Page 20 of Light

“Grab the keys. Take the 405 to the 101.” I coincide the command with my full body dip, sweeping my gorgeous Flare off her feet before she can so much as yelp half a protest. Remarkably, perhaps even gratefully, she finally sags into me. Her head is a welcome weight against my shoulder. Her surging belly is pressed tight to my ribcage.

Her belly…

Where our son’s heartbeat throbs into me and through me…

Bringing a voice along with it.

A voice so steady and beautiful and pure, my entire breath leaves me as I listen to it. Recognizing it. Loving it beyond every human and superhuman sense in my being.

I’m ready, Dada.

Ready to see you at last.

I’m ready now.

For the world’s most notable super mutant, I’m one hell of a clueless jackass.

I don’t waste the breath to even admitting it aloud, though Emma’s assuredly gotten my gist by the time Calvin speeds us through the transition onto the 405 north. We’ve managed to find the sole hour out of the year that the notorious freeway doesn’t resemble strands of brake-light-colored Christmas bulbs, despite the typical slowdowns near the interchanges, Long Beach Airport, and LAX. A second item for gratitude: sometime before tonight, my brain worked long enough to pack a hospital go-bag for the car as well as the house. For now, at least, we’ve got the essentials, and I attempt to haul every one of them out as fast as my trembling hands will allow. Blanket, timer, bottled water, saltines, cookies, lip balm, massage oil, slippers, fuzzy socks, rubbing alcohol, iPod and speakers, the latest Helen Hardt book, wipes in a battery-operated warmer…

“Screw it,” I finally spit when the bag’s narrow opening slows down progress. On a burst of agitation, I lightning-slice the top two inches off the bag. Cal extends his right hand, ready to assist, and flings the discarded piece back to the rear stow space. I nod my gratitude but hide my guilt. In less than an hour, the guy’s become invaluable, though there’s been no time to tell him what he’s really signed up for. He’s now officially down the rabbit hole—yeah, the same one that Wade, Fershan, and Neeta have also leaped down…and are now paying for it by facing every day as if it might be their last. That’s not the kind of thing to spring on a guy without his knowledge. But like so many other chapters of this crazy story called my life, there’s been no time to notate with the proper bullet points.

Hell. I’m pretty sure I still don’t have the right bullet points.

As if those even exist for what’s happening here. And now.

Right now.

Whether I’m ready or not.

“Not” being the stronger candidate for the moment.

I’ve never been more terrified to wrap Emmalina in my arms—or been more driven to do so. I’ve never seen her look more frightened but brave, her skin alternating between summer gold and winter pale, her eyes lakeside peaceful in one moment and then fireside fierce the next. I do know I’ve never been more in awe of her graceful strength or more in love with her tenacious spirit.

But I’m utterly unable to describe the sensations that strike from the moment her first hard contraction sinks in.

“Oh! Ohhhh, shit! Reece!”

“Here, Bunny.” I’m astonished I’m able to form the words, even more so that they’re coherent. I sure as fuck don’t feel coherent. I’m dumbfounded but dazzled, weak but wowed, joyous but utterly and scarily helpless. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“I heard you the first time,” she snaps but doesn’t elaborate. Breathing becomes her priority, and she pinches her lips to get in the zipping inhalations that Lydia and Neeta taught her. The actions are meant to settle her nerves, but I have no idea how. Every one of them is like dull razors scraping every inch of my tendons. I seriously wonder if I’m about to bleed to death from the inside out.

Good Christ. Really, asshole? You enjoying the hell out of that wuss bath, while your woman is trying to push a watermelon out of her womb? The melon grown from your seed?

But as she shrieks again, I’m not thinking about spoons anymore. Only knives, dipped in fire and then following the same path as the razors, sinking deeper into my physical fibers in direct proportion to the slice of her anguish into my spirit.

“Fuuuuck!”

We explode the word together, filling the car with the force of our torment. By the time the contraction is over, I’ve kicked the front passenger seat off its axis, folding the thing forward, with Emma prone along the whole back seat.

With her head in my lap, she’s fully staring up at me. Her eyes are sharp with pain, and her skin is dotted with sweat. Yet unbelievably, she tugs at my fingers and pulls them down to her mouth, capturing the tips in a pair of weak kisses.

“You okay, Zeus?”

I spurt an incredulous laugh. “You’re stealing my lines, cheeky bunny.”

One of the water bottles is jabbed into the space between our gazes. Cal, taking advantage of the slow-down before the 110 split, has yanked the bag onto the middle console and taken stock of the contents. “Drink up,” he orders. “Both of you. This is probably just the start, and you need to stay hydrated.”

I slant a grateful glance at him via the rearview but end it with a wry smirk. “You taking midwife classes in between the engineering curriculum, Neves?”