Free Tales From the Crib by Jennifer Coburn

the blanket covering me. “Why do you think you’re miscarrying, ma’am?”
    “Because I’m bleeding all over the place, and my stomach is twisting in knots,” I managed to say between sobs.
    “Not again! Not again!” Anjoli shouted. “What kind of wretched karmic retribution is this?” she shook her fists at the sky.
    “Um, ma’am,” the paramedic said. “You’re not bleeding.”
    “Yes, I am!” I insisted. “I’m soaked in blood. Can’t you see the blood all over me?” I looked at my pants, which were soaking wet, but not with blood.
    “Ma’am, your water broke. You’re in labor.”
    “I am?” I wiped my red nose.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Are you sure?” I asked. He nodded. “I am absolutely, positively not having a miscarriage?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “But I’m not due till February,” I protested.
    “Ma’am, you’ll be delivering in December,” he said. “Or January.”
    “Hallelujah!” shouted Alfie. “Can she still take the ambulance or do we need to call a cab?”
    “We’ll take her,” said another paramedic.
    “The hospital’s just across the street,” I reminded them.
    Alfie rubbed his hands with glee. “This baby’s a drama queen already!”
    For the first time, I smelled the food from Anjoli’s shopping bags, and remembered her party. “What about your party?” I asked.
    “We’ll be back by then,” Anjoli assured. “How long can a simple delivery take?” Anjoli always acts as if extended labor is a matter of laziness. She delivered me in less than two hours and firmly believes that if women just set their minds to it, they could do the same. She had some sort of bizarre fantasy that before the clock struck midnight, the kid would be dressed in a fabulous sequined tuxedo and ready to be serenaded by Alfie.
    “Call Jack, please!” I requested of Alfie as I was placed on the gurney.
    By the time I got checked into the labor and delivery ward, it was dark and the rest of the world had moved into New Year’s Eve celebration mode. The staffers were watching the New Year being rung in somewhere else in the world.
    “Lucy, Lucy, Lucy!” Alfie rushed into my room. “No one’s answering the phone at your house. What’s Jack’s cell number, hon?” I gave it to him, disappointed in the knowledge that, with party traffic, it would be another two hours before he arrived.
    Anjoli was generous in spirit. She was genuinely trying to be helpful. It’s just that listening was never her sharpest skill. Despite numerous attempts to convince Anjoli that I was neither hot nor sweating, she insisted on wiping my brow with a cool rag every few minutes. Three times she asked if I was thirsty. Each time I told her I was not, yet she kept slipping ice cubes in my mouth. After a while, she stopped asking, and just kept feeding them to me like coins in a parking meter.
    Our nurse, Betsy, came in to check on me every now and again, but basically labor was a bunch of sitting around and waiting, while nurses charted contractions. “Six minutes apart and seven centimeters dilated,” nurse Betsy said, checking a strip of paper from the monitor. “You should be a mommy very soon, Mrs. Klein.”
    Should?!
    “Should?” I shot.
    “Yes, should,” nurse Betsy said. “It could take a little longer.” She smiled and shrugged as if to say, “We’ll see.”
    “Do you know my history?” I asked our nurse. As she tilted her head down to read my chart, a mass of wavy brown hair fell over her un-made-up face. She shook her head no. I wasn’t a patient at this hospital. My doctor was back in New Jersey, undoubtedly enjoying cocktails.
    “I’ve had four miscarriages, one was quite late in the pregnancy,” I told her.
    She scrunched her face with discomfort and held my hand. “This baby is healthy as they come,” nurse Betsy said.
    Anjoli deposited another ice chip in my mouth as she passed by my bed. “When is Jack going to get here?” She looked at her watch.
    “Your party!”