“Hospital,” I said. “Please. Not fast. Just… steady.”
“Steady I can do,” he said. “Steady is my middle name. Well, it’s actually Gerald, but steady is close.”
I laughed despite myself. It was the first time I’d laughed in weeks.
We were about halfway there when my water broke. All over his back seat.
I want to tell you that I handled it with grace. I did not. I burst into tears and started apologizing over and over. I was sorry about the seat. I was sorry about the mess. I was sorry for calling him so late. I think, at one point, I apologized for the rain.
He pulled over under a streetlight, put on his hazards, and turned around. Then he did something I’ll never forget. He took off his jacket, folded it, and handed it back to me to sit on.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” he said quietly. “My wife couldn’t have kids. Let me help.”
I don’t know why that sentence undid me the way it did. Maybe it was the kindness. Maybe it was hearing that someone else had carried something heavy, too. I just nodded, and he reached back and took my hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Nora.”
“I’m Michael. Okay, Nora. Here’s the deal. You squeeze my hand as hard as you want. I’ve got two hands and only need one to drive. We’re going to get you there.”
And we did. He drove one-handed, slowly and carefully, through every red light that turned green just in time, while I crushed his fingers and he talked to me about absolutely anything. His favorite diner. The worst passenger he’d ever had, a man who brought a live goose in a laundry basket. His wife, Helen, who could beat anyone at Scrabble and who apparently thought his jokes were “a crime against language.”
“She’s right,” he admitted. “Want to hear one?”
“No,” I gasped.
“Why did the scarecrow win an award?”
“Michael.”
“Because he was outstanding in his field.” He paused. “See? Your contraction’s over. That’s science.”
5. The Hand I Didn’t Let Go Of
When we pulled up to the emergency entrance, I expected him to help me out and drive away. That’s what anyone would have done. He’d already gone far beyond what a taxi ride requires.
Instead, he parked his cab in a spot that was definitely not for taxis, came around, and helped a nurse ease me into a wheelchair. When she asked if he was family, he looked at me. I didn’t let go of his hand.
“He’s with me,” I said.
He stayed with me through every contraction in that triage room. He counted breaths with me. He told the goose story again when I asked, and it was even funnier the second time because the goose had somehow gotten bigger. When the pain got bad, he didn’t flinch or look away. He just held on.
At one point, between contractions, I asked him if he was sure he didn’t need to get back to work.
“Nora,” he said, “I’ve driven this city for nineteen years. Nobody has ever needed me the way you do tonight. The meter can wait.”
When it was finally time and the nurses wheeled me away, he squeezed my hand once more and stepped back into the hallway. I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing him standing there in his shirtsleeves, his jacket still somewhere in the back of his cab, waving like I was leaving on a long trip.
Then everything got very busy and very loud, and a few hours later, it got very quiet.
