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Chapter 9
SETH
“Shit,”Irepeat,not knowing what else I can say.
Didn’t we have four more days? Alex isn’t here and I don’t have time to go find Lucas. Rachel’s water broke how long ago? Does that mean at any minute a little baby’s head is going to come poking out of her?
As soon as I get her downstairs, I help her toward the couch, think that’s the best place to leave her while I get…everything. Aren’t we supposed to have a hospital bag packed somewhere? Why are we so ill prepared for this?
“Call the cab, Seth!” Rachel barks at me, her voice strained and yet stern at the same time. She scowls at me while her hands cup her belly.
“On it,” I say while running to my bag, my fingers shakily undoing the zipper.
I bite back a cry when I don’t find my cell phone lying at the top of my things. I dig through it, throwing out my change of pants, t-shirt, running shoes, wallet, until, when the bag is completely empty, I realize it’s in my coat pocket. Why am I such an idiot?
“Seth!” Rachel shouts. “Hurry!”
“I’m sorry!” I stab my finger on the Uber app, and without even looking to see how much it’s going to cost me, I choose the closest car. “It will be here in ten minutes!”
Rachel groans in response and I run to her side, kneeling in front of her. I pull her hands into mine, watching her as she rocks back and forth, her eyes clamped closed.
“What can I get you?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as terrified as I feel. “What should I pack?”
“I can’t find my cell phone,” she says shakily, her lips twitching while tears stream down her cheeks.
“You left it on the charger in the kitchen,” I say, already running to get it, and lo and behold, I find it right next to the refrigerator, completely charged. “Is there anything else we need?” I shout while shoving her phone into my coat pocket.
“Snacks, baby clothes, diapers, my birthing gown, socks, toiletries—” Rachel keeps listing off items while I run around the kitchen and living room like a mad man. Why didn’t we pack these things before? I know why. Because she was supposed to be having a c-section. How the hell am I supposed to find all these items before the cab arrives? We’re fucked. Royally fucked.
“I think Lucas packed a bag,” Rachel croaks after five minutes of me running back and forth, holding three diapers, a bag of baby clothes we just bought from Baby’s R Us and a towel I found in the kitchen. I have no clue why I grabbed it, I just thought we may need it.
“Where’s the bag?” I rush out, sounding like I’ve bene running several marathons back-to-back.
Rachel makes a face and groans. It tears at my heart. I have no clue what to do for her. I feel absolutely useless. All I want to do is take her pain away, or at least make things easier for her, but what can I do? I knew I would be bad at this. I didn’t realize just how bad. It’s not like I attended any classes with her to help with her breathing. I know absolutely zero other than what I have seen on TV or in movies, which is usually full of garbage anyway.
“I think,” Rachel gasps, “it’s in his room.”
I bound up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst into Lucas’s room. For a brief second, I take a moment to acknowledge how tidy it is compared to mine. There’s a minimalist desk facing the window with a laptop and a neat stack of papers. The bag in question is located right beside it. I seize it, looking briefly inside and finding something vaguely similar to the items Rachel listed.
“Seth!” Rachel calls, her voice strained. “I think our Uber is here!”
I race down the stairs, slinging the hospital bag over one shoulder, finding Rachel struggling to push herself out of the sofa. Reaching for her, I take her hand and pull her up. She cries out as she stands and leans into me, her hands squeezing mine while I attempt to guide her toward the door.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say. I have no clue if it will be. It’s just the thing you say when someone is suffering.
When we step outside the house, we find the Uber driver standing outside his car, his annoyed gaze widening on Rachel as we hobble toward the car.
“What the…” he mutters while we circle around the car.
“How fast can you get to the hospital?” I shout as I yank open the door and help Rachel inside.
“I-I don’t know,” the driver stutters. “Fifteen? Maybe twenty minutes.”
Rachel cries out in response while I slam the door closed.
“Just get there as fast as possible,” I rush out.
The driver stumbles into his seat while I buckle both me and Rachel into our seats. She’s still clinging to me. Beads of sweat drip down her face. I feel so sorry for her. All I can do is stroke her hair and kiss her forehead.
