“It started before you left but I didn’t want to ruin your day. Plus, at first I thought it was bad indigestion. I don’t know. This photo shoot was important today. You said so yourself. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She pauses. “Did Owen call you?”
“No, I called Owen because I’ve been thinking about you.” The little lie isn’t a big deal, not when her safety is of the utmost importance to me. Besides, I had been thinking of her. I’m always thinking of her.
“You have?” She sounds so far away, and my arms ache to hold her and whisper encouraging words in her ear as she starts to push our child into the world.
“When am I not? And I’m headed to the airport so I can get back on the plane and come right to you.” I hope like hell they have a seat available on one of the bazillion airlines that fly out of LAX. She’s an hour away, flight-wise, and as every minute passes, I could be losing my opportunity to see my baby being born. I’ve got to find a flight somewhere.
“Finish your photos fir—” An agonized groan comes out of her and my heart leaps into my throat, nearly choking me.
“Fable.” She says nothing, just pants little breaths into the phone, and then another low moan sounds from her. Holy shit. She sounds like she’s dying. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“It’s just …” Another breathless pant, another little grunt. Both sounds are like a punch to the gut. “A contraction.”
“Baby, I’ll be there as fast as I can, I promise. You can count on me.” I end the call before she can protest or say another word. I clutch the phone tight and keep my gaze focused on the window, my brain going at a million miles a minute as all the worry and trepidation and fear is coursing through my body.
I’m about to become a father. Sure hope like hell I don’t miss the actual birth of my daughter.
Fable
The pain is agonizing; I’m not going to lie. Anyone who glamorizes birth and what a lovely and miraculous thing it is is a flat-out liar. This sucks. I can’t get comfortable, I’m pretty sure I’m as big as a house, and my nervous little brother is making me even more nervous. Oh yeah, and irritated. So much I asked him to stay away from me because he’s driving me nuts.
I woke up with a contraction before Drew even left for Los Angeles. I thought it was just a twinge. I’d been having them lately—nothing too severe, just enough for me to pause in whatever I’m doing and breathe through it.
But these little twinges of pain wouldn’t stop. They soon became more and more frequent. I sent Drew to Los Angeles, clutching my contracting belly as I watched him drive off to the airport. I talked to Owen and ate breakfast with him. I took a shower, I cleaned our bedroom, and then I started packing my bag, the contractions coming faster now, and even closer together.
This is exactly how Owen found me minutes later, shoving ten nightgowns into my suitcase along with five nursing bras and an extra pair of flip-flops because I can’t wear real shoes anymore, my toes are so swollen. Everything about me is swollen, especially my boobs.
All the bras I packed are giant and utilitarian. Nothing cute and sexy. Not that I think my husband believes me cute and sexy anymore.
Fat and grumpy? Oh yeah. I am most definitely that.
Owen had immediately questioned why I was packing so much weird stuff and I finally confessed I thought I was in labor. You would’ve thought I’d told him I was dying, from the look on his face. Luckily enough, he snapped to attention and came through, making sure I had everything I needed, loaded up the car with my stuff, and wouldn’t let me carry a thing. He helped me out to the car and escorted me in as I went through an awful contraction.
I didn’t tell him that part, though. Just clenched my teeth and dealt with it silently. I would’ve made a really excellent pioneer woman, I’m sure.
I’m in bed at the hospital, in my own private room. Considering I’m the wife of the star quarterback of the 49ers, I receive only the best treatment at this place, which I’m taking advantage of. My brother is outside pacing the halls. I just talked to Jen on the phone, who’s excited and nervous for me.
My husband is nowhere to be found.
Of course, this little baby girl of ours decides to show up on the day her daddy is out of town. He’s been a constant by my side since the season ended. We traveled together to a few places for business until I couldn’t travel anymore per doctor’s orders. Then we stayed home and I went into full-on nesting mode, cleaning everything in sight and setting up the baby’s room.
Drew helped, since he thinks I’ve turned into this weak woman who can’t lift a thing. I just let him pamper me. He put together the crib, which was a study in patience on his part. He sat in the middle of the floor surrounded by various parts for hours, cursing up a blue streak, frustrated beyond belief. I tried to help him, but he finally told me to leave because I was only making it worse.
He finally did get that crib put together. We hired someone to come in and paint the room. The players’ wives held a baby shower for me and they gave me so much amazing stuff for the baby, I started to cry. Right there in the middle of my shower.
I have turned into an emotional wreck, I swear.
The doctor just came in to examine me and said I was dilated four centimeters. I need to be up to ten. The hardest part of labor is coming, she warned. Considering those words just struck fear in my heart because oh my God, labor has been pretty difficult up to this point, I know I’m going to need Drew to get his ass here soon.
I need him to hold my hand and tell me everything’s going to be all right. I need him to stare into my eyes and let me focus on him and nothing else. I need him to kiss me and let me curse and be my rock …
The door bursts open and in walks Owen, looking frazzled, his hair a wreck as if he’s been wrenching it between his fingers. “Have you heard from Drew?”
“No.” I scowl at him. “Didn’t I tell you to stay the hell out of here?”
He rears back at my words. “God, you’re bitchy when you’re in labor.”
“You push a seven-pound baby out of your vagina and tell me if that makes you bitchy or not, okay?” I cross my arms in front of my chest, which is sort of impossible since my belly gets in the way.
“Damn it, Fabes, you just said the V word.” He shakes his head, looking completely traumatized.
I ignore his protest. I don’t have time for his whining. My tolerance level for Owen is at about zero. I should feel bad because he did take good care of me and the kid is only nineteen, but still. My hormones and mood are both completely crazed. “Why are you back in here again?”