Something Blue - Emily Giffin [123]
"I'm fine… Is Stanford winning?"
"They haven't tipped off yet," he said. "I'm watching Wake Forest now. They're looking pretty solid—which is good because I have them going to the Final Four in my pool." I pictured him perched on a barstool gripping the yellow highlighter he used to mark up his brackets torn from USA Today.
"When does your game start?" I asked, debating whether I should wait until the game was over to have him meet me at the hospital.
"Soon. Why? Are you okay?"
I hesitated and then said, "I'm really sorry, Ethan. I know how much you look forward to this tournament and Stanford playing and everything… but my water broke. Do you think you could come home and take me to the hospital?"
"Oh, Christ! Don't move!" he shouted into the phone. "I'll be right there!"
Ten minutes later he burst through the door and streaked down the hall toward the bedroom, yelling, "Cab's waiting outside! Cab's waiting outside!"
"I'm right here," I called out to him from the living room. My small duffel, which I had packed weeks earlier, was resting at my feet.
He ran into the living room, kissed my cheek, and breathlessly asked how I was.
"I'm fine," I said, feeling relieved to see him. "Would you mind tying my shoes? I can't reach."
"Oh, God. I'm so sorry I wasn't here," he said as he stooped down to tie my Nikes. His hands were shaking.
"Where's your jacket?" I asked, noticing that he had come home wearing only his lucky Stanford T-shirt. "It has to be freezing outside."
"I left it at the bar."
"Oh, Ethan, I'm sorry," I said. "And I'm really sorry about interrupting your game too."
He told me not to be silly, he'd get the jacket later, and the game wasn't important. As he bent down to pick up my bag, I noticed a clear patch adhered to his arm, peeking out from under his T-shirt.
"You've quit smoking?" I asked, realizing that I hadn't seen him with a cigarette in ages or, for that matter, detected any telltale tobacco odor on his clothing.
"Yeah. Can't have smoke around you or the babies." He nervously rubbed his patch as if to give himself a needed boost of nicotine.
I thanked him, feeling moved by his effort.
"Don't mention it. I needed to quit anyway. Now let's go!" He pulled me to my feet and shouted, "Schnell! Schnell!" which I figured meant "hurry" in another language, maybe German. He helped me to the door, where he grabbed his only other jacket, a bright yellow raincoat. Then he inhaled sharply, rubbed his hands together, and said, "Well. This is it."
During our cab ride to the hospital, Ethan helped me with my breathing exercises, which was amusing because he seemed to need more help breathing than I did. We determined that my contractions were six minutes apart and lasting about thirty seconds each.
"How bad does it hurt?" Ethan asked every time I winced. "On a scale of one to ten?"
My pain threshold was normally quite low, and I'd been known to bawl even during the removal of a splinter, so the pain actually felt like an eleven. But I told him a four because I wanted him to be proud of my strength. I also told him I wasn't scared—which is really saying something coming from a former pessimistic drama queen. But it was the truth—I wasn't scared. I just knew everything was going to be all right with my babies. I had made it to thirty-four and a half weeks. And I had Ethan with me. What more could I ask for? I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. I was ready to meet my sons.
We checked in at the hospital, and Ethan pushed my wheelchair to our assigned birthing room. He then helped me undress and change into my hospital gown. He blushed as I stood naked in front of him, and for a second I was embarrassed too.
"You ain't seen nothing yet," I said to ease the awkwardness. I laughed. "There is no modesty from here on out… And I sure hope you're not squeamish."
He smiled, held my hand, and