Chapter 13: Technically, Blood

Hamish drove fast and smooth, one hand on the wheel and the other flat on my knee.

"Breathe out through your mouth," he said. "Long as you can."

Tamara's car was right behind us.

I could see her in the side mirror, both hands on the wheel, talking to someone on speaker.

"Tell me the time between," Hamish said.

"I don't know. Six minutes. Five."

"Good. You're doing it right. I called ahead, they're waiting."

Another pain came and bent me over the seat belt, and I made a sound I had never made in my life.

He didn't say it would be okay.

He said, "I've got you," and then, in a different voice, "Sorry. That's his line. Not mine."

I laughed, and it turned into a groan, and the laugh was the only thing that kept me from crying.

At the hospital doors a nurse met us with a wheelchair.

She looked at Hamish in his jacket and said, "Are you the father?"

"No," he said. "I'm the driver. I'll wait in the lobby."

"Okay," I said, and then I took hold of his sleeve with both hands.

I had no plan to do it.

"Hamish. Don't go."

He looked down at my fingers.

"Becky, the rule."

"I know the rule. I wrote the rule."

The nurse was lifting my skirt to check, and she stopped and looked up at both of us.

"Ma'am, there's some bleeding," she said. "Not a lot. We're taking you straight back."

I looked at Hamish.

He looked at me, and his mouth moved at one corner, and it was the first time I had seen him fight a smile and lose.

"Technically," he said, "that's blood."

"Then you're coming inside," I said.

He walked beside the wheelchair the whole way down the hall.

The labor room had a window over the parking lot and a clock that I hated.

Tamara came in at ten past noon, out of breath, with a plastic bag of snacks and both our phones.