by Elle Casey
I gesture with a sweeping motion, encouraging him to step back. “Move outta my way. I have somewhere to be, like bystro . . . like now.” The stress is hitting me hard enough that I’m dropping Russian words, and I never do that if I can help it. Panic is taking over. I have to breathe in short bursts to control it: “Hah-hah-hee! Hah-hah-hee!”
He looks at me funny.
I open my mouth to say something else, but then stop immediately and wince, putting my hand on my stomach. The pain is . . . holy hell . . . Am I dying? I think I could possibly be dying. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph . . .” I’m sweating like a pig all of a sudden. I smell something metallic coming from my body. I feel something warm between my legs. Holy mother of all that is holy, I just wet myself. “What in the hell is happening?!” I yell, looking down at my body and then at the man staring at me from outside my window.
My vision goes blurry with pain, my brain swimming with confusion and fear as my head drops back against the seat. Cars ahead of me are honking and people are videotaping us with their phones. The angry man is still in my window and acting like he’s not going anywhere, and I don’t know if my mosquito spray is going to work to drive him away. Why is this happening?! That’s all I need . . . Pavel catching wind of this via some crazy video one of these Lotta Java freaks puts on the Internet.
“Where’re you going in such a hurry?” the guy asks, moving closer to my window.
I have to grunt the words out past the pain. “None of your damn business is where I’m going.” I glare up at him, beyond annoyed that he can’t understand plain English. “Do you mind?” I move my stare to his hand that’s resting on my window.
He opens his mouth to say something, but I can’t focus on him anymore. Death is too near. “Ohhhh, Lord have mercy on my soul.” My eyes roll up into my head, and I grip the steering wheel so hard my fingers go numb. My insides are exploding. I should have bought those Tums first thing instead of waiting. Now I’m going to lose my bowels in front of a complete stranger, who on any other day would have had me dreaming about going out on a date.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
I look at him, desperation and pain bringing tears to my eyes. No words will come out, only the crazy breathing that’s keeping the pain from totally taking over my brain. “Ha-ha-hee! Ha-ha-hee!”
He puts both hands on the windowsill and leans in, looking at me so closely, he’ll surely be able to see the freckles I try to hide with my foundation. He opens his mouth and says the craziest, most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard:
“I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but are you having a baby right now?”
CHAPTER THREE
No, no, no-no-no,” I moan, shaking my head to clear it. This is not happening. This is NOT happening! I’m not pregnant! I can’t be!
The man reaches into my window and puts his hand on my sweaty forehead.
I reach up instinctively and slap him away. “Get your paws off me!” I glare at him, almost wishing I had a gun to wave in his face. “Who said you could touch my person?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid. “Relax, I was just checking your temperature.”
People are gathering on the sidewalk to gawk. I’m glad I have witnesses. I raise my voice again so they’ll be sure to hear me.
“Relax? You’re telling me to . . . No. Huh-uh. That’s not happening. Not today. I’m going to call the cops on you. That’s assault.” I just want him to go away so I can leave. I’ll drive up on the sidewalk to get around those damn cars in front of me if I have to. My body is failing, and I need to make sure it happens somewhere private because I’m certain it’s not going to be pretty. My entire seat is soaked with something that smells too awful to contemplate.
“Actually, it’s not assault, it’s battery,” he says, like a cocky jerk, “but you haven’t answered my question yet, so why don’t you hold off on my arrest.” He glances up at the people who look like they’re watching a sporting event, before focusing on me again. “Are you having a baby? Are you in labor, I mean?”
My voice comes out like an animal’s growl. I can’t help it. “No, I’m not in . . . lay . . . boooooor!” I scream the last part and then pant, trying to keep from passing out. “Ho, ho, hee! Ho, ho, hee! Dang, that hurts!” Pain slices through me and grips me like an iron band around my middle.
The stranger pulls my door open and leans over me, his face just inches away. “Ma’am, you might not be in labor, but it sure seems to me that you’re experiencing a medical emergency of some kind.”
“Oh, yeah?” I half-whisper, wanting to punch him in the nose so bad, but too wracked by pain to do anything but hang on to the steering wheel. “And what’re you gonna do about it?” An abdominal cramp seizes me, tearing a scream from my lips. “Ahhhhhh! Noooo!”
Next thing I know, he’s unbuckling my seat belt and sliding his arms under my legs and behind my back. Then he lifts me out of my car like I’m no heavier than a feather.
“Not in labor, my ass,” he growls, swinging me around to face the back of my car. “Call an ambulance!” he yells at the people standing nearby. He starts to walk, his gait uneven.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see more traffic backing up in front of my car. And he’s leaving my Toyota just sitting there in the middle of the street. It’ll get towed and then I’ll really be screwed. Pavel will find out everything. Everything. His interrogation methods are renowned in certain circles.
“Put me down, you Neanderthal!” I reach up to slap him, but have to stop in mid-swipe because of another slice of pain going through me. I grab his ear instead. “Oooooh, damn that hurts,” I hiss. Warm liquid gushes out between my legs. The stranger’s words come back to me. Are you pregnant? My heart stops beating for a few seconds.
Nooooooo . . . I can’t be. Can I?
He tilts his head sideways. “The ear!” he yells. “Can I have it back?”
“Sorry.” I let his ear go and grab his shirt, balling it into my fist as more pain hits me.
“She’s having a baby!” a woman gasps.
“Shut up!” I yell. “I am not!” I squeeze his shirt again. “Ahhhhh! That hurts so bad!” I look up at the man carrying me, desperately needing him to hear and believe me. “It’s just a bad bladder infection. Or indigestion. I had my gallbladder taken out . . . I have chronic indigestion. Seriously. All the time . . .” The pain comes again. “Hah, hah, hee!”
“Please step aside,” he says to people in our way, limping up to the sidewalk.
“Where’re you taking me?” I ask, barely able to get the words out. I feel wasted and weak. Scared and lost. In great danger and completely without control of my body or my life. This is not a place I can be in; I am truly fearing for my life, but I’m in so much pain, I can’t do anything about it. I’ve never felt so vulnerable.
“Somewhere you can lie down.”
“Not to be rude or anything,” I pause to pant a few breaths in and out, “but I really need to find a restroom.”
He shakes his head, saying nothing.
I open my mouth to yell at him for not listening to me, not doing what I want, which is to put me down and leave me alone, but the only thing that comes out of my mouth is a scream.
CHAPTER FOUR
The nail salon stinks of hazardous chemicals, an assault on my senses that instantly makes my nostrils flare, but all I care about is ending the pain. I’d let them pour that nail polish solvent down my throat if I thought it would take it away. My body feels like it’s breaking in half at the waist.
“Hey! What you doing?” a tiny Asian woman yells with a heavy accent as she shuffles on flip-flops toward us.
“I need one of your massage chairs,” the man carrying me says. When he swings me around, three come into view, lined up in the back corner of the room.
The salon owner is shaking her head. “No! No! Those for paying customers only!”
“I’ll pay,” he says, limping past her and stopping at the first chair. He slowly lo
wers me into it.
I grab the armrests, lifting myself as much as I can, grateful to be put down onto a non-moving surface. That limping around was killing me. My insides calm for a moment and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks,” I say, wincing as I try to adjust myself. Everything inside me is tender, and my clothing is soaked through with sweat and God knows what else.
Several people have followed us into the salon. The business owner starts yelling again. “Nobody in here without nail job! You want nail job, you come in! You don’t want nail job, you go out!”
“I want a nail job,” a woman says, rushing over to take one of the other massage chairs.
“Me, too,” says a young guy peeling himself off from the crowd, filming the entire thing. He stumbles over a cart of supplies on his way to the last seat, making a horrible racket.
The owner of the salon is holding one of those collapsible, Victorian-style fans, threatening to beat people with it if they come any farther into the room.
“Call 9-1-1!” the man hovering over me yells at her. He puts his hand on my arm and says softly, “Don’t worry. Help is on the way.” It’s the tone in his voice and the expression on his face that get me; he’s not here to hurt me. He really wants to help. And damn, do I need it.
Clarity comes like a lightning bolt out of the sky delivered right to my brain, and with it comes a feeling of dread like I’ve never experienced before, not even when Pavel was standing over me with a gun pointed at my face. I reach down and put my hand on my giant, round belly. This isn’t indigestion or an ulcer or a problem created by a long-gone gallbladder. It’s not me stress-eating myself into an extra ten pounds. I’ve been fooling myself for months, ignoring all the signs and forcing myself to believe my own lies because the truth was too horrible to consider: I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby and I’m having it now. The pressure builds instantly between my legs, and even though I’ve never been a mother, I know what it means.
“An ambulance is coming,” he says, patting my hand.
“It’s not gonna get here in time.” Fear takes over, and I find myself slipping into a persona I do not recognize: I’m weak and scared to death, no longer certain I can take care of myself. I reach for the man and grab his arm. “Help me.”
He pauses for several long seconds, first a look of panic and then one of confusion coming over his face before he finally nods. “What can I do?” He rests his hand on my leg.
“Take my pants off,” I order. Then when I realize how strange that sounds, I temper it with, “But don’t be getting any funny ideas.”
“Right. Take your pants off and no funny ideas.” He nods at me with a slight smile. “I can do that.”
He struggles to do as I asked. I try to help him with the task, but we’re still having a hard time. I’m too out of it with pain to realize why, but when he puts his hands under my big, flannel shirt, I remember.
“You have something holding your pants together,” he says, examining it like a puzzle. He reaches down and pulls a knife out of his pocket, coming at me with it.
In my panicked state, I imagine he’s a friend of Pavel’s and he’s going to declare his fealty to the Brotherhood by getting rid of this little problem: me.
“Oh, God, he’s gonna cut me!” I grab the arms of the chair, trying to lift myself up. I have to get away, but I can’t. The pain is too great, my belly now too heavy; it’s weighing me down in the chair like an anchor.
He frowns at me and backs away. “No, I’m not!” He lowers his voice. “I’d never do that. I’m here to help you, not hurt you.”
I stare at him, panting through the pain as he lowers the blade slowly to my belt. I watch it go, every single inch, waiting for him to flick his wrist to the side and jab me with it. I trust no one, not even this guy who carried me out of my car to safety and let me nearly pull his ear off.
“I’m just going to cut the string you have holding your pants closed.”
“Oh, yeah, okay.” Convinced I was gaining weight from all the stress-eating I was doing, I started tying my pants together with string at the button. I didn’t want to buy new clothes when I knew my stress would be gone soon and I’d quickly lose the weight I’d gained. My panic recedes when I realize I’m not going to be a victim of his knife . . . only of my own stupidity. “You can cut that. Just don’t cut me.”
“I promise, I’ll be really careful.”
I rest my hand on his thick, muscled arm. It’s warm . . . steady, as he does the job of releasing the waistband of my pants. It’s the strangest thing to be lying here and letting a stranger use a knife so close to me; for so long, knives held by men near me have meant only one thing: pain. But as soon as my pants open, I feel relief.
“Oh, thank God.” I let out a long sigh.
He dances around a little on one leg to readjust his position, wincing as he slides his knife back into his pocket.
My body tenses up as I feel another wave of pain coming at me. “Oh, God, something’s happening.” I squeeze his arm again, my nails digging into his skin. I can’t help it. It feels like something inside me is going to break me in two.
He yanks on my pants, making quick work of getting them down to my ankles and off my legs even though they’re soaked through. Odors waft up that aren’t familiar to me, metallic and sour. Ick. I’d be embarrassed about this man being in such an intimate place doing such intimate things if I weren’t in such agony. I hiss out each breath as the pressure grows, gripping my entire abdomen.
“Get me some towels,” he barks out.
The woman sitting in the chair next to us jumps up to help.
As soon as she and the owner return, he arranges several towels under me, using a couple to cover me at the waist as well. I appreciate his attempt to allow me some modesty. Being naked from the waist down and dripping God knows what all over this Asian lady’s chair and floor doesn’t leave me with much.
“What’s your name?” he asks, coming back up to my shoulder.
“Tamika. Just call me Mika.” I try to smile but feel the expression on my face sliding into a grimace. “Oh, Jesus, Lord. Please don’t let me die.” I grab the front of his shirt, holding on for dear life.
He reaches up and holds my hand there, the warmth of his fingers and strength of his grip giving me the momentary sensation of safety. Then the pain comes again, slicing me into shreds.
I grip my belly with my free hand. It’s now shaped into a hard ball. It’s freaking me out to see and feel my body doing this without my active intellectual participation. The whole process has gotten away from me, throwing me down a dark road I can’t see the end of. What if there’s something wrong with the baby? With my body? Will we both die?
The pain is telling me, Yes. You are about to die. Say goodbye to your life.
I start to cry. I’ve been fighting to survive my whole life, and the thought that I could be taken out by childbirth when I’ve survived the Russian mafia is too much to handle. I’ve been alone for so long . . . What if I die and my baby survives? Then she’ll be alone and it’ll be all my fault!
“Oh, Jesus, I’m dying!” I look up at him. Desperate. Dying . . .
“You’re not going to die. You’re having a baby. Is there someone I can call for you? A husband? Partner? Friend?”
“No,” I groan out, sweat pouring down my face and back, “don’t call anyone. There’s no one. Just me.” The pressure between my legs is unreal. I squeeze my fist against his chest involuntarily. “Something’s happening!”
“Sweetie, you’d better get down there and play catcher,” the woman next to us says to the man.
“Righteous,” says the kid filming. “Dude, she’s having a baby in the nail salon.”
The man leans close to my face. His hazel eyes are rimmed with the darkest, thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. His expression is steady. Determined. Fearless. I start to fade out, imagining what he sees with those eyes of his when he looks at me, knowing it’s nothing good. How could it be?
I blink to bring him into better focus. “What?”
“I need to go down to your . . . private area. Okay? I’m just going to look. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
“Just do what you have to do.” I let go of him and take the arms of the chair, squeezing my eyes shut as I arch my back in pain. “Oooooooh, shiiiizzle!” I move my feet partway up the semi-reclined massage chair when the spasm passes, readying myself for the inevitable. It’s happening. This is happening. I’m about to have a baby in this Godforsaken nail salon.
He positions himself near my feet, leaning awkwardly against the chair. “Can you open your legs a little?” he asks.
I part my knees, no longer embarrassed by a stranger seeing whatever there is to see down there. I just need it to be over with, and if he wants to help me get there, good for him. He can see it all as far as I’m concerned—my lady-v, my behind, my body turning itself inside out . . .
He leans down and winces.
“What is it?” I ask, scared by his expression, worried for the baby, worried I might have pooed on the Asian lady’s chair.
He looks up and then around the salon, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration or concern, it’s hard to tell which. I pant through the pain, staring at him, hoping he’ll say something I can hang on to, something hopeful.
“It’s go time.” He races over to the sink, barely limping, washes his hands furiously, and then grabs a nearby stool and drags it over. He rubs his palms together and claps them loudly once. “Okay. Let’s do this.” He sits down and looks up at me. “Mika, I hate to break this to you, but you’re definitely having a baby. I can see its head. We’re almost there.” His attention shifts to the space between my legs.
I have to lie back in the chair because the pain is coming again, and the urge to push is too great to ignore. I grip the arms of the chair. “I’m dying! I’m dying!” is all I can say, my head shaking left and right as I try to rid my body of the agony I’m enduring. “I’m dying.”