Bridesmaid Blitz (8 page)

Early on Saturday afternoon, Shelly walks into my attic den in Dad’s house. She’s puffing and panting from climbing all the stairs, and her hands are wrapped around her massive preggers tummy. “I feel a bit funny, Amy,” she says.

“Probably indigestion. You had two Big Macs for lunch and loads of chips.” (Shelly is addicted to Macky D’s — it’s one of the few things that makes her normal.)

She thinks for a second. “You’re right. I should stop worrying. That’s exactly what it is. What are you watching?”

“YouTube.”

Shelly peers over my shoulder. “Who on earth is that? Someone famous? Nope, don’t recognize him.”

I pause the film and flip my laptop closed. I hate backseat viewers, especially the Shelly variety. I’ve been checking out a TED lecture about symmetry by an English math guru named Marcus du Sautoy. My math teacher gave me the details — not during class, thank goodness, but afterward. (My math fixation is not something I want to publicize.)

TED is an organization dedicated to the spreading of new ideas. They have some really interesting people on their website talking about all kinds of things, from black holes and climate change to robots and even spaghetti sauce (seriously!). It beats the other lame
Jackass
-inspired falling-off-a-chair/swing/bike/skis clips you normally find on YouTube.

“There’s no need to hide the screen, Amy. I’m not spying on you. I’m just —” Shelly breaks off and rubs her stomach. “This indigestion’s getting really nasty. I don’t really feel all that great.” She clutches the edge of my desk. “Do you mind if I sit on your bed for a second? It really hurts. Maybe I should lie down.”

That’s all I need — Shelly-cooties all over my pillow. Then I notice her face. It’s pale except for her cheeks, which are glowing like two clowns’ noses, and I feel a bit sorry for her.

She sits on the side of my bed and starts to rock backward and forward. Suddenly, a dark stain appears on my blue duvet cover. It spreads rapidly outward, like an inkblot, then there’s a splash on the wooden floor. Gross! What is that?

Shelly gives a scared squeak. “I’m leaking, Amy.”

“Shelly! Tell me you didn’t wet yourself.”

“Of course not. My bladder’s not
that
bad.
Eoi, moi Gawd
— maybe it’s my waters.”

“Nah,” I say, thinking that Shelly must be what happens when D4s grow up. (Scary biscuits!) “It can’t be.” Then something else occurs to me. “But that pain you’re having . . . maybe it’s not indigestion . . . maybe you’re having contractions.”

Shelly gasps. “You mean the baby’s coming? But it’s not due yet.”

I shrug. “I guess it might be coming early. Evie came early too. Mum’s waters broke in Tesco. She was morto! But don’t panic; it takes ages. Mum cooked dinner and hung the washing up before she went to the hospital to have Evie. Have you been to the special classes?”

“Yes, but our teacher went so fast it was hard to take it all in. Plus, Art knows everything, so I haven’t bothered with any books. If I need to know something, I just ask him.”

I try not to laugh. Dad’s clueless about babies — always has been, according to Mum.

“I’m not due for six whole weeks,” she says. “Ow, ow, ow. It really hurts.” She scrunches up her face, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes.

Then it starts to sink in. The baby’s very, very early — not just a week early like Evie. And Dad’s in Wexford. And Mum’s out shopping. And I’m all on my ownio. This is not good. Not good at all. A prickle of damp sweat starts to creep up my back, and my palms feel all hot and sticky.

“Don’t panic. We mustn’t panic,” I say, talking to myself as much as to Shelly. “I’ll ring Dad. And when it begins to hurt, do the special baby breathing.”

Shelly looks at me blankly.

“You know,” I prompt, “like they show you in the classes.” I demonstrate, hamstering my cheeks and puffing.
PUFF, PUFF, PUFF.
Then I stick out my tongue and pant.
PANT, PANT, PANT.
“Like that.” (Mum used to practice in the kitchen, stretching her tongue right out during the pants, like an overheated red setter. You don’t forget that kind of thing.) “Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s just for labor,” I add. “I think you’re supposed to be taking deep calming breaths now.”

Shelly’s face is still blank.

I start to get even more nervous. She really is clueless. I need Dad here, pronto, but I don’t want to alarm Shelly — she already looks terrified enough. So, telling her to just try breathing deeply, I pick up my mobile and go out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind me. Then I punch Dad’s number into my mobile. It goes straight to messages. “Um, Dad, I think the baby’s coming,” I say in a low voice, my hand cupping my mouth. “Not sure what to do here. You’d better get back to Dublin, quick. Oh, and this is Amy — in case you haven’t guessed.” I click off the phone.

Shelly’s moaning so loudly I can hear it through the wood. “Amy, Amy, I need you!” she shrieks suddenly. “I can’t do this on my own. Show me the breathing thing again — I can’t remember what you said. Amy!
Aagghhh
. It’s getting worse.”

“I’ll be right there,” I shout, then try Dad once more. It goes straight to messages again. I leave another voicemail — I don’t know what else to do. “Dad, Shelly needs you. Right now! I’m freaking out here! Just hurry.”

Siúcra, siúcra, siúcra
.

I try Mum but her mobile’s off too. Then I try the home landline, but again, no answer. My hands start to shake. This is serious. Where is everyone? Why won’t anyone pick up their stupid phone?

“AMY!” Shelly yells.

I run back in.

Shelly’s face is chalk white, and her hair is stuck to her sweaty forehead. “Is it supposed to be this painful?” she asks in a small voice. “I feel like someone’s cutting me in two. I need Art. Is he on his way?”

I figure that even though my own insides are jelly and I’m struggling to keep my hands from shaking, I’d better keep her calm. “He’s driving up from Wexford right this second,” I say. “He said not to worry, everything is under control.”

“Can you ring him back? I need to talk to him.”

Oops! “Better not,” I improvise. “We don’t want him crashing the car.”

“Oh, OK, but it’ll take him ages. What do we do now?” Her face crumples and she starts to cry.

Think, Amy; think! “We’ll call an ambulance.”

“No!” she wails. “No ambulance. I don’t want an ambulance. I just want Art.” Then she really starts to sob, big heavy sobs, and she rubs her tummy again. “
Eoi, moi Gawd!
No one told me it would hurt so much.”

Is she deranged? I’m only thirteen and even I know childbirth is no joke! I need help and fast. And if she won’t agree to an ambulance, there’s only one more person I can call on — Clover.

I ring her mobile, my hands quivering.
Ring-ring, ring-ring.
“Answer it, Clover,” I whisper. “Please answer it.”

But it rings out. “Hey, Clover here. You know what to do.”
Beep
.

“Clover, where are you?” I hiss. “Shelly’s in labor and I don’t know what to do. Ring me back urgently.”

Then I ring again, and again, and again, until I lose count of how many times I’ve tried her. It goes to messages every time. I stare down at my phone. I’m so cross I feel like hurling it against the wall. Why is my family so useless? Why can’t they answer their phones for a change? I blink back my angry tears and look over at Shelly. She’s rocking backward and forward, her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall in front of her. She seems to be mumbling something under her breath. It sounds like “I’m not going to die; I’m not going to die.” Oh, dear God, I really, really have to get her to the hospital. Right now.

“Shelly, that’s it. I have to —”

Just then my mobile rings. Trembling with relief, I go out onto the landing to answer Clover’s call.

“Hey, Beanie, what’s up?” she says breezily. “I have heaps of missed calls from you.”

Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’m so pleased to hear her voice I burst into tears. “Finally!” I blubber. “Clover, where are you?”

“In the car park at Dublin Zoo, about to visit the new baby elephant twins. What’s going on? Everything hunky-D?”

“NOOOOO! How quickly can you be at Dad’s?”

“Shelly being painful? I’d love some company if you want to join me.”

“No! The baby’s on the way and Shelly won’t let me ring an ambulance.”

“Where’s Art?”

“At some big-deal golf tournament in Wexford.”

“Typical. Hang in there, Bean Machine — don’t panic at the disco. I’m on my way. ETA: ten minutes. Over and out.”

I click the phone off and go back into my room. Shelly’s stopped rocking now and is staring at me, her baby-blue eyes wide and frightened.

“Clover’s on her way,” I say gently. “She’ll take you to the hospital, and I’m sure Dad will be here before you know it.”

“Good, because I think I’m dying,” she wails.

“You’re not dying, Shelly. Concentrate on deep breathing.”

“Oh, shut up about the breathing,” she snaps. “I don’t know what you’re on about.” She takes several short, shallow breaths, which I know won’t do her any good.

I ignore her rudeness — being in all that pain can’t be easy — and, sitting down on the bed next to her, I squeeze her hand until I hear a car screech to a halt outside.

“Clover!” I cry, dashing down the stairs two at a time and yanking open the door. “Boy, am I glad you’re here,” I gabble. “The contractions aren’t that far apart now, which means the baby’s on its way. But don’t tell her that, or she’ll have even more of a knicker attack.”

Clover smiles and ruffles my hair. “Don’t worry, Beanie. We’ll just drop her to the hospital and the doctors will deal with everything. She’s not due for yonks — it’s probably just one of those false alarms. Braxton Hicks, I think they’re called.”

We climb the stairs. Clover seems very calm until she spots the damp patch under Shelly, then I notice she is biting her lip as she whispers, “You didn’t tell me about her waters breaking, Beanie. Better get her into the hospital ASAP.”

Clover’s concern makes me even more worried. Shelly does look pretty bad: her face is now gray, and she seems to be having difficulty breathing. Clover grabs my arm and takes me aside. “She looks brutal. We have to keep her calm, Beanie. Pretend everything’s fine, OK? This baby’s going to be very premature. It needs all the time inside it can get.”

I nod. “I’ll do my best.”

“Attagirl,” she says, and then walks toward Shelly, smiles, and gives a little bow. “Hi, Shelly. Taxi’s here. Which hospital, m’lady?”

Shelly manages a smile, which is a bit of a miracle. “Parnell Street,” she says.

“Excellent. It’s only down the road. We’ll get you there lickety-split. Can you walk?”

Shelly looks anxious. “I’m not sure I can even get up.”

“We’ll help you.” Clover crawls onto the bed and, kneeling behind Shelly, puts her hands just above Shelly’s waist. “Amy, you grab Shelly’s hands and pull while I push. One, two, three,
heave
.”

Once Shelly’s on her feet, I put my arm around one shoulder and Clover takes the other, and we help her down the stairs, taking it snail slow.

“That’s it, Shelly,” Clover says kindly. “You’re doing fab. One step at a time.”

Finally, we reach Clover’s car. “We’ll lie you down in the backseat, Shelly. Getting you in will be the hard part.”

Shelly clutches her stomach again and takes a few slow, deep breaths. At least she was listening to me. “Oh, Christ, it’s getting even worse.”

“You’re doing brilliantly,” I say while Clover opens the driver’s door and pulls the seat as far forward as she can.

“It’s a contraction, Shelly,” she explains at the same time. “Like a giant rubber band squeezing your stomach in for a few seconds. Each contraction is less than a minute. Just ride the pain, let it flow over you, and remember each one will only last a short time.”

I look at Clover in admiration. How on earth does she know so much about labor?

As if reading my mind, Clover grins at me. “Had to go to some of those baba classes with Sylvie when Dave was working. You don’t forget weird stuff like that.”

I smile at her. “You’re so right. The amount of weird stuff I’ve seen, I’m scarred for life.”

Shelly puts her hands on the roof of the car and tries to breathe through another contraction. I run inside and grab some cushions from the sofa to make the journey more comfortable for her.

“Do you have a hospital bag packed?” Clover is asking when I get back.

Shelly shakes her head. “Am I supposed to?”

“Dad can take some things in with him,” I say gently, arranging the cushions on the backseat. “Now, let’s get you into the car.”

Getting her in is no joke — it’s like squeezing a hippo into a dishwasher — but after a lot of squealing and grunting (and that’s just me and Clover!), we manage it.

Minutes later, we’re tearing down the Liffey quays, toward the city center. And it’s all going swimmingly until we hear a
NEE-NAW-NEE-NAW-NEE-NAW
. I look around and spot a police car in the lane beside us, its siren blaring. The Garda at the wheel waves at Clover to pull over.

“Siúcra,”
Clover mutters. She checks in her rearview mirror, swerves left, and pulls in.

As the guard swaggers toward us we wait in nervous silence — with the exception of Shelly, who’s still breathing noisily. Clover buzzes down her window and he crouches down, resting his blue-shirted arms on the window frame.

“Are you aware that you were doing sixty-five, miss? Down a bus lane.” He lifts his dark eyebrows at Clover.

“We have to get our friend to Parnell Street,” Clover says. “It’s an emergency — her baby’s on the way and she’s not doing so good.”

He gives a tight-lipped smile. “That’s what they all say.”

“But it’s true,” I cry, pointing at Shelly in the back. “Look!”

He peers through the gap in between the front seats, and sure enough, Shelly’s face is almost green. She’s dripping with sweat and moaning loudly, her eyes squeezed shut. His jaw drops. “Right, follow me.” He jumps back into his squad car and peels off again, sirens blaring.

“I’ve always wanted a Garda escort,” Clover says, restarting the engine. “I just wish it were in different circumstances. Hang on to your hats, lads.” She rams her foot down on the accelerator and we power off.