“If you need to deliver—”
“No.”
Fear tore through me.
“No. Not here.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I grabbed her wrist.
“My doctor said if my water broke before contractions were established, I needed to come in. The baby was transverse last week.”
Her face changed.
“What does that mean?”
“He turned, but they were watching his position.”
“Could he have turned back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
She looked scared.
That made me more scared.
“Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like something is wrong.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re terrible at it.”
She almost laughed.
Another pounding came from somewhere beyond the room.
I looked toward the door.
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes.”
We both screamed.
“HELP!”
Nothing.
Then music.
The ceremony continued.
The ballroom had been designed to keep sound out of service areas.
Now that expensive acoustic insulation was keeping our voices in.
I felt trapped in a nightmare built from luxury.
The planner grabbed a metal tray.
“What are you doing?”
She slammed it repeatedly against the door.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
“STOP!”
Bang.
“OPEN THIS DOOR!”
Bang.
A contraction forced me to grip the shelf.
The baby moved again.
Then something happened that made every instinct in my body scream.
The pressure changed.
Suddenly.
Deep and wrong.
I reached downward beneath the layers of my gown.
The planner saw my face.
“What?”
“I feel something.”
“Pressure?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
She knelt.
“Can I check?”
Humiliation did not exist anymore.
“Please.”
She lifted enough tulle to help me adjust my position while preserving as much dignity as possible.
Then she froze.
“What?”
She did not answer.
“What?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
My heart pounded.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“That is not helpful.”
She looked at me.
“But we need paramedics now.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know if the cord could be involved.”
The word punched through me.
Cord.
I knew enough.
Umbilical cord prolapse.
Compression.
Reduced oxygen.
Emergency.
Rare.
Dangerous.
My hands started shaking.
“My baby.”
“Look at me.”
“My baby could—”