Mom patted his arm. “We’re going to be fine. Just drive, Ash.”
While Mom continued to hee-hee, hoo-hoo, Dad smashed the gas pedal down, flying over the paved driveway. We were hardly on the main road when Mom’s hand, still resting on Dad’s arm, shifted from a soft pat to a tight, desperate curl—like Little Orphan Annie hanging by one hand from the NX drawbridge. She released a grunt that sounded like someone had punched her in the stomach. The next sound was a low, feral cry, thick with pain and determination, her nails digging into Dad’s forearm.
“Tal-lyyy!” Dad yelled as the van swerved.
She let go and gripped her armrest instead, her body arching, every muscle flexed.
“Babe, are you okay?” Dad asked, sheer panic in his voice.
She closed her eyes and breathed out in a long O. “Fine. Oh man. That one was rough.
“This is not good,” Dad said, flipping the blinker to turn on the back road to Honeyville. “You shouldn’t be having contractions like that until you’re closer to push time.” His eyebrow cocked. “Are you close to push time?” His voice pitched into falsetto territory.
But she didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead, too focused. Like she was straining.
I grew up on a ranch, sure. But it was always Gramps, my dad, or one of my uncles doing the actual delivering—cows, pigs, horses. I’d only been the towel girl. But I wasn’t taking any chances now. I pulled up a YouTube video and watched it on a loop, like I was studying for the SAT.
Fifteen minutes later, Mom grimaced, her back lifting off the seat. “Hee-hee, hoo. Hee-hee, hoo. Ash?” she bellowed.
“Yeah?” He shoved a hand into his hair, looking so helpless.
She let out a stifled shriek. “I need you to go faster!”
“I’m pulling over,” he muttered.
“Don’t you dare! You get me to that hospital! What if she needs oxygen?” Her breath stuttered. “Ineedtopush!” she roared.
“No. Don’t do it,” Dad said in what we called his stern professor voice. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I can’t. I can’t hold it in!” Mom shouted louder than I’d ever heard her shout before.
Forehead furrowed, Dad leaned forward as if concentrating harder would make us arrive faster. “Charlie?” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Can you check and see if she’s crowning?”
“Crowning?”
“See if the baby’s head is visible.”
I blanched, my stomach dropping. Was he serious? One look at his face—every line etched deep with worry—told me he’d never been more serious in his life.
Mom’s fingers curled around the armrests again as the speedometer reached sixty-five in a fifty-five. “Hee-hee-hee. Hoo-hoo-hoo. These stupid breathing techniques don’t work!” She spat a curse word I’d never heard her say and let out a gut-wrenching groan. “They neeeever dooooo!”
I unhooked my belt and found Mom’s hospital bag on the floor. I grabbed Mom’s bath towel and laid it across the seat I’d been sitting on. Next, I flipped myself around, grateful there was no console in the way, and knelt by Mom.
“Ima,” I said, using the Jewish word for mother, trying to bring her focus back to me. “I’m right here.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, chest rising and falling too fast. But her eyes locked on mine, determined.
I gently squeezed her hand. “We need to move you to the back seat. Do you think you can do that between contractions?”
She nodded, delicate veins bulging in her neck as she blew out another few breaths. “I think—” She gasped. “Now.”
I undid her seatbelt and eased her arm around my shoulder. Her legs wobbled and I almost tripped but I righted myself, taking more of her weight. I lowered her onto the bench seat and collapsed to my knees.
“Four minutes,” Dad announced. “Almost there, Tal.”
“I can’t wait that long,” Mom cried.
“Charlie, I need you to check,” Dad said with practiced calm.
