My son punched the button with one hand, with his other hand he tried to comfort his girlfriend, now standing on her own but making faces. “It’s Dr. Wallace.”

Shemika shook her head. “No, it’s his midwife, Chris,” she managed to say as the elevator arrived.

The nurse smiled. “Great. I’ll call it up.” She patted my hand. “Good luck, Grandma.”

I filed my new title in the back of my head as we all squeezed into the elevator. Once the door slammed shut, a manly quiet, the kind of silence that only males at an impending birth can muster, filled the elevator as Shemika turned into a brown spider, legs and arms everywhere, trying to climb away from the pain.

Though Jordan had helped usher her to the elevator, it was my son who held Shemika now, rubbing her back, trying to get her to calm down.

“Breathe, babe,” he said in a voice I’d never heard.

Shemika tried to suck in a breath, but screamed instead, her arms swimming against a wave of contractions.

After several blows to his back and shoulders, Jordan moved into the front corner of the elevator. I fought against the urge to be happy that she’d landed a few blows. The image of his girlfriend in my living room would be forever stained on my mind. I flattened myself to the front, too, leaving my son to endure the kicks. During first births, I tried to stay out of the way and not take anything personally. I did hope she’d calm down upstairs, though, before she wore herself out.

Moments later, as we spilled from the elevator, I touched Shemika’s hand, hoping a soft touch would help her relax. We made it to triage quickly. Jordan opened the door, while my son and I helped Shemika inside.

I tried to encourage her. “Remember our deal? You relax, your body works and your baby comes.”

Shemika didn’t look convinced. Evidently my birth-speak was a little rusty. It’d been a full year since I’d attended a laboring mom, but it was all coming back. Good thing, since my friend Tracey would be delivering soon. She lived out of town, but I hoped to be there somehow. “I know I’m making it sound easy, but really—”

Shemika grunted in response.

“Are you okay? Just a few more steps…”

Shemika didn’t even try to answer. She just started sliding to the floor. Jericho and I grabbed her, but Shemika’s weight, combined with her flailing arms and legs, proved too much for both of us. We were all still standing, but heading for the floor. Where was Jordan?

“Let me help you.” The voice stung like hail.

Tad.

One look at him and I lost my grip. The whole wild, pregnant mess that was the three of us landed in his arms, including my supersize son. Jericho jumped as though he’d touched a hot stove. Must be a man thing.

As we untangled, Jericho helped Shemika up. I looked into Tad’s kind eyes and at his bruised chin. Bless his heart, now here I was about to beat up the rest of him. “You poor thing. What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “I got a call from someone on the Men’s Fellowship prayer chain.”

I shrugged. Who’d made the call I didn’t know, but I was thankful. For all Tad’s annoying traits, he was calm in a crisis.

Jordan’s face glistened with sweat. His eyes looked bloodshot. Maybe this whole birth thing was weighing on him harder than I’d thought. He shook Tad’s hand. “Thanks for coming. Sorry for calling you out of service, but you said—”

Tad nodded. “I said call anytime. And I meant it.” He spoke to Jordan, but his eyes were locked on me.

And my bare feet.

Shemika managed to get herself into a tan gown and we were guided behind a series of curtains and asked to wait for a nurse. Shemika latched on to Jericho’s hand with a death grip. Or maybe a life grip.

My son gave her a smile, then leaned down to me with wide eyes I’d seen only a few times, one of them on the day he’d met his father for the first time. “I have a bad feeling, Mom.”

A snort escaped my lips. “Me, too, but my bad feeling was about nine months ago.”

“No, really,” he said, trying to whisper but forgetting to do so. “And she’s grabbed my hand so hard. It was almost like she was…pushing?”

“Pushing?”

My voice must have really carried, because a nurse emerged from what seemed a thousand layers of curtains. “Who’s pushing?”

Cringing from the way his girlfriend was squeezing his hand, my son nodded slightly. “I’m not sure, but she’s doing something.”

The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. I’ll check her. Could you all step outside? And Grandma, can you stop at the desk and answer some questions?”

Grandma.

“Sure,” I said.

As Tad led the way, a woman behind one of the curtains let out a scream worthy of a horror movie. Jordan cringed. “Whoa…”

I snickered. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” I wanted to say that he’d have seen worse if he’d stuck around with me, but that water was under the bridge. And over it.

Conscious again of my bare feet and lack of preparedness, I fumbled in the suitcase-size bag that serves as my purse as we approached the front desk. I immediately stumbled on my wet, ruined shoes. Who’d slipped those in for me? It didn’t matter. This time, I was much happier to see them.

Jordan’s voice creaked as he spoke to the nurse. “Yes, ma’am. She’s thirty-six weeks, six days according to the wheel. Thirty-seven by the ultrasound…”

I felt jealous for a moment and suddenly wished I’d been the one to let the kids stay with me, the one who’d taken Shemika to her doctor’s appointments. At least they’d listened to me and preregistered for the hospital.

“Her medical card?” the nurse said coolly. “The number wasn’t filled out on the form that was mailed in. We’ll need to copy that card.”

Jordan and Tad looked blankly at me.

Known to be quick on my feet, even when they’re cold and wet, I started mumbling. “In our haste, we—they—don’t have the cards handy, but I’ll stop home and get them once she’s in a room. Until then, perhaps the doctor’s office could provide the number by phone?”

The woman tried but failed to smile. “They will, but we’ll still need the cards. I’ll be back shortly.”

Jordan’s arm brushed mine as I ransacked my purse for my emergency copy of the big, gold card that signified my son’s inability to take care of his child.

Though covered by my self-employed insurance, there was no policy clause for the offspring of unmarried dependents. It turned out that Shemika already had a state medical card anyway. I dug for my copy of it now, knowing it probably wasn’t there. Didn’t my mother used to go through her pocketbook like this? Yes. And it had freaked me out. Totally. I was officially turning into her.

“That’s fine. Perhaps you want to go to the waiting room for a while? They’re probably going to get her a room.”

We went quietly, dividing in the waiting room. I dropped into a chair to continue attacking my purse. Tad went to the window. Jordan approached the TV. Suddenly, he looked more interested in the game show prizes than the birth of his first grandchild. For once, I wasn’t sure if I blamed him. This was a wonderful, horrible day.

I rifled through the contents of my life, dumped on the next chair: cell phone, nail files, Bible memory cards, old church bulletins, Franklin planner, Montblanc pen, a key to Dana’s store and a handful of low-carb bars I’d stupidly brought along for Shemika.

She needs carbs. She’s in labor, not a beauty pageant.

Still, I hoped her hairweave was tight enough to endure labor. In my post-birth pictures, I’d looked as if my hair had been rotated ninety degrees—without bringing my head along. Shemika would look much better, so much better than I did. She had to. I’d make sure of it.

Shemika rolled by on a gurney and Tad and Jordan shot out of the room like toothpaste from a new tube. I shoved my things into my purse, jabbed my feet into my shoes and ran to catch up. I guessed that chivalry was dead during emergencies.