Part 5: The Premature Storm
The Break in the Dam
It happened at exactly 38 weeks and two days. A Tuesday night. The rain was lashing against the bedroom windows, a violent, unseasonal thunderstorm that made the house rattle.
I woke up to Leah squeezing my arm so hard her fingernails dug into my skin. "David," she gasped, her face pale in the dim light of the bedside lamp. "My water broke."
I threw off the covers. The bed was soaked, but as I looked closer, my stomach plummeted into an endless abyss. The fluid wasn't clear. It was tinged with a dark, terrifying crimson.
"You're bleeding," I said, panic rising like bile in my throat.
"It's the stress," Leah cried out, clutching her stomach as a massive contraction ripped through her body. "The doctor said the herbs might have weakened the placenta. It’s happening too fast, David. It hurts!"
I didn't bother packing the hospital bag. We had lived out of it for three weeks. I grabbed it, threw a coat over Leah's shoulders, and practically carried her down the stairs. The thunderstorm outside was blinding, sheets of rain obscuring the driveway. I buckled her into the passenger seat, my hands shaking violently.
The Drive Through Hell
The roads were slick, the streetlights flickering under the assault of the storm. Every bump in the road elicited a sharp, agonized moan from Leah. "Hold on, baby, just hold on," I kept repeating, driving entirely on muscle memory and adrenaline.
As I merged onto the highway, a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. Normally, I wouldn't have noticed. But living in a state of hyper-vigilance changes your brain chemistry. The headlights were too close. They were matching my speed perfectly. When I switched lanes, the headlights switched lanes.
"She's behind us," I whispered, staring into the mirror. It was a dark sedan. My mother's car.
"What?" Leah screamed, terrified. She tried to turn around but another contraction slammed into her, forcing her head back against the seat.
My mother had been watching the house. She must have parked down the street, waiting in the storm for the inevitable moment we rushed out. She knew the restraining order kept her away from the hospital, so she was trying to intercept us on the road.
I slammed my foot on the gas. The speedometer needle climbed—70, 80, 90 miles per hour on slick asphalt. The dark sedan kept pace, edging closer to my bumper. She was trying to run us off the road. She was trying to force a crash.
"Call 911!" I yelled over the roar of the rain and engine. "Put it on speaker!"
Leah fumbled with her phone, her hands slick with sweat. "911, what is your emergency?" the dispatcher answered.
"My wife is in labor, we're on Highway 4 heading north, and we are being pursued by a stalker trying to run us off the road! We need an escort to St. Jude’s Hospital right now!"
"Sir, keep your speed steady. I am dispatching units to intercept."
I looked in the mirror. The sedan swerved violently to the left, pulling up alongside my car. Through the rain-slicked window, illuminated by the flashes of lightning, I saw her face. My mother. Her expression was completely devoid of humanity. It was a mask of cold, unyielding obsession. She jerked her steering wheel toward us.
May you like
I slammed the brakes. Her car hydroplaned, spinning wildly out of control on the wet pavement. She spun twice, her tires screeching against the asphalt, before slamming violently into the muddy ditch on the side of the highway.
I didn't stop. I didn't look back. The man who would have stopped to check on his mother had died in the basement weeks ago. The man driving this car was a father protecting his family.
