Husband's Choice, Baby's Loss

The sirens had been wailing for three hours now, their urgent cry echoing off the flooded streets of New Orleans like a funeral dirge. I pressed my palm against the second-story window, watching the brown water swirl past what used to be our front garden. The azaleas Lawrence had planted for our first anniversary were completely submerged, their bright pink blooms floating like tiny life preservers in the chaos.

Another contraction seized my belly, stronger than the last. I gripped the windowsill, breathing through the pain as my eight-month-old baby shifted restlessly inside me. The stress was getting to both of us. Through the glass, I could see the Hendersons from next door being helped into a rescue boat, their arms wrapped around each other as they were pulled to safety.

"Please, please pick up," I whispered, dialing Lawrence's number for the fourth time. The phone rang twice before his familiar voice crackled through.

"Amy? Jesus, I've been trying to coordinate seventeen different rescue zones. Are you okay?"

I could hear helicopter blades chopping through the background noise, the controlled chaos of an emergency command center. "Lawrence, the water's rising faster than they predicted. I'm trapped upstairs, and I'm having contractions. I need—"

"Contractions?" His voice sharpened with alarm. "How far apart?"

"About ten minutes, but they're getting stronger." I pressed my free hand to my belly, feeling our baby's frantic movements. "The first floor is completely flooded. I can't get out."

"Okay, okay. Listen to me, sweetheart. I'm going to get you out of there. The next helicopter sweep should reach your sector in about twenty minutes. Can you hold on?"

Twenty minutes felt like a lifetime, but I nodded even though he couldn't see me. "I'll try. Just... please hurry."

The line went quiet except for the distant sound of radios and shouting voices. I sank into the old rocking chair by the window, the same one Lawrence had insisted we buy for the nursery. Every few minutes, another rescue boat would pass by, filled with families clutching their few salvaged possessions.

Then I saw her.

Colette Hayes stood at what looked like a rescue staging area about two blocks away, her blonde hair somehow still perfectly styled despite the chaos around her. Even from this distance, I could see her animated gestures as she spoke to someone in uniform. My stomach clenched with something that wasn't a contraction.

My phone rang again. Lawrence.

"Amy, there's been a change of plans." His voice sounded different now, strained. "The helicopter's at capacity, and there's only one spot left. Colette showed up at the staging area—she was trapped in her apartment building and barely made it out. I need to get her to safety first."

The words hit me like ice water. "What?"

"I know it's not ideal, but she's in immediate danger. Her building's foundation is compromised. You're on the second floor, so you're safer for now. I'll send the next rescue unit to you as soon as—"

"Lawrence." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "I'm eight months pregnant and having contractions. Colette is a healthy twenty-eight-year-old woman who can swim."

"Amy, please. Don't make this harder than it has to be. Colette can't swim that well, and she's terrified. You're stronger than she is. You can handle this."

Another contraction gripped me, and I doubled over, gasping. Through the pain, I heard Lawrence's voice crackling through the phone: "The nearest rescue point is about four blocks north, at the elementary school. The current isn't too strong if you stick to the main street. You can make it."

"You want me to swim? Lawrence, I could go into labor any minute!"

"I know, I know. But it's just until the next sweep. Please, Amy. Trust me on this."

Through the window, I watched as Colette was helped into the rescue helicopter, her hand briefly touching Lawrence's arm as she climbed aboard. She looked up at him with what seemed like gratitude, but from where I sat, it looked almost like triumph.

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone in my hand, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. The water below had risen another six inches since we'd started talking. Debris floated past—pieces of furniture, children's toys, someone's family photos.

Another contraction hit, and this time I cried out. My baby was running out of time, and so was I.

I looked down at the murky floodwater that had swallowed my neighborhood, then at the distant lights of the elementary school where salvation waited. Four blocks had never seemed so far.

With shaking hands, I began to gather what I could carry.