by Natasha Boyd
I go sit in front of her, on the coffee table, my hands joining hers on her belly. “Wait, so this is it? These aren’t fake ones? The baby’s coming?”
“We think so.” She nods.
My stomach free falls. “Oh, fuck.”
Her eyes widen.
“I mean yay, but oh fuck.” My mouth is dry. “I can’t find us a way off the island. The weather advisory ... I’ve left messages. And Marge from Mama’s is also calling around.”
Keri Ann’s eyes, still wide, seem to bug out, and her breath gets shallow. Panic is flitting across her face. “I—I can’t do this by myself. Oh my God.”
“I’m sorry, baby. God, I’m sorry.” My mind races with alternatives. I’ll drive a damn boat myself. Steal one if necessary.
“It’s not your fault,” she says, her hand cupping my face. “I was fine with staying here until now too. Dr. Berry was fine. We all made this decision together.”
“Marge said the fire guys are EMT trained. They must cover emergency deliveries.” Worse-case scenario, sure. But they’ll have more medical knowledge than I do. Shit. Why isn’t Joey here? We have a doctor in the family for Christ’s sake.
Keri Ann pants panicked breaths, and tears start to well in her eyes. “But, I mean, how often does that happen? Emergency deliveries. Will they even remember their training? And I’m not showing my hoo-ha to a bunch of strange men! And what about the baby? What if something happens to the baby? I mean she’s coming early. She must be in distress.” Keri Ann’s voice is shaky, staccato and high pitched.
“Shhh,” I soothe. Though I’m thinking exactly the same thing. There are only about two hundred residents on this island, the probability of anyone having experience with an emergency delivery is pretty much nil.
“I should have let you build a helipad, I’m so sorry.” Then to her belly, she says, “Just hang in there, Bean. We are going to find us a way to get you to a safe spot to be born.”
Helipad. Cooper. His name pounds through my head. We need the Coast Guard.
I snatch my phone and scroll to his number.
“I need help,” I say as soon as Cooper answers.
“Jack?” he asks.
“Yeah. Look, sorry to bother you. We think Keri Ann’s gone into early labor.” I catch her eye. She has no idea who I’m speaking to. “There’s a small craft advisory and we can’t get off the island.”
“Shit,” he responds. There’s a rustle and the sounds of someone getting up. “Shit. My boat’s in the shop. Maybe I can borrow one to come get you.”
“Listen, actually, I have a better idea. I’m calling in a bigger favor.”
I get up and leave the room again. Keri Ann doesn’t need to hear this right now.
Twenty-Eight
“Are you crazy? I’m not getting in that thing,” Keri Ann yells over the womp of chopper blades and the wind. She’s squinting at the white and orange Coast Guard helicopter in front of us.
The rain, having just started, is pushed sideways by the gusts under the roof of the golf cart we use around the island and stings against our skin.
As soon as I heard the Coast Guard helicopter in the distance, I’d told her we had a way off the island. We’d packed up the golf cart and driven to the large field by the fire station that doubled as a landing area.
“I’m sorry, babe, but you can either have the baby here at the fire station or you can let the Coast Guard take you to the hospital.”
“I hate you,” she says loudly, her bright blue eyes on mine. Her hair whips across her face from the force of the gale caused by the helicopter rotors. “You know that, right?”
I stare back at her, cupping her cheeks and pressing my mouth to hers.
She kisses me back. Her skin is hot. Her lips are cool from spraying rain water. “I know you do,” I say after pulling my lips from hers. “But can you hate me while you’re inside a chopper too?”
She stares at me a beat longer, then nods. Determination steals over her features, and she swings her legs out the side of the cart as I hustle around to help pull her to her feet. Instantly, we are soaked through.
Massive, fat, monsoon-type drops of rain.
A guy jumps out the open side door of the helicopter, goes to the back of the chopper under the tail, and opens a compartment. He feeds out a stretcher.
“No way,” she says. “I can sit. I’m not lying down in the tail of that tin can.”
I can’t hear her breaths, but I can tell by her face and her heaving chest she’s starting to panic. Her hands shake as she reaches for me. “Tell them, Jack. I can sit just fine. Please.” Her light jacket she’d put on over her tank top is plastered against her.
I need to get her warm.
My jeans and t-shirt are weighted down with ten tons of rain water too.
“Baby, I’m sorry.” I wince. “You’re the patient now, you need to let them tend to you the way they know how.”
“Did I tell you I hate you? Even though you look so incredible in the rain. Damn you. Why are you so hot when there’s nothing I can do about it?” She scowls.
“Yep.” I grin. “You can do this.”
“Oooh, my God,” she groans suddenly, her knees buckling as she holds her belly. “These contractions are getting worse.” Then her face shows stunned surprise. “I—I think my water just broke.”
We both look down, but with her shorts and legs sodden with the rain pounding down on us, it’s impossible to tell.
“Either that or I just peed myself,” she adds.
A uniformed man runs out from the firehouse and introduces himself as Matt. He helps steer Keri Ann toward the stretcher, and despite her recent protests, she doesn’t even balk.
As soon as Matt and the crew member have her strapped on, Matt motions me to climb in the side door. “You’ll see her on the inside,” he yells. “We’ll keep your golf cart here at the firehouse.”
I nod may thanks.
The rain is coming down in sheets.
I grab our two bags from the cart, abandoning it in the field with the keys in it, and climb in the helicopter.
The pilot, with a helmet and earphones on, looks over his shoulder and mouths something to me.
I have no idea what he’s saying. The sound of the helicopter overwhelms everything.
He taps his earphones and points to a set next to me.
I put them on, and instantly the world outside quiets down.
The stretcher slides in next to me with a sodden Keri Ann on it. I reach out and brush the wet hair from her forehead. Her eyes close at my touch, and I can tell she’s emotionally exhausted. And we haven’t even begun yet.
“You must be Jack,” a voice says loudly in my ear. I look at the pilot and nod. “I’m Zach,” he says. “Friend of Cooper’s.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “Her water just broke.”
“How far along?” a different voice asks, the other crew member who’s jumped in next to her. He closes the door.
“Thirty-six weeks,” I tell him. Lungs not fully developed is all I remember now from the books we’ve been reading. Panic grips my insides.
The crew member nods and opens a medical satchel attached to the wall, pulling out an IV pack and plastic tube. “I’m Drew,” he says to me with a nod and peppers me with questions about Keri Ann’s medical history and the name of her doctor.
As soon as he gets the IV set up, he pulls up Keri Ann’s shirt sleeve, ties a cuff above her elbow, and slips a needle into her vein.
She doesn’t even flinch.
The sound of the engine gets louder, and there’s an odd sensation as I realize we are airborne.
“Keri Ann? Baby?” I caress her face. It’s cool to the touch. “Can she hear me?” I ask.
“Probably not. I can get her a headset once we get her stable.”
Stable?
“I need to get a blood pressure cuff on her,” he goes on. “She’s not looking good.”
Ice floods my veins, my heart falling
like a stone. “What?” She looks pale, waxy, her lips are getting white.
Zach’s voice crackles in my ear. “This is C.G. Seven five one eight, do you copy? Over.”
There’s a bunch of unintelligible talking with static that apparently Zach understands because he continues, “Yes, pregnant female on board—”
“Blood pressure 90 over 70 and dropping,” Drew interrupts over the headset. “Fast.”
“What does that mean?” I ask stupidly. My heart is pounding. My stomach is full of cement. I run shaking hands over Keri Ann’s hair. Her cheeks. Jesus, her cold skin.
Dropping blood pressure is not good. Even I know that.
“Open your eyes, baby,” I plead though I know she can’t hear me. She blurs in front of me, and I realize I’m crying.
“Does she have any conditions I need to know about? Placenta Previa? Anything like that?”
I shake my head, swiping my eyes with my palm. My mind is spinning. “No. No, I don’t even know what that is. The doctor said it was a normal pregnancy. What’s going on? Jesus. She’s going to be okay, right?”
He nods. “Okay, great. That’s good news she doesn’t have Placenta Previa. I’m just making sure we don’t have an abruption happening. But symptoms seem to say it is. Her blood pressure is low. Dropping farther. It could be due to internal bleeding. They’ll know more when we land. I’m sorry, this is a Coast Guard heli not a medical evac.”
“Jesus. Fuck.” I want to gather her up against my body, but I’m helpless. “Get her head phones. Please. I need her to hear me.”
In my earphones, Zach is relaying information to someone somewhere, perhaps directly to the hospital.
“I’m putting you guys on your own channel,” Drew says. Suddenly his and Zach’s voices cut off. He hands me a set of earphones. I let go of Keri Ann’s hand, I didn’t even know I was gripping it, and gently move her head so I can slip the earphones in place.
The helicopter banks, and I rock toward her, over her body. “Baby? Keri Ann? Can you hear me?” My voice breaks off into a whisper. I clear my aching throat and try again. “Keri Ann? Please baby, can you hear me?”
There’s nothing. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Drew is holding her wrist and looking at his watch. He looks up, motioning me to carry on.
I shift, shaking my head and trying to pull my shit together. “Okay, look. Keri Ann, you probably can’t respond right now. But listen, baby. I need you to listen. You’re on a chopper. You said you’d never get on one of these things. I need you to wake up so you can kick my ass, you know?” I try to laugh, but I don’t recognize the agonized sound I make. “And you have this little human inside right now who really needs you. I need you.” My voice breaks again as my throat closes up. “You’ve got me crying, baby. You’re the only girl who could ever do that. You break me, just by existing. I love you. So Goddamn much. I need you to stay strong. We’ve got shit to do. We have a baby coming who needs both parents. I need ...” I swallow and grit my teeth to force out more words. So she can hear me. “I need to love you, Goddammit. I’m not done loving you. Not even close. So wake the fuck up. Please. We’re almost there. Please, just hang on.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see frantic talking back and forth between Drew and Zach. Part of me is grateful for the fact I’ve been switched off their channel. Zach is hitting switches above his head. Drew is monitoring the blood pressure gauge, his mouth tight.
I feel like throwing up.
I drop my head to her chest. How did this happen? One minute we’re laughing and wishing virtues on our unborn child and the next I’m begging for Keri Ann’s life.
“Please,” I beg with every thread of strength I have left inside me. “Please. I’m not done loving you.”
Twenty-Nine
“Jack,” Drew says, his voice loud and urgent in my earphones.
I jerk.
“You have to let go, we’ve landed.”
Suddenly the hatch in the tail opens and the stretcher slides past as it’s pulled out.
I fumble my headphones off and snap the seat belt. “Wait,” I yell.
Muggy but cool wind blasts me as the door opens. We’re on top of a building. A team of people in blue scrubs and grim faces are transferring Keri Ann’s limp body to another stretcher. Drew is handing off the IV and someone is slipping it to a pole. I run toward her. Toward Keri Ann. My wife.
Suddenly someone’s in front of me. In my way. Stopping me. I elbow past. Keri Ann’s getting farther away.
“Stop.” Someone’s yelling at me. “They’ve got her.”
“Let go of me,” I roar, not even recognizing myself.
Then Drew is in front of me, gripping both of my arms. “Jack, they are going to do everything they can. You need to get calm so they can ask you questions. So you can help her.” Ahead of us the stretcher disappears through a door, and it closes. I try to focus on the face in front of me.
“Do you understand?” it asks.
I nod.
“So this lady is going to take you down to where Keri Ann is and ask you questions so we can confirm as much information as possible to help your wife. Okay?”
I nod again, looking at the woman in blue scrubs who I belatedly realize I was fighting with to get to Keri Ann. I drag in a breath. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“It’s all right. Just try and stay calm.”
“Where the fuck am I?”
“MUSC, Charleston,” says Zach, joining us. “Medical University of South Carolina Hospital. We had to bring you here because they have a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I’ve called Cooper, who’s called her brother.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “And thank you for getting us here.” My throat closes again.
“Anytime.” Drew grabs my hand and squeezes my upper arm. He’s says nothing else, which to me speaks volumes. My insides liquefy.
“I’m Leslie,” says the woman and starts leading me away. “We’ll get someone to come and grab your stuff, but right now you need to come with me.”
I nod and hurry along with her, realizing she’s holding a clipboard.
“What’s her full name?”
“Age?”
“Birthdate?”
“Due date?”
“Blood type?”
“Name of OBGYN?”
The questions I’ve already given answers to in the chopper are fired at me as we walk into the emergency door. It clangs behind us. There’s an elevator and also stairs. We take the stairs, thank God. Answering the questions and walking helps keep my mind in check.
“What were you doing before she started feeling this way?”
“We’d come in from a walk on the beach.”
“Was she used to strenuous exercise in her condition?”
I nodded. “She was jogging up until the third trimester.”
“Any pain before today?”
“None.”
“Any bleeding or spotting that you know of?”
“No. It was just ... one moment she was fine and then suddenly she wasn’t. I need to see her. Where is she? Is she still unconscious?” I suck in a lungful of air as another wave of panic hits me.
We’re in a bright wide hallway. Leslie leads me through a door, and we’re in a small empty waiting room.
“We thought you might be more comfortable in here than the main waiting area—”
“I don’t want to be in a fucking waiting area,” I yell, my voice breaking on the last word. “I need to be with Keri Ann. Where is she?” I start backing out of the door.
Leslie stops me. “As soon as we know what’s going on with her and the baby, and we have them somewhat stabilized, a doctor will come and talk to you. Right now, you will only be in the way and that could jeopardize your wife’s life. Don’t go anywhere. We’re probably going to have to make some quick decisions.”
“Decisions about what?”
“Just wait for the doctor, okay?”
The door opens, and a woman wal
ks in wearing dark green scrubs. She puts her hand out. “I’m Dr. Lisa Wilhelm. I’m the on call obstetrician, and it’s your lucky day that I happen to specialize in high risk pregnancies.”
I back up as she enters. Her presence is no-nonsense and capable. I flood with hope.
“So this is what we’re looking at,” she begins. “We’re monitoring the baby, but her heart rate is high. She’s in distress. Your wife is losing a lot of blood. That’s probably why she fainted. We believe it’s a sudden abruption of the placenta, but we won’t know for sure until we get in there. There’s about a fifteen percent fetal mortality rate with this so we have to act fast. In some cases, depending on what’s happening it can be higher. We need permission to do what we can to save the baby.”
I clutch the wall next to me as the doctor’s words seem to fade in and out.
Leslie hands me a clip board and pen and points to a signature line. Her mouth is moving, running over what I’m signing. But I go ahead and sign. The faster they can fix my wife the better.
“W-what about Keri Ann?” I whisper hoarsely.
“We’re working to keep them both safe. Mother and child.”
“We’ll be performing an emergency C-section. Your wife’s being prepped for surgery right now.”
“Can I be in there? I have to be there.”
“Jack ... may I call you Jack?”
I nod and she sits down, pulling me down to the chair next to her. My legs collapse easily.
“Jack, in cases like this, there’s a risk—it’s small—but still a risk that we’ll lose the mother—”
It’s like a wrecking ball hitting me in the solar plexus. I double over from the impact.
“You can’t be in there, Jack,” she continues gently. “If something goes wrong, you could be in the way. We could lose her because you are there. You have to trust us to do our jobs and bring you your baby girl and then save your wife’s life.”
Saliva is pooling in my mouth and I choke it down. “Just save her. Save Keri Ann. Please. Save my wife. Please. I can’t—Jesus. I can’t,” I try again, realizing my voice has no sound.
