s taking me a lot longer to get to the hospital because of the snow. I’m on the freeway, but we’re crawling along here. It looks like I’m still about twenty minutes out. Are you there yet? How are the roads?”
“What’s your next exit?” I survey the scene and glance at the clock on the dash. I need to start timing these contractions.
“Is everything okay?”
“We’re stuck at an intersection. Hold on. Contraction.” I clench my teeth and focus on breathing as it hits.
“Hanna? What the heck is going on? Where are you?”
“Dad, there was an accident,” Queenie says.
“You were in an accident?” I hear the panic in his voice.
“No. We’re fine. There was an accident, but we weren’t involved. It’s blocking the intersection so we can’t get around them. I don’t know if I should try another route or not.” Queenie looks to me, her uncertainty evident.
I shake my head. “No. Don’t do that. I don’t know if we’re going to make it to the hospital before this baby arrives.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hang on, Baby, It’s a Bumpy Ride
Jake
THERE IS NO way in hell I’m missing the birth of my son. I nearly missed it the first time around. That’s not going to happen again. Queenie tells me what intersection they’re at and I get off the freeway. I’m only ten minutes from where they are, but people are driving like idiots and I’m trying to be careful while also trying to get there before my son makes his appearance in the world.
I want to switch to video chat, but Hanna doesn’t want my attention divided between her and the road. Which I understand, but still.
A handful of minutes later, I hear the telltale sound of sirens through the phone.
“Oh, thank God. The ambulance is here and so are the fire department and the police.”
“I’m going to flag someone down and see if we can’t get some help,” Queenie declares.
“Good plan,” Hanna pants through what I assume is another contraction. “I can’t believe I’m not going to be able to have an epidural again.” She groans loudly.
“I’m going to be there in a few minutes, okay? Do you think you can hold on that long?”
“I’m going to try my best, but it feels like this guy wants out in a big way.”
I make it within a block of the accident, but barricades have been set up, preventing me from getting to Hanna by vehicle. I park like an asshole and run the rest of the way to her.
The EMTs are in the process of moving her from the SUV to the back of the ambulance when I reach the scene. “Hey! That’s my girlfriend,” I shout.
“Dad, oh, thank God you made it on time!” Queenie gives me a hug and then shoves me in the direction of the ambulance. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
An attendant gives me a hand up when Hanna tells them I’m the father and that she definitely wants me with her. And then we’re off, heading toward the hospital, sirens blaring and lights flashing.
“I’m so glad you made it.” She squeezes my hand, and her warm smile turns into a grimace, her grip tightening until it feels like my fingers are at risk of breaking.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” I kiss her sweaty forehead. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
“I really wanted a goddamn epidural this time,” she says through gritted teeth.
“You’ve got this. Just breathe through it.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not pushing a watermelon out of your vagina.” She smiles for a second and then groans again.
“I’m sorry I did this to you.” I let her use my hand as a stress toy.
“I’m not. There’s no one else I can imagine having a baby with in a freak Seattle snowstorm.”
By the time we make it to the hospital, the contractions are right on top of each other. One barely waning before another hits. The doctor is waiting at the doors for us, and we rush down the hall.