My contractions were six minutes apart by the time we got in the car. The windshield wipers made that rubbery, urgent sound against sleet. The inside of Roz’s SUV smelled like peppermint gum and hand sanitizer and the French fries she swore she hadn’t eaten but definitely had.
“Did you tell him?” she asked as we merged onto the highway.
“Not yet.”
“Good. Let him hear about his daughter through the proper channels for once in his life.”
Even then, bent forward and breathing through another contraction, I laughed.
The hospital room was too bright, too warm, and full of noises I would later remember more vividly than faces. The blood pressure cuff inflating. Monitor beeps. The soft rip of Velcro. The squeak of sneakers in the hallway. Somebody wheeling a cart past my door at two in the morning.
Roz stayed for every minute.
She didn’t flood me with encouragement or tell me I was “made for this” or any of the other things people say when they want to turn suffering into poetry. She handed me ice chips. Rubbed my lower back. Counted breaths when I forgot how numbers worked. When I swore at a nurse, she did not apologize on my behalf.