Tiny stared at her. “The baby,” he repeated dumbly. “The baby…” His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Jesus fuck,the baby?” Panic filled his plump features. “It’s comin’? Like, right now? Jesus!” Hands in his hair, he glanced wildly around the kitchen. “I’ll go get my bike!”
Debbie squeezed her eyes closed, fighting for calm. “I can’t ride on your bike,” she hissed. Tossing the spatula into the sink, she pushed passed him. “You go call Preacher. I’m going to go change.”
Inside the bedroom, Debbie changed out of her nightdress and into one of the many shapeless maternity shifts Sylvia had loaned her. Finished, she glanced around the room, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror.
Her shaking hands went to her stomach. She was nothing but stomach—as if the baby had taken her over completely. She was ridiculously pale, too—her wide eyes looked glaringly dark against her too-white skin. Staring at herself, she shook her head slowly.
She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t ready.
Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she breathed in deeply through her nose. And then out a moment later. Air raced through her lungs, cold and cutting, doing nothing to lessen her fear. Every breath felt like an extra helping of dread until her lungs felt too full and her breathing turned shallow.
Abruptly, Debbie turned away from the mirror and took a seat on the bed. Staring helplessly at the bare, cream-colored wall, she placed her hand on her chest and attempted to breathe normally.
This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t time yet.
Oh God, she needed Preacher.
Covering her face with her hands, she breathed noisily into her palms. She needed Preacher. He should be here with her. She couldn’t do this without him. He wanted this baby—not her.
“Please no,” she mumbled. She dropped her hands and looked helplessly around the room to the wall. “Please God, no. I can’t do this.”
She definitely couldn’t do this with Tiny.
Another cramp rippled through her, worse than before. Pain radiated from her back to her front and she rolled onto her side, clutching her stomach. Once the discomfort subsided, she blinked blearily across the room.
“Debbie?” Tiny appeared in the doorway, scratching at his head. His nervous gaze flicked nervously around the room before landing on her. “Preacher ain’t at the club and Max says he don’t know when he’s gettin’ back. Want me to grab a taxi?”
“No!” Debbie cried, violently shaking her head back and forth. “Call Sylvia!”
She wasn’t going anywhere without Preacher. She would stay right here until he showed up.
Tiny looked as scared as Debbie felt. “But, uh…” He swallowed hard. “Shouldn’t we get you to the hospital?”
“Tiny! Call Sylvia—right now!”
Eyes wide and head bobbing frantically, Tiny disappeared down the hallway.
Minutes passed, maybe hours; time had ceased to exist in Debbie’s current state. Panic continued to worsen her nausea, causing her to periodically dry heave. Her contractions persisted, coming closer together. Several times Tiny poked his head in to ask her if she needed anything, and she’d only managed to groan in response.
“Where is she?” Sylvia demanded.
Debbie jolted at the sound of Sylvia’s voice and cried out. A moment later Sylvia rushed into the bedroom.
“I’m here, I’m here!” Sylvia was breathless as she dropped down on her knees beside the bed. Her hands covered Debbie’s—cold against Debbie’s sweat-drenched skin. The familiar, overly sweet scent of Sylvia’s perfume filled Debbie’s nostrils, causing her stomach to roil.
“My water broke,” Debbie moaned.
Sylvia smoothed a hand over her forehead. “Oh Debbie, that’s the least of it. From the looks of it, you’re in labor.” She glanced around the room. “Now where’s your bag?”
Debbie blinked at her, confused.
“Your bag,” Sylvia repeated. “Your hospital bag? Clothes for you and the baby?”
Debbie shook her head. “I forgot.”
She hadn’t really forgotten; she just hadn’t done it. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do anything baby related. Everything the Sylvia had purchased for the baby was piled inside the closet, still wrapped in its store packaging.
Sylvia smiled at her—a kind and gentle smile that looked out of place on the always-scowling Italian. She squeezed Debbie’s hands. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of it.”
