and I made the mistake of praising myself too soon.
I was at the bakery going over the details of Angelika’s cake when my phone rang.
There was only one person my phone actually rang out loud for, and it was my very pregnant sister. And my sister did not use her phone for phone calls.
I excused myself, heart thundering. “You okay?” I said the second we connected.
A siren sounded in the background of the call, followed by a low groan from my sister.
“No, I am not okay. I’m on the way to the hospital.” The words quaked. “My water broke and I’m in labor and Dean is stuck in Long Island trying to get back and I—oooooooophhhh,” she breathed.
I was already heading back to the table to gather my things. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Thank you,” she wept, actually wept the words. “I can’t do this alone, Lila. Don’t make me do this alone.”
“You won’t have to do it alone, Ivy,” I soothed, belying the rush of adrenaline that currently sped through me. “I’ll be right there, okay?”
“O-okay.”
“Want me to stay on the phone with you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Give me one second.”
I muted my phone, explaining the circumstance to the baker, who, overjoyed, made me wait for a box of celebratory cupcakes to take with me. And I ran out of the shop with full hands and my sister huffing into the phone, hailing a cab as best I could before promising him fifty bucks to get me there fast.
By the time I got to the hospital, Ivy’d had to disconnect in order to register. The nurses at the station directed me to her room, which was already buzzing with activity.
The second she saw me, her face cracked open and her tears flowed easily. “Oh thank God you’re here—ah!” she squeaked, glaring at the nurse attempting to put in her IV.
Ivy’s auburn hair was a pile on top of her head, and she’d donned her hospital gown, which was that unflattering shade of sea-foam green that made everyone look seasick. Her legs were covered with a scratchy-looking blanket that smelled like bleach, and I schooled my face to keep my nose from wrinkling.
I made a mental note to search for the fanciest hospital where celebrities had their babies to ensure down pillows and high thread counts.
I dropped my things in what looked like a wildly uncomfortable mauve chair and offered her my most reassuring smile. “I’m here,” I said, taking her free hand when I reached her.
“Dean won’t be here for an hour and—oooooooh.” Her face bunched up as she leaned forward, knees spreading under the blanket.
I glanced at the nurse as Ivy squeezed my hand hard enough that I felt something pop. The nurse looked concerned. Too concerned.
My coordinator hat was instantly on. Birth coordinator—I wondered if that was a thing. If not, it should be.
“How dilated is she?” I asked in that tone that got answers.
“Nine centimeters. The doctor is on her way.”
One look at my sister told me Dean wasn’t going to make it in time. Unless the doctor was parking her car, I didn’t think she was going to make it either.
“Is the anesthesiologist coming soon?” Ivy asked hopefully, miserably.
The nurse’s face melted into pity. “The doctor will be here in a few minutes—she’ll tell you everything, okay?”
“So that’s a yes? I’m getting drugs, right?” Ivy’s voice rose, the pitch edging on shrill.
“Ivy, look at me,” I commanded, and the wide, scared eyes of my sister fixed on me. “You don’t need drugs. You’ve already made it through the worst part, the really grueling, terrible, never-ending hours of contractions. All you have to do is push.”
“But not yet!” a nurse chimed from across the room.
Ivy began to weep.
“Your body knows what to do,” I insisted. “All you have to do is go along with it, and it’ll be over soon.”
“B-b-but Dean’s not here,” she wailed. “I want Dean. I want Mom. I can’t do this,” she said frantically, trying to get out of the bed. She barely made it to sitting before another contraction came. “Ahhhhhh—I have to poop,” she announced to the room, clutching her belly like she could squeeze out the pain.
A nurse ran up, palms out. “Nonononono—No pooping!”
“But the book said pooping is normal,” Ivy whined.
“Honey,” the nurse said gently as a fleet of women began stripping off blankets and breaking down the bed, “you don’t have to poop. You have to push.”
“No, I’m sure I have to poop,” she insisted. “I haven’t pooped in at least