Chapter 3 - Eleven Hours
The paramedics arrived with a stretcher and questions no one in that house wanted to answer.
"Has she had prenatal care? Any recent falls? Any known complications?"
Beatriz stood at the bedroom door, wringing a dry dish towel. "She worries too much. She spends all day in bed."
Ruth said, "She's been bleeding since early morning. Please focus on her."
An EMT checked my pulse and glanced at his partner. Neither of them wasted time arguing. They moved me onto the stretcher, covered me, and rolled toward the stairs. I caught the smell of the lemon polish Beatriz used each morning. I thought, absurdly, that she'd be angry about the wheels on her clean floor.
"My daughter," I said. "Alma. At school."
"We'll make sure someone safe gets her," Ruth promised.
Outside, sunlight struck my eyes. The ambulance doors opened. Beatriz followed us to the curb, still talking.
"My son should decide where she goes. Daniel is her husband."
"This is an emergency," the EMT replied. "We're going now."
In the ambulance, they placed an oxygen mask over my face, started treatment, and radioed the hospital. I heard the words "obstetric hemorrhage" and "possible placental abruption." I knew those words from a pamphlet in my prenatal folder. I had read it once and told myself not to be frightened by everything that might happen.
"The baby?" I asked.
"We're taking care of both of you," a paramedic said. He didn't promise more than that.
At the hospital, a doctor met the stretcher. People moved with terrifying urgency. Someone called for blood. Someone asked permission for emergency surgery if it became necessary.
I grabbed the doctor's sleeve. "Tell Daniel. Tell him I asked for help."
"We will."
The ceiling lights became a row of white moons. I heard a fetal monitor searching for a heartbeat. The doctor's voice sharpened.
"We can't wait. Prepare the operating room."
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Then a nurse looked at the information Beatriz had given the paramedics and frowned.
"Why does the emergency contact say not to call the husband?"
