Ooh Baby, Baby. Diana Whitney
Now, all she heard was the rain. The pounding, incessant rain.
Shaking violently, Peggy felt around the sofa cushions until her fingers brushed smooth metal, the flashlight that had been beside her throughout the long, black night. Her hand quivered around it, her thumb spasmed against the protruding switch. A beam of brilliant reassurance bounced from a wall.
She swept the light around the room, across the ceiling and over the floor, stopping briefly on the wall clock, which read eight o’clock. Everything was as it should be. No giant cracks, no collapsing timbers. The pocket radio had fallen under the coffee table, but the sparsely furnished room was otherwise tidy.
Peggy swept the light toward the front door, then veered left to aim the beam through the window and check the front porch—or rather, what was left of it.
The dilapidated decking had been crushed by an enormous pine that had once shaded the south side of the duplex and was now wedged against her front door. Judging by the angle at which the tree had fallen, she suspected that the other half of the duplex had borne the brunt of the damage. Fortunately, the unit was vacant, which meant her nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away.
Swallowing a sour surge of panic, Peggy told herself the damage probably wasn’t as bad as it looked. Besides, the storm would be over soon. It had to be. The town couldn’t take much more.
Peggy couldn’t take much more.
She wiped her forehead, mildly surprised as a coating of icy fear came away on her fingertips. No shame in that. It was okay to be scared. As long as you didn’t show it, didn’t provide a weakness to target. Fear was a private matter, a respected adversary to be acknowledged, then controlled and ultimately defeated.
Peggy understood the process intimately. She’d fought fear all her life. She’d always won. Always.
Until now.
The grinding pain ripped her belly like a buzz saw, doubling her over. She had no breath to cry out, but her mind screamed for her. Fear surged victorious. She was in labor. She was terrified.
And she was alone.
* * *
Travis jammed the brakes, cursing. The cab fishtailed to a stop. In front of him, an impatient line of vehicles bunched behind an overturned big rig blocking both lanes of traffic. He sighed, tugged his hat down to his eyebrows and reached for the microphone.
“Unit six to dispatch.” When there was no immediate response, he gave the mike button an impatient tap. “Aw, hell, Sue Anne, quit sucking soda and get on the danged radio. I don’t have all day.”
Actually, it appeared that he did have all day. That eighteen-wheeler wasn’t going anywhere on its own, and Travis suspected it would be hours before the emergency team could spring loose the heavy-duty equipment needed to clear the roadway. At least the rain had eased to a dull drizzle, and it was just now becoming light—even though dawn broke hours ago.
The microphone emitted a juicy hiss. “Dang you, Travis, you are such a brat.”
“Caught you, didn’t I? You know, sis, there’s a twelve-step program for people who can’t control their cola. You ought to look into it.” He held the transmission button down so he didn’t have to listen to a sputtered reply, and squinted through the smeared windshield. “The interstate transition is blocked by a semi. I might be able to backtrack toward Virginia Road, but it’ll add a forty-five to my ETA.”
When he finally remembered to release the mike switch, Sue Anne was in midsentence. “About five miles from your location.”
He frowned. “Say again?”
“We have an emergency relay from 911 dispatch. Pickup is at 5662 Rourke Way.”
Travis was familiar with the street, a rutted two-lane cutting a rural swath around the outskirts of town. He jotted the address on a scratch pad affixed to the dash. “I’ll be there in ten.”
He hung a U-turn, stomped the accelerator and sped away.
* * *
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Short, shallow breaths. Pant like a dog. That’s what the book said, wasn’t it? Or maybe it said to take a deep breath and hold it. Peggy couldn’t remember. It had been more than three hours since her first pain, and suddenly, dear Lord, she couldn’t remember.
If only she’d taken the Lamaze classes her doctor had suggested. But she hadn’t, because the classes were geared for couples and she’d been too embarrassed to go alone. So she’d bought a handbook on childbirth, read it cover to cover and thought she was prepared.
Only now she couldn’t remember what the book said, what she was supposed to do.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Peggy willed herself to be calm and to focus on what she’d learned. Short breaths. Yes, she was sure now. Short breaths during labor, deep breaths during crowning, when it was time to push.
To push.
Oh, God.
The contraction eased, allowing panic to bubble like bad beer. It was too soon, Peggy thought frantically. Too soon. She wasn’t due for three weeks. She wasn’t ready to give birth, not ready at all.
Her heart raced, pumping icy perspiration out of every pore. She licked her lips. They were rough, cracked. Dry as dirt.
The doctor was waiting at the hospital. When she’d phoned a few hours ago, he’d told her that everything would be all right. And she wanted to believe him. She did believe him.
The image of kind blue eyes and a rumpled, grandfatherly smile warmed her heart. Dr. Dowling had been good to her. He understood how difficult things had been since Clyde left, and had gone out of his way to spend extra time during her appointments, time to calm, to soothe her. Peggy longed for that comfort now, for the gentle touch of proficient hands, the resonant, parental voice that made her feel safe and secure.
He was waiting for her. At the hospital. Now.
Where the hell was that cab?
A glance at the front window confirmed that morning had indeed come. Cold, wet. Gray. The fallen tree loomed enormous, its massive trunk blocking all but a bleak sliver of gloomy sky.
The thought occurred to her that there was no way for her to get out through the front door, no way for anyone else to get in. But Peggy couldn’t worry about that now, because a viselike tightness was working its way from the base of her spine to around her belly.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
The pain swelled, twisted, sliced like a dull blade. Tears sprang to her eyes. She curled forward, wanting to scream, but her lungs were in spasm.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Peggy gritted her teeth, dug her fingers into the sofa cushions and imagined a hundred innovative ways for the ex-husband who’d abandoned her to die ugly.
* * *
Travis was horrified. He pulled onto the dirt shoulder behind a clunky old sedan and fervently hoped he was at the wrong address. Even in the gray, rain-dark pall he could see that anyone left inside that crushed structure needed an ambulance, not a cab.
He exited the checkered taxi and headed toward the duplex, veering around a massive root ball jutting from soaked earth. Closer examination revealed that except for the porch, now a splintered nest of rubble under the toppled tree, the dwelling itself seemed to be relatively unscathed.
Shading his eyes, Travis squinted between blowing pine boughs and saw a snapped porch beam had crushed one of the unit’s two doors. The other door was undamaged, but completely blocked by the tree trunk, which he judged to be about four feet in diameter.
He cupped his mouth and shouted, “Conway Cab. Anyone in there?” A movement behind one of the windows caught his eye. He shifted toward the unit on the left, thought he saw a shadow inside the room. Before he could focus, the shadow seemed to collapse,