“We need to get you into the car,” I tell her as she turns huffing and puffing to face Ryan.
He puts his arm around her and gently guides her toward the taxi, saying, “It’s okay, Isabella, you’re doing really well. Almost there, in you go.”
“You’re both coming with me, right?” she asks nervously as she climbs in.
“Yeah, of course,” I assure her, hopping in opposite her as she lies across the back seats.
Ryan pulls down the seat next to me, slams the door, and, over his shoulder, tells the driver togo, go, go.
“Where?” the driver asks.
“The hospital! Where do you think? Ahhhhhh!” Isabella shrieks, hunching in pain.
“I think the closest is St. Thomas’ Hospital,” Ryan says frantically. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
“She better not have a baby in my cab,” the driver grumbles, putting his foot down. “I had someone in here only last night being sick everywhere. I don’t want to have to clean those floors again!”
As we set off, Ryan and I share frequent looks of panic as Isabella’s contractions seem to be getting closer and closer together.
“I need you to come sit over here, Harper, and comfort me,” she says, puffing out breaths as she continues to shift positions throughout the journey, sometimes perching on the edge of the seat then moving to kneel on the floor of the taxi, resting her forehead and arms on the seat. “You’re going to be my birthing partner.”
“It’s an honor,” I tell her, determined to do a good job.
I launch myself from one side of the taxi to the other, offering my hand. She reaches for it and grips it tight.
“I’ve got this. I’ve got this,” she says repeatedly through breaths.
“You’ve got this,” I echo, Ryan nodding in solidarity.
“Please say we’re nearly there!” she squeals, just as we come to the stop in some heavy traffic on Westminster Bridge, before crying out at a contraction.
“Almost there! We’re so close!”
“Oh god, this is bad,” she croaks. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it. I’m feeling an urge to push. Weneedto get to the hospital!”
“We’re going to make it,” Ryan assures her, glancing back over his shoulder at the long queue of traffic across the bridge. “Any minute and we’ll be moving again.”
There are beeps and angry shouts up ahead, and I see the cabdriver look at us in his rearview mirror, his forehead creased in panic. After a while of standstill traffic, our cabdriver starts honking the horn constantly, especially when Isabella shrieks in pain at another contraction.
“Move it!” the driver yells out his window. “LADY HAVING A BABY HERE!”
“Harper,” Isabella says, tightening her grip on my hand, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead as she moves her position again, “you need to phone the ambulance. I’m feeling the urge to push.”
I feel like all the breath has been knocked out of me. “Are you s-sure?”
She nods.
“Okay, don’t worry, it’s going to be all right, it’s going to be fine,” I say, convincing myself as well as everyone else as I grapple with my phone and dial 999.
“You have got to be kidding me,” the driver groans, slamming his hand on the horn. “You should have called an ambulance in the first place, not a cab!”
Ryan opens his mouth, but Isabella shoots him the evilest of glares. “If you dare say anything along the lines of ‘I told you so’…”
“I wasn’t going to, I swear,” he says, his eyes wide with fear.
I explain the situation to the emergency call handler, as Isabella instinctively moves into a squatting position, shouting, “Do any of you have a towel? We’re going to need a towel! This baby is coming! It’s not supposed to be coming yet! This is too soon! This pushing part is supposed to take ages! Tell them, Ryan!”
“I… uh… if you can hear me in there, little baby, you’re not s-supposed to come yet,” Ryan stammers dutifully.
