Two hours later, I’m heading down the maternity corridor to Monie’s room with her overnight bag. I’m cold and tired, but I’m relieved knowing she’s safe and being taken care of. Thank God, she had her phone, and also thanks to her father, who had the foresight to gift it to us. I’ve burned two things into my tiny pea brain going forward: check the gas gauge before heading out on the road, and make damn sure I have my mobile phone on me.
When I get to her room, she’s wired up to a fetal monitor and straddling a chair ass backward. Tiff did that when she had Ted in another life; she said it helped her endure the contractions when they came. Monie turns to me and offers me a pouty smile. “Oh, Baby,” she says tenderly, “you look like you’ve been dragged through a mosh pit.”
“I’m fine,” I ans
