I looked at him.
“What?”
“Get out of the car.”
“Eric, I’m not—”
He threw the gearshift into park, opened his door, walked around the front of the car, and yanked mine open.
The morning air hit my face.
“Eric, stop.”
He grabbed my upper arm.
Hard.
“You want everything to stop for you? Fine. Get out.”
His fingers dug into my skin.
“Eric, you’re hurting me.”
“Then get out.”
He pulled.
My feet hit the pavement awkwardly.
Another cramp seized my stomach.
I doubled over beside the car.
“Please.”
I didn’t care about the argument anymore.
I didn’t care about his meeting.
I was scared.
“Please take me to the hospital.”
Eric got back behind the wheel.
That was when I realized my purse was still on the passenger-side floor.
My phone was inside it.
“Wait.”
He shut the door.
“My purse is still inside!”
He lowered the window.
For one stupid second, I thought he was going to apologize.
Instead he said, “You’ll figure it out.”
Then he drove away.
I stood on that street watching our car disappear.
Eight months pregnant.
No phone.
No wallet.
No coat.
No way to call anyone.
And in enough pain that I could barely straighten up.
I don’t know how long I stood there.
Probably less than two minutes.
It felt like twenty.
A woman came out of a house across the street carrying a travel mug.
She saw me bent over with both hands around my stomach and stopped.
“Are you okay?”
I tried to answer.
Another contraction hit.
She put the mug down on the hood of her car and ran toward me.
Her name was Dana.
I remember that because she kept repeating it.
“I’m Dana. I live right there. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“I think I’m having contractions.”
“Okay. Sit down if you can.”
She helped me onto the low brick wall in front of her yard.
Then she called 911.
