No. No no no. It was too soon. Thirty-two weeks was too soon. Over a month early. Alex wasn’t ready. His lungs might not be fully developed yet. Full term was nine months and I wasn’t there yet and this couldn’t be happening.
“Okay,” I said, and my voice came out thin and high. “Okay. This is fine. This is Braxton Hicks. This is practice.”
The third one started before the second fully stopped and the panic hit me like ice water. Fuck. This wasn’t practice. Practice contractions didn’t come back to back. Practice contractions didn’t make you see white.
My phone was on the window seat. I reached for it with shaking hands and almost dropped it twice before I got Finneas’s number up. He picked up on the first ring.
“Something’s wrong.” I heard my own voice and it sounded terrified and I couldn’t fix it. “I’m in the animal wing. I’m having contractions and they’re coming fast and it’s too early, Finneas. It’s too early.”
“I’m coming. Don’t move. I’m coming right now.”
I heard him drop something. The scrape of a chair. Running footsteps through the phone and then he hung up.
I sat on the floor with my hand on my belly and my back against the window seat and tried to breathe the way the doctor taught me, in through my nose, out through my mouth, slow. My brain wouldn’t slow down. Thirty-two weeks. Premature. NICU. Underdeveloped lungs. All the worst-case scenarios I’d read about at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep were playing on a loop behind my eyes.
“You stay in there,” I whispered to my belly. “You hear me? You are not coming yet. You’re not ready and neither am I.”
He was there in under two minutes. I knew because I was counting seconds between contractions and he came through the door at a hundred and fourteen. Running, actually running, and when he saw me on the floor his face went white.
“Don’t panic,” I said.
“I’m not panicking.”
“You look like you’re panicking.”
“I’m fine.” He crouched beside me, his hands firm on my belly, on my back, even though his face said the opposite of fine. I heldonto that, the sureness of his hands, because mine wouldn’t stop shaking. “How far apart?”
“Two minutes. Maybe less. They started a few minutes ago.”
“It’s too soon.” His voice was controlled but I could hear the edge underneath. “Thirty-two weeks is too soon.”
“I know.”
“Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
He helped me up. I leaned into him and we got three steps before the next one hit and I gripped his arm so hard I heard him inhale through his teeth. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just planted his feet and held me upright while the contraction squeezed through me like a fist.
“We’re going to the hospital,” he said when it passed.
“It might be Braxton Hicks.”
“It might not. We’re going.”
“Finneas...”
“Andrea, it’s too early for him to come. We’re going to the goddamn hospital right now.”
I didn’t argue because the next contraction was already building and my legs were shaking and when he picked me up I let him. I buried my face in his neck and held on while he carried me down the hall, out the front door. His heartbeat was hammeringthrough his chest against my cheek and his arms were locked under me like iron and I was so scared I couldn’t think about anything except the baby, please let the baby be okay, please.
He drove too fast. I told him to slow down. He didn’t.
“Slow down, Finneas.”
“No.”
“You’re going to get pulled over.”
