If The Shoe Fits. Marilynn Griffith

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СКАЧАТЬ still standing, but heading for the floor. Where was Jordan?

      “Let me help you.” The voice stung like hail.

      Tad.

      One look at him and I lost my grip. The whole wild, pregnant mess that was the three of us landed in his arms, including my supersize son. Jericho jumped as though he’d touched a hot stove. Must be a man thing.

      As we untangled, Jericho helped Shemika up. I looked into Tad’s kind eyes and at his bruised chin. Bless his heart, now here I was about to beat up the rest of him. “You poor thing. What are you doing here?”

      He smiled. “I got a call from someone on the Men’s Fellowship prayer chain.”

      I shrugged. Who’d made the call I didn’t know, but I was thankful. For all Tad’s annoying traits, he was calm in a crisis.

      Jordan’s face glistened with sweat. His eyes looked bloodshot. Maybe this whole birth thing was weighing on him harder than I’d thought. He shook Tad’s hand. “Thanks for coming. Sorry for calling you out of service, but you said—”

      Tad nodded. “I said call anytime. And I meant it.” He spoke to Jordan, but his eyes were locked on me.

      And my bare feet.

      Shemika managed to get herself into a tan gown and we were guided behind a series of curtains and asked to wait for a nurse. Shemika latched on to Jericho’s hand with a death grip. Or maybe a life grip.

      My son gave her a smile, then leaned down to me with wide eyes I’d seen only a few times, one of them on the day he’d met his father for the first time. “I have a bad feeling, Mom.”

      A snort escaped my lips. “Me, too, but my bad feeling was about nine months ago.”

      “No, really,” he said, trying to whisper but forgetting to do so. “And she’s grabbed my hand so hard. It was almost like she was…pushing?”

      “Pushing?”

      My voice must have really carried, because a nurse emerged from what seemed a thousand layers of curtains. “Who’s pushing?”

      Cringing from the way his girlfriend was squeezing his hand, my son nodded slightly. “I’m not sure, but she’s doing something.”

      The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. I’ll check her. Could you all step outside? And Grandma, can you stop at the desk and answer some questions?”

      Grandma.

      “Sure,” I said.

      As Tad led the way, a woman behind one of the curtains let out a scream worthy of a horror movie. Jordan cringed. “Whoa…”

      I snickered. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” I wanted to say that he’d have seen worse if he’d stuck around with me, but that water was under the bridge. And over it.

      Conscious again of my bare feet and lack of preparedness, I fumbled in the suitcase-size bag that serves as my purse as we approached the front desk. I immediately stumbled on my wet, ruined shoes. Who’d slipped those in for me? It didn’t matter. This time, I was much happier to see them.

      Jordan’s voice creaked as he spoke to the nurse. “Yes, ma’am. She’s thirty-six weeks, six days according to the wheel. Thirty-seven by the ultrasound…”

      I felt jealous for a moment and suddenly wished I’d been the one to let the kids stay with me, the one who’d taken Shemika to her doctor’s appointments. At least they’d listened to me and preregistered for the hospital.

      “Her medical card?” the nurse said coolly. “The number wasn’t filled out on the form that was mailed in. We’ll need to copy that card.”

      Jordan and Tad looked blankly at me.

      Known to be quick on my feet, even when they’re cold and wet, I started mumbling. “In our haste, we—they—don’t have the cards handy, but I’ll stop home and get them once she’s in a room. Until then, perhaps the doctor’s office could provide the number by phone?”

      The woman tried but failed to smile. “They will, but we’ll still need the cards. I’ll be back shortly.”

      Jordan’s arm brushed mine as I ransacked my purse for my emergency copy of the big, gold card that signified my son’s inability to take care of his child.

      Though covered by my self-employed insurance, there was no policy clause for the offspring of unmarried dependents. It turned out that Shemika already had a state medical card anyway. I dug for my copy of it now, knowing it probably wasn’t there. Didn’t my mother used to go through her pocketbook like this? Yes. And it had freaked me out. Totally. I was officially turning into her.

      “That’s fine. Perhaps you want to go to the waiting room for a while? They’re probably going to get her a room.”

      We went quietly, dividing in the waiting room. I dropped into a chair to continue attacking my purse. Tad went to the window. Jordan approached the TV. Suddenly, he looked more interested in the game show prizes than the birth of his first grandchild. For once, I wasn’t sure if I blamed him. This was a wonderful, horrible day.

      I rifled through the contents of my life, dumped on the next chair: cell phone, nail files, Bible memory cards, old church bulletins, Franklin planner, Montblanc pen, a key to Dana’s store and a handful of low-carb bars I’d stupidly brought along for Shemika.

      She needs carbs. She’s in labor, not a beauty pageant.

      Still, I hoped her hairweave was tight enough to endure labor. In my post-birth pictures, I’d looked as if my hair had been rotated ninety degrees—without bringing my head along. Shemika would look much better, so much better than I did. She had to. I’d make sure of it.

      Shemika rolled by on a gurney and Tad and Jordan shot out of the room like toothpaste from a new tube. I shoved my things into my purse, jabbed my feet into my shoes and ran to catch up. I guessed that chivalry was dead during emergencies.

      Without my consent, the memory of my son’s birth came to me—a blur of helplessness. I forced it back. This wasn’t my birth. And my son wasn’t going to run out on this girl. Thoughts of today replaced my memories—images of me with Shemika’s head cradled to my chest on the ride over, the sound of my voice saying, “You are strong, Shemika. And beautiful.” My heart ached as I walked down the long hall, realizing that I’d shown Shemika more kindness today than in all the time I’d known her.

      Though still far-off, I could make out Shemika’s birth soundtrack—a ballad of moans and wide, wonderful sounds. Sounds that make men very, very afraid.

      “It hurts…” she said in a low wail, not a scream anymore but a moan of discovery, a beach that seemed lifetimes away.

      I was running now, purse banging against my shins. On the right, I passed a room where a woman was shouting at her husband. He waved at me and munched ice chips. He’d done this before, too.

      Jordan took my hand and I reached the room, where I heard a different cry, the birth call of my grandchild. It played in my ears like a symphony.

      In my nightmares, СКАЧАТЬ