Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(29)

She walked back into the kitchen. “Waddled” might be a more accurate word. At over eight months pregnant, Tracy’s belly was enormous and in the last two weeks her ankles had started to swell terribly. Come to think of it, everything had started to swell. Her fingers looked like five sausages sewn together and her face was as puffy and round as a Dutch cheese. The effect was made worse by the ultrashort haircut she’d adopted for her new persona as Mrs. Schmidt. Tracy had thought it looked so chic in the salon, when she was still slim and barely showing. Now it made her feel like a lesbian prison warden.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

Blake Carter watched anxiously as Tracy slowed down, grabbing her belly.

“Yes, I think so. Amy’s been trying to break out of there all morning. She’s got quite a kick on her now. I . . . ow!”

Doubling over, Tracy grabbed the kitchen counter. Moments later, to her intense embarrassment, her water broke all over the newly tiled floor.

“Oh my God!”

“I’ll drive you to the hospital,” said Blake. He had no children of his own but had delivered countless calves, and unlike Tracy, he wasn’t remotely embarrassed.

“No, no,” said Tracy. “I’m having a home birth. If you wouldn’t mind just calling my doula and asking her to get up here? Her number’s on the refrigerator.”


Blake Carter frowned disapprovingly. “With all due respect, ma’am, your water just broke. You should be in a hospital. With a doctor, not a Dolittle.”

“Dou-la.” Tracy grinned.

She was determined to have a drug-free birth and to do it herself. Being a mother was the one role she had waited for her whole life. She needed to be good at it. Capable. In control. She needed to prove to herself that she could manage alone.

“I’d really feel better taking you to the hospital, ma’am. As your husband . . . you know . . . ain’t with you.”

“It’s all right, Blake, truly.” Tracy was touched by his concern and grateful for his calm, strong presence. But she’d planned for this. She was ready. “Just call Mary. She’ll know what to do.”

THE SCREAMS WERE GETTING LOUDER.

Blake Carter stood outside Tracy’s bedroom feeling increasingly alarmed. He knew a woman’s first delivery could take awhile. But he also knew that once the water has gone, the baby needs to get on out. Mrs. Schmidt had been in there for hours. And the noises she was making weren’t normal. Blake Carter had only known Tracy Schmidt a short while, but it was long enough to see that she was a tough cookie, physically and emotionally. It simply wasn’t like her to holler like that.

As for the do-lally, Mary, the girl looked like she was barely out of high school.

Another scream. This time there was fear in it. Enough’s enough.

Blake Carter burst into the room. Tracy was lying on the bed. The entire sheet and mattress were soaked with blood. The girl, Mary, hovered beside her, white-faced and panicked.

“Jesus Christ,” said Blake.

“I’m sorry!” The doula had tears in her eyes. “I . . . I didn’t know what to do. I know some bleeding can be normal but I . . .”

Blake Carter pushed the girl aside. Scooping Tracy up into his arms, he staggered toward the door. “If she dies, or the baby dies, it’s on your head.”

TRACY WAS LYING ON the floor of the plane. It was a 747 from the Air France fleet headed for Amsterdam and it was bumping around like crazy. Must be a storm. She was supposed to do something. Steal some diamonds? Tape up a pallet? She couldn’t remember. Sweat was pouring off her. Then the pain came again. Not pain, agony, like somebody cutting out her internal organs with a serrated kitchen knife. She screamed wildly.

In the front seat of the truck, Blake Carter fought back tears.

“It’s all right honey,” he told her. “We’re almost there.”

TRACY WAS IN A white room. She heard voices.

The prison doctor in Louisiana. “The cuts and bruises are bad but they’ll heal . . . she’s lost the baby.”

Her mother, on the telephone, the night that she died. “I love you very, very much, Tracy.”

Jeff, in the safe house in Amsterdam, screaming at her. “For Christ’s sake, Tracy, open your eyes! How long have you been like this?”

“HOW LONG HAS SHE been like this?” the young doctor barked at Blake Carter.

“Waters broke about four hours ago.”

“Four hours?” For a moment Blake thought the doctor was about to hit him. “Why the hell did you wait so long?”

“I didn’t realize what was happening. I wasn’t . . .” The words caught in the old cowboy’s throat. Tracy was already being wheeled into the operating room. She was still screaming and delirious. She kept calling for someone named Jeff. “Will she be okay?”

The doctor looked him square in the eye. “I don’t know. She’s lost a huge amount of blood. There are some signs of eclampsia.”

Blake Carter’s eyes widened. “But, she’ll live, right? And the baby . . . ?”

“The baby should live,” said the doctor. “Excuse me.”

THE PAIN WAS THERE, and then it was gone.

Tracy wasn’t afraid. She was ready to die, ready to see her mother again. She felt suffused with an immense sense of peace.