Between Octobers Bk 1, Savor The Days Series (47 page)

“Marcus? This is Grace. I’m sorry if I woke
you, but I was hoping you could give me Evan’s number. I need to
speak with him right away.”

“Oi, that’s fab, love. He’ll be chuffed to
speak with you.”

“How is he?”

“He was in a bad way there for a bit, but
he’s mending now. And still missing you, I suppose. Let me get that
number.”

My heart leapt as my head throbbed. I
waddled to the sofa and plopped down, pen at the ready. Marcus read
the long number to me twice, making sure I had it right.

“If he don’t pick up, be sure to leave a
message. He’s in Iceland, filming, and he won’t want to miss your
call.”

I could not stop my halting sob of relief.
“Really? He. He wants to talk?”

“Grace, I don’t know what you been hearing,
love. Lily won’t tell me nothin’. But he’s been right miserable
with waiting for you to call.”

“Thank you, Marcus. Come back to the States,
soon. Lily misses you, too.”

“I’m working on that. You make your
call.”

I really hoped Evan could talk.
What’s the time difference between here and
Iceland?
I wondered.

I stared at the long number in my hand,
debating what to say, wishing I could plan the conversation, and
knowing I’d screw it up if I tried. I took the phone with me into
the kitchen, aiming to quench my parched palate.

When I came through the kitchen door, Sheri
was standing on the opposite side of the island.

“How did you get in here?” As I asked as a
cold tremor shot up my spine.

She was wearing purple, non-latex gloves. My
thumb twitched at the number one on speed dial.

“They’ll say ‘the queen is dead.’” Her voice
quavered in an odd monotone while her dark, eyes stared into
nothing.

“What?”

“A fantastic headline. Memorable.” She held
out a hand. “Give me the phone.”

I heard the faint echo from the receiver as
an emergency operator answered and yelled over it. “How did you get
into my house? Get out!”

Sheri held out a garage door opener. I must
not have heard it open. From the back waist of her pants, she
pulled a black shape. A Taser.

“Are you going to kill us?” I covered my
belly, protectively.

“Give me the fucking phone.”

I surrendered the handset, face up on the
counter, hoping the operator would hear the exchange.

“Do you really want to know?” She flipped
her fingers, indicating I should slide the phone closer to her.

I stepped to one side, trying to think over
my options and hoping to distract her from my fingers slipping
across the face of the receiver to end the call. My lifeline.

There was a cast iron skillet in the oven
and a block of steak knives on the counter. I could knock her out
with the pan. A knife, I could drop. She could use it against
me.

“I’m not into murder.” She snapped the
elastic on her gloved hand. “This is a suicide. When they find you,
it will be clear.”

My heart stopped. I felt the blood rush from
my face and pool in my feet. My hands tingled.

Sheri cautiously took the phone in her hand,
looking down to examine it.

And for the first time in my life, I wished
for a smaller kitchen. Lunging for the set of knives, I felt the
sting on my back and leg. It started to burn. My splayed fingers
caught the handle of the coffee carafe as I fell, quivering on the
tile. Convulsing.

The sound of glass shattered near me, but I
couldn’t see it.

When the room came into focus once more,
Sheri was hunching over me, her backside set atop my belly. Her
mouth was moving but the words made no sense. I could feel the
spiky charges still sticking into me, see the white wires peeking
from the mouth of her weapon. My uterus clenched, tight like a
contraction, and I wailed.

I could not turn my head, but did see my
arms. They wouldn’t move. My muscles were nonresponsive, like they
and my brain suddenly spoke different languages.

Sheri stood and disappeared from my line of
sight. Soon, I was moving. I felt the pull on my leg, her hands
wrapped around my ankle. My shirt rode up and around my shoulders
as she dragged me through the living room.

“You pissed yourself,” she laughed, dropping
me in the mouth of the hallway. “I read up on this, but I’d like to
hear it from someone who’s experienced it. How does it feel?
Shooting, prickly . . . incapacitating?”

I drew a deep breath, slow and purposeful.
Fighting the urge to close my eyes, I looked determinedly into
hers.

“No one’s around to hear you. I checked.
It’s just you and me. Baby makes three.”

Fear shot through me. I tried to use it to
clear my head; instead, it froze me. “W-w-w-”

“Why?” She asked, sickeningly perky. “You
really think I could let you call him? That’s exactly what he
wants. After all he’s done to us?” She raised the Taser. “I’m not
going to torture you. I want Evan to pay. And you, well, you’re the
closest thing he has to family. I can’t get to Marcus.” Her eyes
fixed on my belly.

Panic welled inside my locked throat,
warping, twisting me as she pulled me deeper into the hall.

“God, you’re fat.” She huffed, dropping my
leg, again.

How long has it been? Did they trace the
call? Was there time?

“We have a problem, Grace. See, I planned to
make this nice and neat. But you broke the coffee pot and everyone
knows you’re a neat freak. But if I clean it up, they might say
‘why did she do that if she was going to kill herself?’ Suspicious
circumstances. Can’t risk it.” Sheri looked deadly as she eyed me,
raising the Taser. “You’ve ruined my perfectly laid plan, so now, I
have to wing it.”

Her index finger jerked over the trigger,
sending me into darkness.

A Beginning

Walking along the grassy edge of the plain,
I feel the dreaded pain in my back and low abdomen. The tightening
muscles seize up, tilting me forward. I stop and breathe, holding
the cries, counting until it stops. Not too painful, but definitely
a contraction.

Not here. Not now.

It’s been hours since I felt him move. It
feels like hours since I reached the field, but the sun is still
low on the horizon.

It was my seventh contraction—twelve breaths
long and much tighter than the others.

I turn on my Nurse Voice, speaking to
myself in a metered tone.
Stay calm. Keep
going. You can do this. Find the Jeep. Get the hide-a-key. Get
help.

As the thirteenth
contraction
bows my back in a frightening wave of
unforgiving pain, I see a glimmer off in the distance. Fifteen
slow, practiced breaths later, after the tightening pain loosens, I
look up again to see the blessed, old, cobalt blue Jeep Cherokee
with the hatch still hanging open.

Walking—the one, surefire way to speed up my
labor—is the only way to get there. On I plod, slow and steady. I
have to get back. Lily and the boys are probably worried sick.

I was in labor for nearly thirty hours with
Noah before the c-section, and seven with Caleb. I can do this.
Time is on my side.

The next contraction is thoroughly
unbearable. No amount of breathing or concentration can control it,
but I keep moving towards my hope in the distance until the pain
spreads into my thighs, bringing me to a halt. My legs buckle as I
bend into the pain.

Every cell in my body is pushed to the
limit. I watch my tensed fingers claw and clutch at each other and
the ground. The pain in my shoulder is a walk in the park by
comparison.

I concentrate on the bits of bark sprinkling
the ground around me. One is shaped like a lima bean.

Thirty-three breaths later, it finally
stops.

Crap that was a long one!

I wipe my eyes with my sweatshirt, draw a
deep breath, and make a mad dash for the Jeep.

The time between contractions has shortened
by half. The contractions themselves are longer than the breaks
between and I’m very worried about the strange twinge, low in my
belly. The pain of it feels different than the labor pains. It
stops me in my tracks, as if I’ve just smacked into a wall.

So close!

My driveway’s longer than the distance
between me and my car. My escape and first-aid kit. The ragged pain
is crippling. Muscles tighten, cramps like rocks. I’m writhing in
the grass and earth, heaving in bouts of agony ranging from
severely debilitating to absolute, gut-wrenching anguish. Nothing
on earth can compare. I gnash my teeth together and scream,
wondering if being disemboweled by wild animals while
simultaneously being sawed in half would result in a similar
pain.

The intensity’s gaining as an uneasy bulge
builds between my legs. The grass under me is stained with a
worrisome red.

I pitifully cling to my practiced method of
breathing exercises and focus on crawling to the hatch.
Concentrating on each tiny movement—lifting my wide-spread knees
one at a time; right then left, shifting my weight, straining as my
elbows scrape along the ground. Bits of bark splinter into the
sleeves of my shirt as I struggle to keep my wrists aloft. The skin
around the zip-tie is raw, bruised, and bleeding. I press forward,
inching closer to the hatch—focusing on my plight is the only thing
keeping me from complete insanity.

It can’t happen like this.

In a short reprieve, I get back to my feet
and cross the last five feet, falling into my car’s open hatch.
Desperate, almost giggling with the joy of my small, vital victory,
I dig under the back bench seat for the first-aid kit and pop it
open. The bandage scissors are the first thing I see. They fumble
in my swollen fingers as I thrust them between my skin and the
zip-tie to snip. The relief of normal blood flow is immediate.
Amazing and short-lived.

Another contraction contorts and racks my
body. I concentrate on my breathing and stretch an arm over the
seat to retrieve Caleb’s car blanket—the one Evan used as a pillow
on our trip back from Vegas—and bunch it up underneath my hips.

Oh, I need to push. The desire is
overwhelming and I’m not ready. I kick off my pants and shoes as
fast I can and toss them out of the way.

The time between contractions condenses to
near constant as the bulging feeling of an impending explosion
intensifies without reprieve. A rush of fluid gushes from between
my legs. And it’s dark, stained with what can only be blood.

I send a silent prayer, focusing on keeping
calm.

I’ve given birth naturally and by cesarean,
but never delivered a baby. All I know about that side is basic
procedure from college textbooks. I close my eyes to focus.

Uniform procedure. When in doubt, count it
out. Procedure. Disconnect and remember the steps. Pictures from
old textbooks and course manuals flash through my mind.

Aseptic environment. I snatch the alcohol
wipes, eye drops, and Kelly clamp from the small surgical kit
inside the first-aid box. I open a few packets of wipes and begin
cleaning my hands, the scissors, clamp, and the bottle of eye
drops. Then, empty the bottle of drops out onto the ground. It’ll
have to do for suction. I wipe my hands again and slip on one of
the two pairs of rubber gloves in the bottom of my emergency kit
and use another wipe to sterilize the lid to the first-aid kit to
function as a tray for my supplies.

This boy’s determined and there’s no
stopping him.

I feel the rip of him crowning and know I’d
give anything for an episiotomy right now. Assuming a flexed
position, I give in to the urge and push. Chin to chest. Bearing
down, quaking from the shredding pain in my groin and back. I feel
the gush of life splitting my insides and keep pushing, holding my
knees in my hands. Praying. Screaming.

The thrilling sounds of life erupt with his
cries. I scramble upright to take hold of my newborn son. He is so
beautiful, covered in afterbirth. Three weeks early and so chubby.
Using the corner of the blanket, I wipe his little eyes and face.
His powerful lungs are already being put to the test. A shock of
dark hair is pasted to his head over his scrunching eyes. The
lovely cry rings from between a set of full lips that perfectly
match his father’s.

Quickly and carefully, I squeeze the eye
dropper bottle and place the end in Baby’s nose. He reacts with a
jump as the suction clears each tiny nostril. I sweep my gloved
pinky finger over his tongue to remove any remnants of fluid. His
responsive suckling is encouraging. Seeing him is calming.
Remarkable.

I go through my mental checklist, mindful of
the elongating umbilical cord as I wrap Baby in Caleb’s blanket and
set him beside me to go about the business of expelling the
placenta.

After inspecting to make sure it’s intact, I
decide to wrap it inside my dirty sweatshirt—which turns out is
only solid black in the front. The back has a large, reflective,
neon green logo. One of Noah’s favorite Emo bands. No wonder I
couldn’t lose her in the dark, I was practically glowing!—and
carefully balance it on top of the seatback to keep above Baby’s
head. I count to sixty, massaging my too-soft abdomen, and then
clamp the umbilical cord and cut.

My hands shake as I take Baby up again. He’s
calm and alert. His sweet eyes appear dark blue over the fuzzy
clown blanket. One of his perfect, long-fingered little hands
clings to his cheek, as he yawns and slowly closes his eyes.

I set him on my chest, kissing his sweet
head before latching him to my breast and then leaning back against
the spare tire.

“It’s okay, Baby.” I whisper into his tacky
hair.

The red flow that began in the grass is
still seeping into the thin carpeting of the Jeeps’ hatch. I feel
it, draining the strength from my limbs. Propping my arm on the
back of the seat, I tuck one corner of Baby’s blanket under my
elbow to keep a solid hold on him as long as I can.