Tasty Mango by JJ Knight
Donovan
When I make it outside with Havannah, the valet looks at us with alarm. “Shall I call your driver?”
“I already did,” I tell him.
The night is warm. Havannah has buried her face in my neck. Despite the pregnancy, she’s easy to carry. But I’m not sure she’ll manage this position if another contraction hits. I don’t know much about labor and delivery, not more than I’ve seen in movies.
The long, sleek limo pulls up to the awning. I hired a service, since I don’t travel with a driver, so he’s unfamiliar. But at least he’s prompt.
The valet ushers us inside. “Good luck,” he says, tipping his hat.
I duck down, no easy feat with a pregnant woman in my arms, and lay Havannah on the long leather seat. “You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m in between the pain. Just wet.”
I sit opposite her as the car moves forward. She tries to sit up, but her eyes go wide and she lies down again. “I think I’ll stay right here.”
The driver rolls down the glass partition. “Everything okay?”
“What hospital?” I ask her. I don’t know my way around Boulder.
“East Side,” she says.
I turn to the driver. “You know it?”
“Of course,” he says, and turns back to the wheel. Then he whips around again. “Does that mean she’s—”
“Yes, she’s in labor.”
“Oh, geez,” he says. “I just had the car cleaned.”
I’d like very much to crack his jaw for that. “Just get to the hospital.”
He nods, and the limo jets forward.
Havannah presses a palm to her forehead. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
I reach over and take her hand. “Maybe it’s me. Twice now I’ve visited Boulder, and both times you ended up in the hospital.”
She laughs, the sound vibrating through my chest. “I do seem to have a terrible habit of needing medical assistance when you’re around.”
I lift her fingers to my lips. It’s early for such an intimate gesture, but it feels right. “Should I call someone?”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh, right! I guess this is the real deal, if my water’s gone. Yes. My sister. My mom. And— Ooooooh!”
Her hand grips mine like a vise. She huffs, sweat popping on her brow. I push her hair off her forehead where it’s sticking to her skin. She rolls on her side, sucking in air, then huffing it out again.
“Another one?” I ask. I’m not a man to panic, but this situation has me concerned. I picture the baby coming out on the seat. Should I catch it? Do they still smack them on the bottom to make them breathe?
“Seems…sorta…fast…” she says.
“Should I time them?” They always talk about timing contractions in movies.
“Yessss. Try.”
She won’t let go of my hand, so I use the other to tug my phone out. I glance at the driver. “How far?” I ask him.
“Downtown traffic is a bit locked up. I’ll go around.”
“There’s…a…festival on Pearl Street,” she gasps. “Lots…of…people.”
“Right!” says the driver. “That explains it.” He makes a quick right, and my phone clatters to the floor as I press my hand to Havannah’s belly to hold her in place. It’s as hard as a rock.
“Does it always feel like that?” I ask.
“Only…during…a…” She gives up talking to squeeze her eyes shut and breathe in short, rapid-fire huffs.
“I understand.” I reach around on the floor for my cell. “Take it easy up there!” I tell the driver.
My fingers finally locate the phone. “What’s your mom’s number?”
She holds up a finger, then lets out a long, slow breath. “Use my phone,” she says. But we both realize at the same moment that she left her purse behind in the commotion.
“I’ll call the restaurant and have it sent,” I tell her quickly. “Do you know the numbers?”
“Who knows numbers anymore?” she cries. “It’s all in speed dial.”
“Dell will have them,” I say. “Or at least he can call Anthony, and Anthony can call Magnolia.”
She nods again, then sucks in, her face red, more huffing breaths coming. “Why is this one so looooong?” She lets go of me to grip the edge of the cushion.
I don’t even try texting, but put a call straight through to Dell. It goes to voicemail.
Damn it!
I leave a curt message: “Call the Pickles as soon as you get this. Havannah’s in labor and doesn’t have her phone. Get one of them to tell Magnolia so she can notify the family. We’re headed to East Side Hospital.” I hang up.
Surely I talked directly to the Pickles at some point. Or Magnolia. Havannah grips my hand as I scroll through my call list.
I see the name Boudreaux and click on it.
It buzzes before I realize, Oh.
It’s Havannah’s. Right. When I asked her on this date. This wild, ill-timed date.
Havannah’s hand stops squeezing mine, and she relaxes on the cushion. “Okay. This one’s over.”
“Now I should time it?”
She nods, brushing a long tangle of hair away from her face. Her updo has come down. Little wire pins are scattered across the seat. “My hair is driving me crazy. I need something to tie it back.”
I start a timer on my phone and glance around for something to tame her hair. There’s nothing in the limo. I strip my tie from my shirt. “Will this do?”
She nods, taking the silk Hermès tie and sliding it under her hair. She shifts it so the wide part is on top of her head, then knots the ends at the back of her neck. The effect is cute and very sixties.
“It’s a good look,” I tell her.
She closes her eyes. “This is not how I pictured the night going.”
When I don’t have a response to that, she opens one eye. “Say something.”
I shrug. “After the last time we were together, I considered this as one of the possibilities.”
She props herself up on an elbow. “Really? And you came anyway?” She seems stricken, her chin jutting out.
I’m not generally at a loss for words, but how do I explain her predicament is part of her charm? I haven’t asked any questions about the baby, or the father, or how she got in this situation. It’s simply part of who she is. She comes with a baby. I knew that from the moment I saw her.
And I can’t forget that moment. Dell and I arrived at the empty deli about a week before opening day. My brother was laughing over some joke he’d told. We opened the door. The inside of the place was already set up, orange tables scattered through the open dining area.
And seated at one of them was a goddess.
Her long blond hair was a tangle of curls. She wore white pants and a pale green T-shirt with the restaurant logo.
Her eyes were crystal blue, and when they met mine, I felt absolutely sunk.
When she stood up, I saw she was pregnant, of course. My heart crashed completely. The lack of a ring meant nothing at first, because probably her fingers had gotten too swollen to wear it.
But later that day I learned that she lived with her sister. And on day three of our mentor sessions, when Magnolia suggested we all go to dinner, and Anthony came along but Havannah had no one, I suspected she was in this alone.
I asked Anthony discreetly about her situation. He only said she was single and the father was not in the picture.
“Uh, oh,” Havannah says, gripping my arm in a tight squeeze. “I think another one’s coming. How long has it been?”
I glance at the phone. “Just over three minutes.”
“That seems fast.”
“Is it?” I have no idea.
“Google it,” she says. “I think under four is when they think it’s imminent.”
Imminent?
I shout up the driver, “How close are we?”
“Five minutes!”
Five minutes. “We’ll make it,” I tell her. “Don’t worry.”
“Just Google it!” she says through gritted teeth. “If I’m going to have a baby in the back of a limo, I want to know!”
“Don’t have a baby in my limo!” the driver shouts. “I just cleaned the seats!”
“I’ll have your damn car cleaned!” I shout back. I could purchase this limo a million times over. Jesus.
I fumble with my phone to Google “timing of contractions.”
Havannah lets out a long, guttural moan. I’m feeling the uncomfortable, slow rise of panic. I thought I was unshakable. I’ve sat in board meetings with angry CEOs, entire rooms shouting at me.
But this a hell of a lot more stressful.
I find a good link. “It says here less than five minutes apart and lasting a minute or more is active labor.”
“I think we’re beyond that,” she says. “How much longer until he comes?”
“We should have an hour. You’re not in transition.”
This calms her, and while her breathing continues in short, huffing spurts, she relaxes on the seat, eyes closed, hand on her belly.
“We’ll make it fine,” I tell her.
One of her shoes has partially come off, so I pull it away, as well as the other, and set them on the ground. “Should we call your doctor and let him know?”
“I would,” she says. “But no phone, remember?”
“I can look him up.”
“The hospital can do it.” Her shoulders relax. “That one’s done. I’m so tired.”
She has a long way to go, though. I pocket the phone. “What can I do?”
“I’m super thirsty.”
I sort through the cabinet. Beer. Wine. Finally I locate a bottle of water and unscrew the cap. “Here you go.”
She props up on her elbow again. “Thanks.”
Her smooth throat bobs as she chugs half the bottle. I take it from her. “Next round will be soon.”
“I’ll probably puke this up, actually,” she says. “Are there any towels?”
Folded silk napkins are tucked inside a row of chunky crystal highball glasses. I pull one out. “I’m not sure this will help much, but I’ll give you them all.” I tug out all the napkins and spread them along the seat near her head.
“Maybe a plastic bag?” she suggests.
I sort through the cabinets and locate a small trash can. I pull it out. “How about this?”
“Good.” She drops her head.
“Anything else?”
Havannah shakes her head, eyes drooping. “We wait.”
She looks exhausted and forlorn, her tiny frame with its basketball belly curled on the long leather seat. I scoot close to her, sitting on the floor, my arm bracing her so she doesn’t shift with every movement of the car.
“We’re here!” the driver calls. A big red sign penetrates the dark tint on the windows. The hospital.
“You ready for this?” I ask her.
She nods, and I help her sit up. “Thank you.”
The driver throws open the back door. “Woman in labor!” he shouts.
Havannah looks up at me. “Did he really do that?”
“He did.”
After a moment, a medic peers inside. “Can you walk?” he asks.
Havannah nods. We help her out of the car, and the team loads her on a rolling stretcher.
“Should I come with you?” I ask, suddenly unsure.
But at that moment, Magnolia runs up. “We made it.” She glances at me. “Dell called Anthony.”
Then her mother is there. And her father.
“Thank you, son,” her father says. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Her phone is at Julio’s Bistro,” I say. “We forgot it in the race here.”
John Paul nods, following his daughter through the sliding doors. “We’ll handle it. Thank you!”
The driver ducks to peer at the interior of his car, sighing in relief that it isn’t whatever he pictured. “Where should I take you?”
“Back to the hotel, I guess,” I say.
I head inside the car and wait for the driver to walk around.
Havannah and her family have already disappeared inside the hospital. As we pull away, I pick up the pile of silk napkins and set them on the bar.
A sparkle catches my eye.
On the floor of the limo, gleaming like Cinderella’s slippers, are Havannah’s fancy shoes.
I’ll have to bring those back to her sometime.