Bridesmaid Blitz (9 page)

I grip the edges of my seat with both hands and pray frantically in my head.
If we get there safely and the baby’s OK, I’ll help with Alex and Evie all the time, God. And I won’t complain about it, I promise. And I’ll be nicer to Shelly, I promise. Please make the baby be OK.

We’re soon tearing up O’Connell Street, the three lanes of traffic parting in the middle to let us through. “It’s like that Bible story — Moses and the Red Sea,” Clover says excitedly. “And I’m Moses, cutting my way through the waves.” She’s such a drama queen.

“Are we . . . nearly . . . at the hospital?” Shelly asks, her voice pinched with pain.

“Two more minutes,” I tell her. “Hang in there — you’re doing great.”

We made it! The guard helped us get Shelly into the lobby of the Parnell Street Maternity Hospital. She’s in the examination room now, and Clover and I are sitting on red leatherette seats in the waiting area, frantic to hear what’s happening. I’ve just tried calling Mum and Dad again, but with no joy.

Clover pats my hand. “Don’t worry, Beanie. Shelly will be fine.”

I bite the inside of my lip. “And the baby? I should have rung an ambulance as soon as her waters broke. What if something bad happens? It’ll be all my fault.”

“No ambulance could have got us here as quickly as that guard,” she says. “Cute, wasn’t he?”

“Clover, you have a one-track mind. And you also have Brains, remember?” Then I pause. “You two haven’t had a fight, have you?”

“Nah. Chance would be a fine thing. He’s always away these days — festivals, weddings, gigs. His band’s really starting to take off.” She stares down at her left hand and twists her silver butterfly ring around and around on her index finger. (Brains gave it to her for their three-month anniversary.) “We’re practically living two separate lives. And once I go to college in October, things will get even harder.”

“Ah, Clover, it’ll work out. Brains is mad about you.”

“It’s not just Brains. . . . Maybe I should leave college for another year, just stick with writing for the mag. I don’t feel ready for essays and exams and stuff.”

I say nothing for a second. Clover’s not afraid of anything — spiders, greasy seaweed grabbing her legs when she’s swimming, D4s, driving down bus lanes — but the whole idea of college seems to terrify her.

“Everyone will be a year younger than me and I won’t fit in,” she continues, in a
Borrowers
–small voice. “I should have gone last year with the rest of the gang from school.”

“They’ll still be there.”

“But they won’t want to hang around with a fresher, will they? They’ll have their own crews by now.”

“Clover, you’re always telling me to be brave — ‘feel the fear and do it anyway’ and all that malarkey. It’s time to take your own advice. Yes, I’m sure the first day will be scary biscuits, but within a few weeks you’ll be running the college newspaper. You’ll see.”

She still looks glum. “Wish I had your confidence, Beanie.”

I nudge her with my shoulder. “I didn’t lick it off the stones. Everything I know, I learned from you.”

Her face breaks into a grin and she tosses her hair back. “I am rather fabulous, aren’t I?” Then, back to her old self again, she whistles softly and adds, “Beanie, check out that fine
féar
in the scrubs.” She points at the dark-haired doctor leaning over the admin desk. “Who needs baby elephants when the men of Ireland look like that? Check out those shoulders and those buns.” She’s clearly spoken too loudly, ’cos he turns and looks at us.

I dig her in the ribs. “Shush, Clover. I think he heard you.”

“Yikes, better stop drooling, then,” she says as he starts walking toward us.

“Oh, great,” I mutter. “Now he’s probably going to throw us out for inappropriate waiting-room behavior.”

But instead he says, “Which one of you is Clover Wildgust?”

“All yours,” Clover says. Am I imagining it, or is she batting her eyelashes? She’s shameless. Now is so not the time for flirting with ancients.

But the doctor just smiles, his brown eyes going all crinkly at the corners like George Clooney’s. OK, I have to admit it — Clover’s right: hubba, hubba.

“I’m Mrs. Green’s obstetrician, Dr. McKenna,” he says.

Clover snorts. “Seriously? You’re a baby doctor? You’re wasted on rugrats — you’re far too cute, and they can’t even see properly when they’re born, right?”

Now she’s done it! I cringe and put my hand over my eyes, utterly mortified.

The doctor laughs nervously, and I star my fingers to spy on him. He has lovely, even, Hollywood-white teeth and looks embarrassed yet amused at the same time. He clearly doesn’t know quite what to say in reply to Clover’s comment, though. “Um,” he stammers. “Well . . .”

“How’s Shelly?” I ask quickly, taking down my hand and putting him out of his misery.

He looks relieved. “She’s eight centimeters dilated, so I’m going to take her straight up to the delivery room,” he says, happy to be back on familiar ground. “The baby’s early, but she’s in full labor, so there’s no stopping it now.”

“Is the baby going to be OK?” I say, tears pricking my eyes. “We came as quickly as we could. Got a Garda escort and everything.”

He sits down beside me on the edge of the seat. “Please don’t upset yourself. Getting her here a few minutes earlier wouldn’t have made any difference. And there’s nothing the paramedics could have done that you didn’t.” He pats my hand. “Your mum said you did a great job of keeping her calm and focused. She told me you helped her breathe through the contractions.”

My mum?
That’s a laugh. But I don’t have the energy to explain.

“Some babies have a mind of their own,” he continues, “due date or not. The signs are good: strong heartbeat, no evidence of distress. We won’t know the full picture till after the delivery, I’m afraid. But babies are a lot tougher than you think. They’re little fighters.”

I nod gratefully. And then I remember what Seth said about Polly — that he didn’t want her to have to
fight
. Is Dr. McKenna saying the baby’s going to struggle to survive? My mind races, thinking about Shelly; her terrified gray face floats in front of my eyes.

“Any sign of your dad yet?” he asks me. “She’s asking for him.”

I’m too caught up in thought to answer, so Clover says, “We’ll let you know as soon as he arrives. Tell Shelly not to worry; he shouldn’t be too long now.”

“Good. Send him over to reception as soon as he arrives. Ask them to page me.” He stands up. “I need to get back to my patients now, but try not to worry, OK?”

After he’s left, Clover says, “You all right, Beanie? You’ve gone very quiet.”

“What if the baby doesn’t make it?” I say, my stomach in knots. “What if it dies?”

“You heard the doctor — the signs are all good.” She pushes back a wisp of hair that has fallen over my eyes. “He said not to worry, remember?”

“But the baby hasn’t even been born yet. What if it pops out and it can’t breathe or something ’cos it’s too little?” My eyes start to tear up, and tiny beads of cold sweat dot my palms. I rub them on my jeans as the tears start streaming down my face.

Clover takes my hand. Weaving her fingers through mine, she squeezes gently. “It’ll be all right, Beanie. Trust me. I know all this waiting’s hard, but you heard the doc: it won’t be long now.”

“Where’s Dad, Clover?” I say, starting to feel a little hysterical. “It’s not fair!
He
should be here, dealing with all this. I feel so helpless. We’re just sitting here, doing nothing. And what about Shelly? Shouldn’t someone be in there with her? She’s probably scared out of her wits by this stage.” I pull my hand out of hers, whip my mobile out, and, ignoring the sign saying
NO MOBILES
, start to press in Dad’s number.

“Beanie, listen to me,” Clover says gently, taking the phone out of my hand. She clicks to end the call. “He’s on his way, I swear. He just can’t hear his phone. Helicopters are noisy beasts.”

“Helicopters?” I gape at her.

Clover’s right. Half an hour later, Dad runs into the hospital in his golfing gear — pink polo shirt and cream slacks — his temples dotted with sweat. Clover put in some calls on her way from the zoo. She managed to track Dad down through Felix, one of the guys in Brains’s band. Felix’s brother works in the sports department at RTÉ, and he just happened to be covering the biggest golf tournament of the season at, you guessed it, Wexford. He found Dad a helicopter and everything. It belongs to one of the satellite telly companies. Yeah, Clover!

The second Dad spots us, he asks, “Where’s Shelly? Have I missed it? Is the baby all right?” his face ashen.

“Shelly’s still in labor,” Clover says. “And the doctor says everything’s OK so far. But hurry. Go to the desk, explain who you are, and ask them to page Dr. McKenna.”

Dad rushes up to the receptionist. She nods and puts in a call. He refuses to sit down and just paces in front of the desk until a few moments later a nurse appears through the sliding doors. “Mr. Green? This way, please. I’ll bring you straight through to the delivery room.”

“And the baby?” Dad asks nervously.

“Don’t worry, you haven’t missed the birth. But we need to hurry.”

“Amy,” Dad calls over his shoulder, just before he disappears though the doors, “I couldn’t get through to your mum, but I managed to track down Dave. He’ll be here soon.”

Then he’s gone.

I blow out my breath and slip down the seat. “This is all too intense. I can’t bear it.”

“But at least your dad’s here now,” Clover says. “And Dave’s on his way. Good to have someone else here . . . you know . . . in case . . .” She falters.

“In case
what
?”

“In case something goes wrong. Look, it’s highly unlikely, but the baby’s very early and it may need special care, that’s all. So Art might not be able to take you home later.”

“I’m staying right here,” I say firmly. “All night if that’s what it takes. I can sleep in a chair. I’ve done it before on the ferry. I don’t mind. And then I can help Shelly with the nappies and everything. You’ve seen how hopeless she is — she’ll need me. I’ll go home with them then and —”

“Amy, stop,” Clover says gently, putting her hand on mine. “I know you want to be involved, but Art and Shelly may need some time alone with the baby at first, to bond as a family.”

“But I’m part of their family too. Art’s my dad.”

“I know. But new babies have a way of taking over, and I don’t want you to get upset if Art forgets you’re around for a little bit once he or she has arrived. It won’t last long. And you’re right — down the line they’ll both need your help. Anyway, for now, we need to concentrate on Shelly and the baby being OK.”

“You’re right — it’s all this sitting around. It’s doing my head in.”

“I know. Let’s get a Coke and something to eat. I’m sure there won’t be news for ages yet.”

Later, as I sit in the hospital’s café, with its primrose walls and cheery servers, waiting for Clover to come back from the loo, I start to think about Seth and how he must be feeling, waiting for Polly’s test results, knowing the news might be bad. Poor Seth. It must be driving him
loco
. I’ve only been in the hospital for a few hours and I’m already in bits.

I know the doctor said Shelly and the baby are doing fine, but I can’t help feeling horribly worried. I think about ringing Seth or Mills, but I can’t summon up the energy. I push away my plate of chips. It’s no use: I can’t even taste them, let alone swallow. I close my eyes. Dear God, I beg, please make Shelly and the baby be OK. I don’t think I could cope if . . . I open my eyes. No! I can’t even think it. I take out my phone and flick onto Beach Volleyball to try to take my mind off the horrible thought.

When we get back from the café, Dave is sitting in the waiting area, Evie strapped to his chest in her baby sling, Alex playing with a toy train at his feet.

Dave has a very serious look on his face. My back stiffens. Dad shouldn’t have bothered calling him. The baby is going to be perfectly healthy. Why is everyone making out like something bad’s going to happen?

“I came as quick as I could,” he says. “Your mum’s still shopping with Monique in Kildare Village, and these little monsters don’t make traveling easy.”