Fractured

Chapter 1

Labor

Forty-two-year-old Stewart Roland Harvey yanked his kitchen junk drawer off the rails and turned it upside down, spilling the contents on the granite countertop. Television news stoked hurricane fears with B-roll footage of Florida reporters on scene, followed by grievous weatherman predictions for catastrophic winds and biblical storm surge along a westerly track toward the greater Orlando area. Unperturbed by the updated forecast models and vaunted doom from the late season tempest churning across the Atlantic Ocean, Stu pushed the mute button on the universal remote to silence the media’s hurricane theatrics. Then he picked through the mess in front of him to find his missing Allen wrench.

* * *

Lisa Harvey stood on a folding step ladder inside her son’s bedroom, painted in pastel blue with a sailboat mural commissioned from a local artist. Eight months pregnant, she balanced her petite frame on the lower step with one arm above her head to replace the light bulb in the ceiling fan modeled after a P-51 Mustang propeller. T-ball medals hung from plastic hooks on a wall with framed family photos above a twin bed tightly wrapped in fresh sheets and a jungle theme comforter safeguarded by a stuffed Triceratops perched beside a crocheted children’s pillow.

Lisa cupped her hand at the bottom of her pregnant belly, assaulted by a sharp abdominal pain that prompted her to step down. Vaguely aware of the howling winds lashing the roof and aluminum hurricane shutters, she waddled toward the baby’s room down the hall to find her burly husband, Stu, huddled on the plush pile carpet in jeans and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled midway up. “I thought you’d be done already.”

Stu Harvey looked up at his wife while he sifted through a pile of bolts and screws beneath a disassembled crib propped between an ottoman and a nursing glider. “I put it together backwards. Had to take it apart and start over.”

Lisa toyed with her raven black hair cresting an inch above her shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m not due for another month.”

“You’re lucky I’m home to work on this,” Stu replied, a look of mild consternation on the bearded face he wore to help conceal years of guilt and torment. “I wish I had an engineering degree.”

“How difficult can it be? Two weeks ago, you showed me how to pick a lock.”

Stu smirked at his beloved, who hovered over him to inspect his progress. “The lock was book research, and I had weeks to practice.”

“Did you read the instructions?”

Stu reached for the crinkled sheet of paper from the crib pieces spread across the carpet. “You mean the ones printed in Mandarin? The illustrations are ass backwards, and the words are written in broken English. I’m also missing four screws. I’d like to strangle the idiot who designed this furniture. Probably drunk off his rump in a Shenzhen sweatshop with a bottle of Ming River Baijiu and a crumpled pack of Lucky Strike poking out of his shirt pocket.”

“Did your book advance come in yet? I didn’t see a new deposit in our account.”

“The book dropped two weeks ago. There’s always a lag time.”

“We really need the money.”

“We’ll have it.”

“Maybe I should go back to work after the baby’s born.”

Stu grabbed the hex key. “I thought you wanted to stay home?”

“I’m just exploring our options.” Lisa caressed her modest baby bump. Her sky-blue eyes accentuated her light complexion and contrasted her darker hair. “The news said we might see a Category 2.”

“We’ve been through worse.”

“It’s not the two of us I’m worried about.”

Stu put the tool down and stood up to tower over his five-foot-even wife. He brushed a tiny fleck of ceiling plaster from her shoulder and caressed her arm. “Maybe we should name her Zelda?”

“I’m not naming our daughter after a hurricane!”

“It feels poetic, caught up in the rapture of this magnificent storm.”

“How about I brand Zelda on your forehead, strip you naked, and let you ride out your magnificent storm in the nude.”

Stu smiled wryly. “Intriguing… Almost strangely erotic.”

“Seriously?” Lisa touched Stu’s bearded face and squeezed his chin. “You need professional help.”

Stu kissed his wife and turned away when he heard a loud popping sound outside the house, followed by a howling gust of wind before the lights flickered and the power went out. “Watch your step,” he cautioned as he nudged Lisa from the runaway construction project.

Lisa gripped Stu’s arm in the nursery, submerged in darkness from the hurricane shutters blocking the natural sunlight from the window. “This can’t be happening,” she said when she felt the sudden gush of amniotic fluid between her legs.

“The power always comes back,” Stu assured her.

“I think my water broke.”

Stu took the lantern flashlight from the dresser. “You’re not due for another month.”

“Tell that to your daughter.”

Stu bent over with his face to Lisa’s pregnant belly. “You’re not due for another—”

“Stop screwing around. You’re not the one about to squeeze a baby through your vagina.”

“Technically, you have to push the baby through.”

Lisa puckered her lips and concentrated on her breathing. “Don’t wordsmith me, Stu.” She took a hesitant step forward. “We need to go, like now.”

“I’ll call your doctor and let her know we’re on our way.”

“Tell her I changed my mind about forgoing the epidural.”

“I’ll get the bag,” Stu insisted with his phone pressed to his ear. “I can’t get a signal.”

“Keep trying.”

“I am. The storm must have knocked out a cell tower.”

Lisa pressed her hand to her stomach. “Something’s wrong.”

“Just breathe. You’re having contractions.”

“Too soon.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m not full term.”

“It’s not unusual to deliver early.”

“Stop talking and get the keys.”

Stu snatched his car keys from the kitchen counter. “What about the house?”

“It’s not going anywhere.” Lisa gripped her stomach with both hands. Her stretch jeans felt two sizes too small. Her lower back raged like a hydraulic log splitter about to cleave her in half. “Hurry up!”

Stu found the pre-packed rolling suitcase in the master bedroom and hustled through the house with a flashlight, bumping into walls and furniture like an elephant in a dance recital. He tripped when his size fourteen shoes caught the broken kick plate between the laundry room and the garage entrance. Strong winds buffeted the hurricane-resistant garage door, rattling the metal rollers in their vertical tracks.

He helped Lisa in the Volvo wagon’s passenger seat and stretched the seatbelt across her torso. “Maybe you should ride in back. In case anything happens.”

Lisa focused on her breathing. “I’m not delivering this baby in the car.”

“Just breathe.”

“I am. I’d be dead if I weren’t.”

Stu closed the passenger door and felt his keys slip through his fingers. When he bent down with the flashlight to grab them, he noticed the front tire precariously low on air.

“What are you doing?” Lisa shouted through the window. “Let’s go!”

Stu squeezed behind the wheel and moved the driver’s seat way back. He started the motor and pressed the garage door remote button.

“It won’t open without power,” Lisa prodded condescendingly. “I can smell the exhaust fumes.” She scanned the front cabin and the empty space behind her. “Where’s the bag?”

Stu got out to find the rolling suitcase on the floor where he’d left it and shoved the luggage in the car. He squatted in front of the garage door and used his leg muscles to manually lift the heavy, reinforced panels. Confronted by howling winds and torrential rain, he looked out at the submerged driveway and the street awash with runoff water overflowing the storm drains. With the garage door secured above him, he climbed back into the Volvo and proceeded down the driveway, leaving the garage open to the wrath of Mother Nature. The headlamps projected high intensity light on the flooded road, where palm fronds cartwheeled across the street.

Lisa winced from the stabbing pain in her side and focused on her breathing technique. “Put your foot in it.”

Stu diverted cold air to clear the foggy windshield while the wipers danced in fervent rhythm to displace the monsoon rain. “I can barely see the road.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

Stu wiped the windshield with a napkin from the center console to see a flashing red traffic light bobbing from a metal support beam extended over the empty intersection. “I’ve been there before.” Outside the car, roof shingles sliced through the air at high velocity. Rolling trash containers blew across the road, bouncing and spinning toward the opposite lane. Wooden power poles swayed in the turbulent winds, one punishing squall away from snapping in half. “This might be a Category 2 after all.”

Lisa puckered her lips when she exhaled; her face doused in sweat. “This baby feels like a Category 5.”

Stu gripped the steering wheel in both hands, fighting to maintain a straight line against hurricane gusts that rocked the thirty-five-hundred-pound vehicle and bent palm trees parallel to the ground.

Lisa screamed when a broken section of aluminum downspout slammed against the passenger side. “Something’s wrong…”

“The car can take it.”

“The baby…”

“Hold on!” Stu prompted when he approached the next intersection and plowed through standing water to launch a geyser over the Volvo’s roof. “Breathe from your diaphragm. Inhale through your nose. Exhale through your mouth.”

“I’ll focus on me. You focus on the road. And don’t stop until we get there.”

Stu approached the I-75 onramp amid a flurry of flashing amber lights from a multi-car pileup involving a tractor trailer jackknifed across three lanes. He steered a wide berth and hugged the shoulder to navigate around the scene. When he merged onto the Interstate, he hugged the right lane with his hazard lights on and proceeded toward the regional medical center three miles north. “Keep breathing.”

“My contractions are more frequent.”

“Don’t push.”

“This baby’s coming whether I push or not!”

“We’re almost there,” Stu implored in an effort to appease his wife and console himself for not being more prepared. He should have left the house sooner. He should have taken a faster route. He should have checked the damn tires the day before.

Lisa tugged at her shoulder belt. “I can’t make it.”

“You’re doing great,” Stu coached with both hands on the wheel, his view distorted by heavy rain while he navigated the hospital exit in thrashing crosswinds.

Lisa squirmed in her seat and cried out, biting down on her curled finger. “Pull over!”

Stu maneuvered across a flooded intersection; the Volvo’s momentum impeded from the force of standing water. Disoriented from the storm, he drove beyond the ambulance bay outside Florida Regional Hospital and performed a U-turn in the middle of the road to circle back.

He jumped out and scooped Lisa from the passenger side, partially shielding her from the elements before he carried her toward the ER entrance and charged head-down between the automatic doors. “We need a doctor!” he yelled inside the waiting area with Lisa cradled in his arms. “My wife is having a baby!”

© , Jason Melby. All Rights Reserved.