| General Fiction posted November 23, 2015 |
  |
In an emergency could you deliver a baby?
Doc
by RodG
Chicago's architecture fascinates many people, especially my wife. A native of the City with Big Shoulders, Meg's taken every architecture tour offered. Old or new, if the building's in the Loop, she's seen it, toured it, loved it.
Not I. The only man-made structure in Chicago that excites me is Wrigley Field. If I visit any landmark downtown, it's because Meg bribed me with a promise of lunch at Berghoff's.
But one Monday in early fall I walked into the D. B. Franson Building alone. I took little note of any features but the long marble floor that led to a bank of three elevators.
All were in service. I glanced at the red numbers above each. The closest lingered on the twelfth floor. I was in no rush to get to my financial advisor on the sixteenth. He'd said, "Drop in anytime, Allen. I just need a signature."
The middle car arrived first. Two men joined me on the ride up. The elevator, an old Otis, lurched a bit getting started after each stop. I was the last to disembark.
My advisor offered coffee, but I declined. I'd have plenty at Berghoff's. Fifteen minutes later I left his office in very good spirits. I already knew what I'd have for lunch.
The Franson Building, a relic from the Twenties, had twenty-seven floors. Red numerals showed a descending elevator coming. It arrived shortly.
Two of us entered. I let a small young woman very much pregnant go first. Inside, a man with a crewcut leaned against the back wall. He wore a faded Army jacket with one sleeve folded up. I stood beside him, giving the soon-to-be mom as much room as I could.
The doors closed slowly, and the car jerked to a start. We descended, not stopping at fifteen or fourteen. We'd barely passed twelve when the car jolted.
The woman and I wobbled, but the one-armed man fell.
"You okay?" I asked him. He'd landed heavily on one knee.
"Yeah," he groaned. "Unbalanced with but one wing."
As I was helping him to his feet, the elevator jolted again, shuddered violently, and stopped.
The woman screamed, stared at me with frantic eyes and clasped her middle with shaking hands.
"I need to get off. The baby--!"
I tried to soothe her with a smile. "We'll start up soon."
Shaking her head wildly, she slumped to the floor.
Before I could respond, the young guy pushed me aside and knelt beside her.
"Is it coming?" he demanded.
He swept away her dark bangs so he could see her eyes. I thought they'd burst from their sockets.
"Talk to me!" he shouted.
Not a sound, but her eyes rolled.
"She's going into shock. If she does, we'll lose her . . . and the baby. Help me!"
His eyes had a compelling fury that swiftly drew me to his side.
"What can--?"
"My jacket. Yank it off and roll it up."
I obeyed as if drugged.
"Put it under her head . . . Yeah good. Now spread her legs and pull up her skirt."
"No way. I'm no pervert!" I growled.
His hand bit into my arm. "Neither am I. But we need to see what we're doing. She could be hemorrhaging, and that baby ain't coming into this world without our help."
The woman stared at him . . . me . . . and screamed again. Louder.
"She's delirious now. . . but soon." His fingers crunched my crazy bone. "Do it!"
Pain superseded guilt. I did it, grimacing when I saw blood between her thighs.
"Damn! It's crowning and this crate's still not moving," he bellowed. His eyes bore into mine. "Ever delivered a baby, Mister?"
"N--no."
"Well, you're about to."
"Wha--? No! That phone--" I pointed toward the door.
"No time. Her pulse is dropping . . . Fast!"
I hadn't felt his hand leave my arm. Now it was at her neck.
"Can't you?" I heard myself whimper.
"With only one hand? No! But you've got two and they look like they've worked with tools. Models?"
I nodded.
"Great!" A grim smile crept across his lips. "Flexible fingers is what we need."
"I--I can't do this. Look. They're trembling. I--I could h--hurt her badly."
"Maybe," he said quietly, "but if we--you--do nothing, she could die."
I glared at him. "You keep saying that, but why should I believe you? Who the hell are you?"
"Army corpsman. Eight years! Iraq and Afghanistan. Done this countless times and--" His eyes had a haunted look. "--no, Mister, not always successfully."
His gaze shifted to the young woman lying on the floor. I saw little movement.
"She breathing?" I moaned.
He placed his hand near her nose. "Yup . . . but in spasms."
I said a quick prayer, and Someone listened. Suddenly my hands stopped shaking, and my vision sharpened. I felt calm, even confident.
"Okay, Segeant (I'd seen the stripes on his jacket). Tell me what to do."
For the next few minutes he barked orders, sometimes more than once till I knew exactly what he meant. Half the time I could not see what I was doing, but felt my way through the birth process.
Though half-conscious, the mother helped almost intuitively. I could feel the contractions as we both labored to bring that child into the world.
"Stop!"
My fingers obeyed. Like a catcher in baseball, I sat back on my haunches and looked over my shoulder. Sarge's mouth was contorted.
"We have a breech," he said.
Breech. The word froze me in place. Stephanie, my daughter, was a breech baby and her delivery almost destroyed Meg's womb.
I began to tremble. Whatever confidence I'd had vanished.
Sarge saw me crumbling, but was not deterred. "Come on, Doc! Finish the job!" he barked.
Doc. Me?
Yes, me! I stared at the would-be-mother visibly breathing now. Grunting. Mewling like a cat.
My hands listened. Stopped shaking. Reached toward the baby and . . .
They heard Sarge rattle off directions. They followed them implicitly. They probed, prodded, pulled . . . until . . . it came screaming into my waiting arms.
* * *
Three hours later I sat in a crowded waiting room at Rush Hospital, sipping a cup of "courtesy" coffee. Although the sound of the TV nearby was low, it worsened a nagging headache.
The local news channel had been playing since I arrived. A story about "heroes in a downtown elevator" kept playing. Newcomers to the waiting room would in time recognize me, smile, and approach.
A frown warned off most, but there had been the tenacious few whose questions brought on the headache. My answers now were clipped:
Mother's in ICU, baby's in an incubator somewhere .. . No, haven't seen either since the ambulance . . . Yes, I'm waiting to see them . . . Don't know where the corpsman is. Yes, he not me, was the real hero . . .
Finally the one person I'd wanted to see appeared. When I saw him wearing a white coat, not a blue smock and cap, the thousand pound weight on my chest lifted.
He beckoned from the corridor. I rushed toward him as fast as my still-gimpy legs would let me.
"Doctor Berke. I am so pleased to meet you," he said with a wide smile. "I am Doctor Saban. May I say you did splendid work? I could not have performed better myself."
I felt my face flush, and I knew I was grinning.
"Save the kudos for Sarge if--if you ever meet him."
"I have, and he rejected them, too."
"He's with her, isn't he?" I said, my heart pounding.
"Oh, yes! Her and the baby. And all three can't wait to see you."
What happened after the delivery is a blur for me. Somehow the elevator moved, the door opened, and I walked out with the child wrapped in Sarge's jacket.
Who called the police and ambulance I have no idea. I remember only an orderly or a paramedic taking the baby from me and Sarge screaming from the back of the ambulance before the doors shut.
"I'll take it from here, Doc! You were great!"
* * *
"I'm a what?" Meg asked.
"A godmother," I said.
I was home at last, ensconced in my recliner, a glass of red wine in my hand. I'd called her from the hospital and told her to watch the news. The rest of the story she would have to wait for
Doctor Saban had taken me quickly to the single room in the maternity ward. When Sarge saw me, he bolted from his chair to clasp me fiercely with his one arm.
"Doc, let me introduce you to . . . to the prettiest new mommy in the ward."
I could not believe that man could blush. Holding me by my much abused elbow, he herded me to Mommy's bedside. Seeing the tiny little person I had delivered nestled in a real baby's blanket prompted tears of joy from me.
"Doc, meet Lisa Kepplin and reacquaint yourself with her son."
The fact Lisa was sitting up and smiling sent even more tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Lisa, I--I could not be happier to see you both . . . like this. And who is this young man?" Instinctively, I reached for him, then withdrew my hands quickly.
"No, no, please take him. I wish to give him your name which is--?"
"Doc!" Sarge laughed.
Lisa gave him a soft scolding look which seemed surprisingly intimate.
"Allen," I said, "but Sarge here--"
"Rudy?" She gazed at him affectionately. "He is a very . . . very nice man, but we both agree my son is to be 'Allen' and you are to be his godfather. Okay?"
I swiped away more tears and nodded.
As I related my exploits to Meg, I found my emotions getting the best of me again.
She rose from her chair, came over, and wiped my tears away. "Allen . . . Senior. I am so proud of you."
"Love me, too?"
She rubbed her own wet cheek against mine. "Oh, yes."
"Good, because I invited my new family for Thanksgiving. And that includes Sarge. Don't know the whole story, but Lisa and he are currently single."
"And how did you learn this?"
"After I left Lisa and Baby Allen, Sarge told me as he walked me to the elevator."
Stuck in an elevator writing prompt entry
Chicago's architecture fascinates many people, especially my wife. A native of the City with Big Shoulders, Meg's taken every architecture tour offered. Old or new, if the building's in the Loop, she's seen it, toured it, loved it.
Not I. The only man-made structure in Chicago that excites me is Wrigley Field. If I visit any landmark downtown, it's because Meg bribed me with a promise of lunch at Berghoff's.
But one Monday in early fall I walked into the D. B. Franson Building alone. I took little note of any features but the long marble floor that led to a bank of three elevators.
All were in service. I glanced at the red numbers above each. The closest lingered on the twelfth floor. I was in no rush to get to my financial advisor on the sixteenth. He'd said, "Drop in anytime, Allen. I just need a signature."
The middle car arrived first. Two men joined me on the ride up. The elevator, an old Otis, lurched a bit getting started after each stop. I was the last to disembark.
My advisor offered coffee, but I declined. I'd have plenty at Berghoff's. Fifteen minutes later I left his office in very good spirits. I already knew what I'd have for lunch.
The Franson Building, a relic from the Twenties, had twenty-seven floors. Red numerals showed a descending elevator coming. It arrived shortly.
Two of us entered. I let a small young woman very much pregnant go first. Inside, a man with a crewcut leaned against the back wall. He wore a faded Army jacket with one sleeve folded up. I stood beside him, giving the soon-to-be mom as much room as I could.
The doors closed slowly, and the car jerked to a start. We descended, not stopping at fifteen or fourteen. We'd barely passed twelve when the car jolted.
The woman and I wobbled, but the one-armed man fell.
"You okay?" I asked him. He'd landed heavily on one knee.
"Yeah," he groaned. "Unbalanced with but one wing."
As I was helping him to his feet, the elevator jolted again, shuddered violently, and stopped.
The woman screamed, stared at me with frantic eyes and clasped her middle with shaking hands.
"I need to get off. The baby--!"
I tried to soothe her with a smile. "We'll start up soon."
Shaking her head wildly, she slumped to the floor.
Before I could respond, the young guy pushed me aside and knelt beside her.
"Is it coming?" he demanded.
He swept away her dark bangs so he could see her eyes. I thought they'd burst from their sockets.
"Talk to me!" he shouted.
Not a sound, but her eyes rolled.
"She's going into shock. If she does, we'll lose her . . . and the baby. Help me!"
His eyes had a compelling fury that swiftly drew me to his side.
"What can--?"
"My jacket. Yank it off and roll it up."
I obeyed as if drugged.
"Put it under her head . . . Yeah good. Now spread her legs and pull up her skirt."
"No way. I'm no pervert!" I growled.
His hand bit into my arm. "Neither am I. But we need to see what we're doing. She could be hemorrhaging, and that baby ain't coming into this world without our help."
The woman stared at him . . . me . . . and screamed again. Louder.
"She's delirious now. . . but soon." His fingers crunched my crazy bone. "Do it!"
Pain superseded guilt. I did it, grimacing when I saw blood between her thighs.
"Damn! It's crowning and this crate's still not moving," he bellowed. His eyes bore into mine. "Ever delivered a baby, Mister?"
"N--no."
"Well, you're about to."
"Wha--? No! That phone--" I pointed toward the door.
"No time. Her pulse is dropping . . . Fast!"
I hadn't felt his hand leave my arm. Now it was at her neck.
"Can't you?" I heard myself whimper.
"With only one hand? No! But you've got two and they look like they've worked with tools. Models?"
I nodded.
"Great!" A grim smile crept across his lips. "Flexible fingers is what we need."
"I--I can't do this. Look. They're trembling. I--I could h--hurt her badly."
"Maybe," he said quietly, "but if we--you--do nothing, she could die."
I glared at him. "You keep saying that, but why should I believe you? Who the hell are you?"
"Army corpsman. Eight years! Iraq and Afghanistan. Done this countless times and--" His eyes had a haunted look. "--no, Mister, not always successfully."
His gaze shifted to the young woman lying on the floor. I saw little movement.
"She breathing?" I moaned.
He placed his hand near her nose. "Yup . . . but in spasms."
I said a quick prayer, and Someone listened. Suddenly my hands stopped shaking, and my vision sharpened. I felt calm, even confident.
"Okay, Segeant (I'd seen the stripes on his jacket). Tell me what to do."
For the next few minutes he barked orders, sometimes more than once till I knew exactly what he meant. Half the time I could not see what I was doing, but felt my way through the birth process.
Though half-conscious, the mother helped almost intuitively. I could feel the contractions as we both labored to bring that child into the world.
"Stop!"
My fingers obeyed. Like a catcher in baseball, I sat back on my haunches and looked over my shoulder. Sarge's mouth was contorted.
"We have a breech," he said.
Breech. The word froze me in place. Stephanie, my daughter, was a breech baby and her delivery almost destroyed Meg's womb.
I began to tremble. Whatever confidence I'd had vanished.
Sarge saw me crumbling, but was not deterred. "Come on, Doc! Finish the job!" he barked.
Doc. Me?
Yes, me! I stared at the would-be-mother visibly breathing now. Grunting. Mewling like a cat.
My hands listened. Stopped shaking. Reached toward the baby and . . .
They heard Sarge rattle off directions. They followed them implicitly. They probed, prodded, pulled . . . until . . . it came screaming into my waiting arms.
* * *
Three hours later I sat in a crowded waiting room at Rush Hospital, sipping a cup of "courtesy" coffee. Although the sound of the TV nearby was low, it worsened a nagging headache.
The local news channel had been playing since I arrived. A story about "heroes in a downtown elevator" kept playing. Newcomers to the waiting room would in time recognize me, smile, and approach.
A frown warned off most, but there had been the tenacious few whose questions brought on the headache. My answers now were clipped:
Mother's in ICU, baby's in an incubator somewhere .. . No, haven't seen either since the ambulance . . . Yes, I'm waiting to see them . . . Don't know where the corpsman is. Yes, he not me, was the real hero . . .
Finally the one person I'd wanted to see appeared. When I saw him wearing a white coat, not a blue smock and cap, the thousand pound weight on my chest lifted.
He beckoned from the corridor. I rushed toward him as fast as my still-gimpy legs would let me.
"Doctor Berke. I am so pleased to meet you," he said with a wide smile. "I am Doctor Saban. May I say you did splendid work? I could not have performed better myself."
I felt my face flush, and I knew I was grinning.
"Save the kudos for Sarge if--if you ever meet him."
"I have, and he rejected them, too."
"He's with her, isn't he?" I said, my heart pounding.
"Oh, yes! Her and the baby. And all three can't wait to see you."
What happened after the delivery is a blur for me. Somehow the elevator moved, the door opened, and I walked out with the child wrapped in Sarge's jacket.
Who called the police and ambulance I have no idea. I remember only an orderly or a paramedic taking the baby from me and Sarge screaming from the back of the ambulance before the doors shut.
"I'll take it from here, Doc! You were great!"
* * *
"I'm a what?" Meg asked.
"A godmother," I said.
I was home at last, ensconced in my recliner, a glass of red wine in my hand. I'd called her from the hospital and told her to watch the news. The rest of the story she would have to wait for
Doctor Saban had taken me quickly to the single room in the maternity ward. When Sarge saw me, he bolted from his chair to clasp me fiercely with his one arm.
"Doc, let me introduce you to . . . to the prettiest new mommy in the ward."
I could not believe that man could blush. Holding me by my much abused elbow, he herded me to Mommy's bedside. Seeing the tiny little person I had delivered nestled in a real baby's blanket prompted tears of joy from me.
"Doc, meet Lisa Kepplin and reacquaint yourself with her son."
The fact Lisa was sitting up and smiling sent even more tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Lisa, I--I could not be happier to see you both . . . like this. And who is this young man?" Instinctively, I reached for him, then withdrew my hands quickly.
"No, no, please take him. I wish to give him your name which is--?"
"Doc!" Sarge laughed.
Lisa gave him a soft scolding look which seemed surprisingly intimate.
"Allen," I said, "but Sarge here--"
"Rudy?" She gazed at him affectionately. "He is a very . . . very nice man, but we both agree my son is to be 'Allen' and you are to be his godfather. Okay?"
I swiped away more tears and nodded.
As I related my exploits to Meg, I found my emotions getting the best of me again.
She rose from her chair, came over, and wiped my tears away. "Allen . . . Senior. I am so proud of you."
"Love me, too?"
She rubbed her own wet cheek against mine. "Oh, yes."
"Good, because I invited my new family for Thanksgiving. And that includes Sarge. Don't know the whole story, but Lisa and he are currently single."
"And how did you learn this?"
"After I left Lisa and Baby Allen, Sarge told me as he walked me to the elevator."
Not I. The only man-made structure in Chicago that excites me is Wrigley Field. If I visit any landmark downtown, it's because Meg bribed me with a promise of lunch at Berghoff's.
But one Monday in early fall I walked into the D. B. Franson Building alone. I took little note of any features but the long marble floor that led to a bank of three elevators.
All were in service. I glanced at the red numbers above each. The closest lingered on the twelfth floor. I was in no rush to get to my financial advisor on the sixteenth. He'd said, "Drop in anytime, Allen. I just need a signature."
The middle car arrived first. Two men joined me on the ride up. The elevator, an old Otis, lurched a bit getting started after each stop. I was the last to disembark.
My advisor offered coffee, but I declined. I'd have plenty at Berghoff's. Fifteen minutes later I left his office in very good spirits. I already knew what I'd have for lunch.
The Franson Building, a relic from the Twenties, had twenty-seven floors. Red numerals showed a descending elevator coming. It arrived shortly.
Two of us entered. I let a small young woman very much pregnant go first. Inside, a man with a crewcut leaned against the back wall. He wore a faded Army jacket with one sleeve folded up. I stood beside him, giving the soon-to-be mom as much room as I could.
The doors closed slowly, and the car jerked to a start. We descended, not stopping at fifteen or fourteen. We'd barely passed twelve when the car jolted.
The woman and I wobbled, but the one-armed man fell.
"You okay?" I asked him. He'd landed heavily on one knee.
"Yeah," he groaned. "Unbalanced with but one wing."
As I was helping him to his feet, the elevator jolted again, shuddered violently, and stopped.
The woman screamed, stared at me with frantic eyes and clasped her middle with shaking hands.
"I need to get off. The baby--!"
I tried to soothe her with a smile. "We'll start up soon."
Shaking her head wildly, she slumped to the floor.
Before I could respond, the young guy pushed me aside and knelt beside her.
"Is it coming?" he demanded.
He swept away her dark bangs so he could see her eyes. I thought they'd burst from their sockets.
"Talk to me!" he shouted.
Not a sound, but her eyes rolled.
"She's going into shock. If she does, we'll lose her . . . and the baby. Help me!"
His eyes had a compelling fury that swiftly drew me to his side.
"What can--?"
"My jacket. Yank it off and roll it up."
I obeyed as if drugged.
"Put it under her head . . . Yeah good. Now spread her legs and pull up her skirt."
"No way. I'm no pervert!" I growled.
His hand bit into my arm. "Neither am I. But we need to see what we're doing. She could be hemorrhaging, and that baby ain't coming into this world without our help."
The woman stared at him . . . me . . . and screamed again. Louder.
"She's delirious now. . . but soon." His fingers crunched my crazy bone. "Do it!"
Pain superseded guilt. I did it, grimacing when I saw blood between her thighs.
"Damn! It's crowning and this crate's still not moving," he bellowed. His eyes bore into mine. "Ever delivered a baby, Mister?"
"N--no."
"Well, you're about to."
"Wha--? No! That phone--" I pointed toward the door.
"No time. Her pulse is dropping . . . Fast!"
I hadn't felt his hand leave my arm. Now it was at her neck.
"Can't you?" I heard myself whimper.
"With only one hand? No! But you've got two and they look like they've worked with tools. Models?"
I nodded.
"Great!" A grim smile crept across his lips. "Flexible fingers is what we need."
"I--I can't do this. Look. They're trembling. I--I could h--hurt her badly."
"Maybe," he said quietly, "but if we--you--do nothing, she could die."
I glared at him. "You keep saying that, but why should I believe you? Who the hell are you?"
"Army corpsman. Eight years! Iraq and Afghanistan. Done this countless times and--" His eyes had a haunted look. "--no, Mister, not always successfully."
His gaze shifted to the young woman lying on the floor. I saw little movement.
"She breathing?" I moaned.
He placed his hand near her nose. "Yup . . . but in spasms."
I said a quick prayer, and Someone listened. Suddenly my hands stopped shaking, and my vision sharpened. I felt calm, even confident.
"Okay, Segeant (I'd seen the stripes on his jacket). Tell me what to do."
For the next few minutes he barked orders, sometimes more than once till I knew exactly what he meant. Half the time I could not see what I was doing, but felt my way through the birth process.
Though half-conscious, the mother helped almost intuitively. I could feel the contractions as we both labored to bring that child into the world.
"Stop!"
My fingers obeyed. Like a catcher in baseball, I sat back on my haunches and looked over my shoulder. Sarge's mouth was contorted.
"We have a breech," he said.
Breech. The word froze me in place. Stephanie, my daughter, was a breech baby and her delivery almost destroyed Meg's womb.
I began to tremble. Whatever confidence I'd had vanished.
Sarge saw me crumbling, but was not deterred. "Come on, Doc! Finish the job!" he barked.
Doc. Me?
Yes, me! I stared at the would-be-mother visibly breathing now. Grunting. Mewling like a cat.
My hands listened. Stopped shaking. Reached toward the baby and . . .
They heard Sarge rattle off directions. They followed them implicitly. They probed, prodded, pulled . . . until . . . it came screaming into my waiting arms.
* * *
Three hours later I sat in a crowded waiting room at Rush Hospital, sipping a cup of "courtesy" coffee. Although the sound of the TV nearby was low, it worsened a nagging headache.
The local news channel had been playing since I arrived. A story about "heroes in a downtown elevator" kept playing. Newcomers to the waiting room would in time recognize me, smile, and approach.
A frown warned off most, but there had been the tenacious few whose questions brought on the headache. My answers now were clipped:
Mother's in ICU, baby's in an incubator somewhere .. . No, haven't seen either since the ambulance . . . Yes, I'm waiting to see them . . . Don't know where the corpsman is. Yes, he not me, was the real hero . . .
Finally the one person I'd wanted to see appeared. When I saw him wearing a white coat, not a blue smock and cap, the thousand pound weight on my chest lifted.
He beckoned from the corridor. I rushed toward him as fast as my still-gimpy legs would let me.
"Doctor Berke. I am so pleased to meet you," he said with a wide smile. "I am Doctor Saban. May I say you did splendid work? I could not have performed better myself."
I felt my face flush, and I knew I was grinning.
"Save the kudos for Sarge if--if you ever meet him."
"I have, and he rejected them, too."
"He's with her, isn't he?" I said, my heart pounding.
"Oh, yes! Her and the baby. And all three can't wait to see you."
What happened after the delivery is a blur for me. Somehow the elevator moved, the door opened, and I walked out with the child wrapped in Sarge's jacket.
Who called the police and ambulance I have no idea. I remember only an orderly or a paramedic taking the baby from me and Sarge screaming from the back of the ambulance before the doors shut.
"I'll take it from here, Doc! You were great!"
* * *
"I'm a what?" Meg asked.
"A godmother," I said.
I was home at last, ensconced in my recliner, a glass of red wine in my hand. I'd called her from the hospital and told her to watch the news. The rest of the story she would have to wait for
Doctor Saban had taken me quickly to the single room in the maternity ward. When Sarge saw me, he bolted from his chair to clasp me fiercely with his one arm.
"Doc, let me introduce you to . . . to the prettiest new mommy in the ward."
I could not believe that man could blush. Holding me by my much abused elbow, he herded me to Mommy's bedside. Seeing the tiny little person I had delivered nestled in a real baby's blanket prompted tears of joy from me.
"Doc, meet Lisa Kepplin and reacquaint yourself with her son."
The fact Lisa was sitting up and smiling sent even more tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Lisa, I--I could not be happier to see you both . . . like this. And who is this young man?" Instinctively, I reached for him, then withdrew my hands quickly.
"No, no, please take him. I wish to give him your name which is--?"
"Doc!" Sarge laughed.
Lisa gave him a soft scolding look which seemed surprisingly intimate.
"Allen," I said, "but Sarge here--"
"Rudy?" She gazed at him affectionately. "He is a very . . . very nice man, but we both agree my son is to be 'Allen' and you are to be his godfather. Okay?"
I swiped away more tears and nodded.
As I related my exploits to Meg, I found my emotions getting the best of me again.
She rose from her chair, came over, and wiped my tears away. "Allen . . . Senior. I am so proud of you."
"Love me, too?"
She rubbed her own wet cheek against mine. "Oh, yes."
"Good, because I invited my new family for Thanksgiving. And that includes Sarge. Don't know the whole story, but Lisa and he are currently single."
"And how did you learn this?"
"After I left Lisa and Baby Allen, Sarge told me as he walked me to the elevator."
|
Writing Prompt Write a short story. The topic is: Stuck in an elevator! |
This photo is courtesy of Google images.
The D. B. Franson building is fictional.
Berghoff's is perhaps the most famous restaurant in the Loop and has been there forever.
There are many hospitals in the vicinity that the ambulance could have taken Lisa and Allen to, but I chose Rush.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. The D. B. Franson building is fictional.
Berghoff's is perhaps the most famous restaurant in the Loop and has been there forever.
There are many hospitals in the vicinity that the ambulance could have taken Lisa and Allen to, but I chose Rush.
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