Chapter 1 - The Stranger In The Red Scarf
The woman in the red scarf knelt on the dirty floor of Union Station before I could slide off the wooden bench.
"Honey, you're in labor," she said, her voice cutting through the loudspeaker announcements and the rush of travelers.
Her gloved hands caught my trembling shoulders as another spasm ripped through my lower belly, knocking the air straight from my lungs.
"I need to catch the train to Omaha," I gasped, my knuckles turning white around the strap of my canvas duffel.
"You aren't catching any train, sweetheart," the woman replied firmly, waving her arm toward an Amtrak transit officer patrolling the concourse.
"Officer! Call an ambulance right now! We have a pre-term delivery in progress!"
The transit officer ran over, pulling a radio from his shoulder strap and barking urgent codes.
People stopped and stared, their faces blurring together into a sea of unfamiliar eyes.
None of them were Arthur.
None of them knew that less than two hours ago, the father of this child had looked at me with cold disgust and told me to stop being an inconvenient burden.
"My name is Martha," the woman said gently, loosening my wet trench coat so I could breathe.
"You're going to be okay. Just look at me and breathe through the wave."
"My baby... she’s only twenty-four weeks," I sobbed, tears spilling hot and fast down my cold cheeks.
"She’s too small. She isn't ready."
"Modern medicine does wonders, darling," Martha reassured me, her eyes steady and kind.
"Hold my hand. Squeeze it as hard as you need to."
I crushed her fingers as another violent cramp seized my abdomen, twisting like barbed wire.
In my mind, Arthur’s cruel words echoed off the marble terminal walls.
Convenient incubator.
He had reduced my love, my body, and my suffering to a cold piece of machinery designed to deliver his legacy.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder until flashing red and blue lights illuminated the grand glass arched windows of the station.
Paramedics rushed through the heavy brass doors with a rolling gurney and trauma bags.
They lifted me onto the stretcher, wrapping me in thermal blankets as they checked my spiking blood pressure.
"BP is 185 over 110, heart rate tachycardic at 130," the paramedic shouted over the noise.
"Severe preeclampsia symptoms. We need transport to Northwestern Memorial immediately!"
"No," I pleaded, grabbing the paramedic's sleeve with desperate strength.
"Not Northwestern. Please. Anywhere else."
Northwestern was the hospital where Arthur sat on the board of trustees.
His name was engraved on the donor plaque in the cardiology wing.
If they took me there, Arthur’s private security would lock down the maternity ward before midnight, turning my hospital bed into another gilded cell.
The paramedic looked into my terrified eyes, seeing the genuine panic that had nothing to do with labor pains.
He exchanged a quick, knowing look with his partner.
"Reroute to Mercy Hospital on Michigan Avenue," the paramedic ordered into his radio.
"Tell trauma intake we're coming in hot."
Martha squeezed my foot through the blanket as the gurney rolled toward the exit.
"You're a fighter, mama," Martha called out.
May you like
"Don't you dare give up on that little girl."
The cold Chicago rain hit my face for three seconds before the ambulance doors slammed shut, cutting off the world I had known forever.
