If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(88)
Whenever Mom whipped out her more colorful vocabulary, a lecture would follow. “I can’t keep apologizing, Mom. You’re angry with me. I get that. Sorry, not sorry, for trying to get your money back in a way that didn’t land us both behind bars. In case you’re interested, the FBI agreed to deputize me for the OIA once they finish verifying what we told them. It looks like we’ll coordinate with the Puerto Rican field office, given Lyle’s present course.”
“How exciting for you.” She kept her eyes on her book. The icy sarcasm made me shiver even though I was still sweating.
“You do know you’re not the only one affected by all of this, right? Whatever you and I suffer, at least we are partly to blame for our mistakes. What about my innocent baby? She’s likely to suffer her entire life because of her father’s crimes. So maybe think about that while you sit there trying to make me feel worse than I already do. Involving the authorities was the smart choice. Why can’t you admit that if we’d done it your way, we probably would’ve failed?”
She set her book on her thighs. “We don’t know that.”
“Our chances are much better with coaching and backup.” Another cramp grabbed hold. I winced and blew a few short breaths.
“What’s the matter?” Her sharp gaze softened as it dropped to my stomach.
After the cramp passed, I slid from the arm to the cushion. “It’s been a rough day. Lots of cramping.”
Her anger gave way to concern, but her pinched expression made me uneasy. “Are you sure those aren’t contractions?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’ve never done this before—I thought contractions were painful. These feel more like a ball of pressure collecting and releasing. It’s probably from stress.”
“But it could be more serious, especially if it’s been happening all day. You’re barely seven months pregnant. If you’re having preterm labor contractions, we need to go to the doctor.” She set her book aside and came over to lay her hand on my stomach. “Have you eaten today?”
Nothing since the banana and cup of yogurt this morning. “Not much.” Everything I ate came back up on me when I was nervous, and I’d puked enough during my first trimester to last a lifetime.
“Amanda! Have you been keeping hydrated?”
To be honest, the past few days had been a blur of terse conversations here, phone calls with Kevin and Stan, and donning a brave face in public despite telling a few people about the divorce. The last thing on my mind had been making sure to drink enough water or juice.
I flinched when another cramp tightened my abdomen.
“That’s it. We’re going to the doctor. I’ll drive.” My mother stood and then helped me off the sofa.
She had me alarmed now. Though, admittedly, having her back on my side helped me cooperate.
“Where’s Erin?” A month ago I wouldn’t have wanted her with me during a crisis. Amazingly, Lyle and the end of our marriage had brought about something I’d craved my whole life.
“She left a while ago.” Mom found her purse by the television. “I think she went over to visit that man Nancy helped.”
I doubted Eli thought Nancy had helped him. “Oh, she didn’t mention those plans to me.”
The other morning we’d lain in our beds while she repeated, word for word, her conversation with him at the Lamplight and Dream Cream, but she hadn’t said anything about a date.
“Who says there were ‘plans’? You know her and her last-minute decisions. Now come on, I’ll drive.” My mother took my elbow as if I couldn’t walk for myself, but I allowed her to feel useful and needed. As a retired widow with grown children, she probably didn’t feel that way often. “We can’t let this FBI business affect little Willa’s health, or yours.”
Despite weeks of Mom’s befuddled behavior, her laser focus returned. I’d meant to change out of my sweaty clothes, but my doctor had surely seen and smelled worse. Mom hustled me into the car so quickly I forgot my phone, so I borrowed hers.
On the way to my OB’s office, conveniently located in a professional wing of the hospital, I called my doctor but got the answering service, who told me to go directly to the emergency room. I also tried Erin, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message before slipping Mom’s phone back into her purse as she parked in the shadow of the hospital.
It didn’t matter how new the furniture, how big the fish tank, or how sunny the large windows were in any emergency room; they still made me nervous. The elderly man and his oxygen tank. The mom with a coughing child at her side and another on her lap. The clunking electric locks of the doors whenever health care workers strolled in and out of the patient waiting room. The sirens of the ambulance and then the hustle of nurses racing someone on a gurney back into the bowels of the hospital.
It took some time to fill out the paperwork and have my vitals taken. Finally, they put me in a small room, hooked me up to an IV saline drip, and strapped some equipment across my belly to measure my contractions and monitor Willa’s heart rate.
My mother paced the tight space while we waited for my doctor.
“Mom, please sit. You’re making me more nervous.” I nibbled at my cuticles.
She sat in a plastic prefab chair. “Sorry.”