“No!”
Herb pitched forward, falling into the mud. I rushed to him and kneeled down in the freezing slop.
“Goddamn it, Luther!”
“He’s still breathing,” Luther said. “I didn’t kill him. But I will if you don’t do as I say. Now get up and come with me.”
“He needs a doctor!”
“He’ll need a coroner if you don’t listen. Start walking, Jack.”
“I love you, Herb.”
“I know,” he groaned. “Right back at you.”
I struggled onto my feet, which were going numb either from the cold, my eclampsia, or both. Luther kept his gun on Herb.
“Walk ahead of me. Don’t stop.”
I stumbled through the freezing mud, glancing every few seconds over my shoulder at Herb, keeled over on his side.
“Through the door.”
I stepped over the threshold and had turned for one last glimpse of my friend when Luther slammed the door behind us.
I stood in a small, sterile room.
Whitewashed, concrete walls.
A tiled floor with a large metal drain.
I would’ve thought that of all the horrors I’d been exposed to in the preceding hours, nothing could’ve stopped me in my tracks and put the cold finger down my spine, but I was wrong.
In the center of the room stood a blue-padded table with armrests and—
Leg holders.
A birthing table.
“Get on,” he ordered.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
“Climb onto the table and buckle yourself in. I’ll do your last wrist.”
I hadn’t noticed the wrist and knee straps.
No.
I couldn’t do this.
Then I thought of Herb, bleeding in the mud.
I walked across the room and did what I’d done so many times during the course of my pregnancy—heaved my fat ass up onto the padded seat and worked my legs into the stirrups. It was the second step that I had to force myself through—actually locking down the wrist and ankle bracelets.
“Damn, Jack,” Luther said, cinching my right wrist tight. “I was sure I’d have to gas you to get you in this chair.”
“I love my friends, Luther. You wouldn’t know what that means—”
“Don’t fool yourself into believing you know anything about me,” he said, pulling on a rubber apron.
He brought out a rolling IV stand also mounted with a tray of medical implements, a handful of syringes, and several glass vials.
Sidling up to the table, he smiled down at me—looking so different without that sweep of long hair I’d come to expect and associate him with.
He laid the back of his hand against my forehead, and I tried to turn away, but it was no use.
“The great Jack Daniels. Finally in the flesh. You’re quite beautiful.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Do you really want to make me angry? Now? When you’re so vulnerable?”
“Let my friends go. Then I’ll tell you what a sweetie you are.”
He touched my cheek again, and I forced myself not to flinch. For the moment, anger was still overriding my fear. But I had no idea how long that would last. I’d never felt more vulnerable, and I knew it would only get worse.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Terrible.”
“You’re what? Thirty-eight weeks along?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I think it’s time we got this baby out of you. What do you say?”
“Get the fuck away from me.”
“Now, now.”
He lifted a syringe off the tray, jammed the needle into a vial.
“What is that?” I asked. I could feel my heart beginning to gallop.
“Pitocin.”
I shut my eyes. This was a nightmare. Couldn’t really be happening.
“It’s a synthetic form of a naturally occurring hormone in your body—oxytocin. It’s used to induce—”
“I know what it’s used for.”
“Your contractions should begin soon. Are you going to be able to push this baby out on your own in the next few hours?”
My eyes welled up, spilled over.
“Luther, for God’s sake. Not like this.”
“You’re better than begging, Jack. Don’t lower yourself to that kind of behavior.”
He filled the syringe and set it aside.
Wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around my arm, inflated it, studied the gauge.
He shook his head. “Worse than I thought.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“One seventy-five over one ten. No wonder you had a seizure.” He undid the Velcro. “Now, I need you to hold still please.”
Before I even realized what had happened, I felt the needle enter a vein near my wrist.
“I’m starting an IV. Don’t struggle, Jack. Do you understand how completely your life is in my hands at this moment?”
A fear beyond the well-being of my friends, beyond my own safety, bore down upon me like the apocalypse. Through my own selfishness these last nine months, I’d missed it entirely.
There was a person growing inside of me.
A real person.
Precious. Helpless. Utterly innocent.
One who would someday walk and talk. Have likes and dislikes. Dreams and ambitions. A life of her own.
And her first seconds in this world might be in the hands of this maniac.
“Listen to me, Luther—”
“Don’t talk, Jack.”
“Are you going to hurt my baby?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’ll have to trust me, Jack. You ready?”
“For what?”
“Labor.”
He inserted the needle into the injection port.
“I’m giving you a big dose, Jack. I need you to be ready, because this is going to come fast and furious.”
As he injected, I stared up into his black, dispassionate eyes.
“You’re dehydrated,” he said and pulled out a water bottle.
Until I saw it, I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was. He held the nozzle to my lips and I sucked the water down until he took it away.
Three minutes later, it started.
The first contraction felt like a menstrual cramp right above my pubic bone, the pain all-encompassing, knifelike, hipbone to hipbone.
And from there, it got worse—a slow detonation in progress between my legs, and already I wanted to die.
I knew that induction had been a very real possibility considering my preeclampsia, but the fear of induction had been mitigated by the fact that my birth plan called for copious amounts of drugs. Through the course of my Internet research into what I was in for, I’d stumbled across numerous blogs written by women praising the virtues of natural childbirth. Of staying connected to your body through every contraction, every ounce of pain.
Those women were out of their minds.
My approach had been solidified months ago: stick a needle in my back and wake me up when the pain was over.
But that wasn’t going to happen now.
No drugs, no epidural.
No doctor.
And to make matters worse, everything I’d read about induction indicated that Pitocin only increased the pain and intensity of contractions, as if they needed any help.
When the next contraction ended, I stopped screaming long enough to say, “Leave me alone.”
He was standing beside me, holding a cold washcloth to my forehead.
“You’re doing great, Jack. But you shouldn’t push yet. If you do, this will take a lot longer.”
“Get the hell away from me.”
“Then you’ll die, Jack. You and your little girl will die in this room.”
“I need water.”
He fed me another few sips.
“Oh, God. Here comes another one.”
He reached out and offered his hand.
“Why are you being nice to me?” I asked.
“I have my reasons.”
I refused to take his hand, instead making a fist.
Screamed as I stared into the lightbulb swaying gently over my head.
• • •
Thirty minutes could’ve passed.