“Yeah?” she asks, impatient. I can hear her moving around, objects clattering in the background in her
hurry.
“Can you come here anyway? Like, now?”
“I’ll just meet you at the hospital
–
“No, Cora,” I insist. “I need you now.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, complete silence. Then, my sister speaks. “What’s
going on, Ella?”
“My contractions,” I explain. “They’re only they’re four minutes apart.”
My sister curses, shocking me a little with the intensity and fluency of her expletives. I blink in
shock.
“Just stay put, Ella,” she commands. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“But how will you
“I“ll be there –“ she shouts, and then the phone goes blank.
I drop the phone to the bed, my lip starting to tremble with anxiety and fear and loneliness. But then I
glance down at myself, fighting against the spasms of shocking pain that are spreading through my
center. Because I’m not alone, am I?
Rafe is here. And I need to start concentrating on him.
So, I take control – or at least, as much of it as I can. I stand up, ignoring everything in my situation
except my baby and my body’s own needs. I peel back the covers of the bed, revealing the clean
sheets beneath, and I climb in, stacking pillows behind me to support me as I sit against
them and start to breathe through the contraction. I close my eyes and concentrate on the bond
between me and my child.
Just me and you, kid, I tell him, wiping my fear away as best I can and sending him a burst of love.
I’ve got you. We can do this.
And my heart fills with courage as he sends me a little pulse back: belief.
Rafe trusts me. And it’s all I need.
It’s time to bring my baby into the world, and I’m ready. I was born for this.
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