Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(108)

The group ahead of us halts in their tracks. “What?”

“I need that sled!” He lets go of my hand and jogs a few paces toward them. “It’s an emergency.”

“I just got this out of our storage unit!” a boy’s voice argues. “We’re going to the park!”

“Give you fifty bucks for it,” Eric says. “The lady needs to go to the hospital.”

The kid is eight or ten years old. He looks wary. “A hundred,” he says.

“Jesus Christ.” Eric is pulling out his wallet. “I got eighty. Come on.”

The transaction goes through, and I can hear Duff laughing as he catches up to us, still lugging my hospital bag.

Eric trots back to me, a drugstore plastic sled in tow. “Climb aboard, Engels.”

I climb gratefully onto the sled, and Eric takes off at a trot. Madison Avenue glides by, its shops advertising last minute holiday ideas and drink specials.

But the next contraction takes my breath away. I must have screamed because the sled stops, and Eric and Duff both peer down at me.

“Keep going,” I pant.

And we do. Eric maneuvers the sled into the center of Madison Avenue, with Duff bringing up the rear to watch for cars that never pass by.

I lose track of our progress, though, because I have a new problem. “I-I want to p-push,” I wheeze. “Really, a lot.”

“Don’t push,” Eric barks. “No pushing.”

“What does that mean?” Duff asks.

“Nothing good,” Eric says, moving faster.

“Lemme take a turn?” Duff offers. “Your knee must hate this.”

“Nope. I braced it.” Eric pushes on. “This is easier than a bag skate. Hockey is an endurance sport.”

“Labor is an endurance sport,” I wheeze. My back is on fire, and my pelvis is as tight as a drum. “I need to push.”

“There will be no pushing,” Eric says as we fly toward the big red EMERGENCY sign on the west side of the street.

But the urge is so strong, I find I’m holding my breath. And when the contraction peaks, I scream.

That’s how I enter the emergency room at Mount Sinai—screaming on a plastic sled. Coincidentally, they put me onto a gurney and get me into an exam room faster than you can say ten centimeters dilated.

Someone approaches with a pair of shears, which are used to cut off my yoga pants, and all I have to say is, “I need to push.” Then I burst into tears.

“She’s crowning!” a voice calls out.

“Page OB! Page peds,” another voice demands.

Eric wipes my face and pets my hair. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “This is a great story, remember?”

“On the next contraction, you can push,” someone says. My vision swims. The lights are so bright, and the doctor is completely swathed in blue scrubs, and with the cap and mask. I can’t see anything but a pair of eyes.

“Arrrghhh!” someone screams. And that someone is me. I bear down, and the pain is extreme. I might rip right in half on this table.

And then something just gives way, and I feel the greatest relief I have ever felt in my entire life.

“Your baby’s head has arrived,” the doctor says. It’s a woman. Through the blur, I focus on her very dark brown eyes. “One more push and you’re there.”

One more push. I’m so tired. “Can I have an epidural?”

The doctor laughs. So, I guess that’s a no. “Daddy, come down here. You can help me deliver your baby.”

“What? I don’t know how to do that,” he says.

“I’ve never delivered a baby before, either,” the doctor says with a shrug. “But this one is coming either way.”

Eric moves to the end of the table. He shed his jacket at some point. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt with GAP in purple letters stretched across the chest, along with two days’ worth of whiskers. I already know everything will be okay, and that I would follow him anywhere.

I take a deep breath. I can feel the next contraction coming, like a big swell in the ocean, ready to suck me under.

“Showtime!” the doctor says. “Push!”

I let out a roar as I bear down.

“There you are,” Eric croons. “Hello, baby girl.”

“Oh yeah, the umbilical cord,” the doctor says. “Clamp?”

“Here.”

And then I hear the best sound—a thin little wail. It’s the sound of victory. I flop back onto the gurney, sweating from every pore.

When I look up, Eric is there, holding a slimy, wet baby in two big hands. A nurse sweeps a towel underneath that tiny body, gathering her up and easing her into Eric’s arms.

“Oh, don’t cry,” Eric says, rocking her against his chest. “So—this is the world. It’s a little bright, and a little loud. But we got you. And you really won big in the mama lottery.”

Suddenly my eyes are fountains.

“Time of birth, eleven forty-two,” someone says. “Where’s the peds consult?”

“How much does she weigh?” I sob, hoping it’s enough.

“Who knows? We don’t have a baby scale in here. But God, that was fun!” the doctor says. “I should have been an OB. Come back any time.”