Breeding like Rabbits

Daniel! I better go and check on him. He may be awake and wondering where we are. Britt glanced at Sara—she was fine, sitting on the ground and studying a small rock she held between her hands. Britt entered the trailer and looked at Daniel—He’s fine, still asleep, but he’s kicked his blanket off. I don’t want him to get cold and get a cold, or God forbid, pneumonia. She quickly covered him up and hurried outside. Is that a truck I hear? It was a truck, a back-loader garbage truck, and it was backing up and over Sara! Britt screamed and ran toward the cab of the truck, waving her arms wildly, yelling “STOP!” One of the two men who had been picking up the garbage cans heard her. He motioned for the truck to stop, and the driver slammed on the brakes—the truck stopped…thank God. In less than a minute Britt’s world had turned upside down. Sara lay close to the back of a rear tire, the right side of her body snug up against the curb. Britt dashed to the neighboring trailer. “Amy, Amy, you’ve got to watch Daniel for me. He’s sleeping in the trailer. I have to take Sara to the hospital right now.” Britt hurried to the car and jerked open the passenger side door. She ran to Sara, who lay there, not crying, not moving; Britt slid her hands under Sara, and lifted her little, eighteen-pound body onto the car’s front seat. Sara just looked at her. Leaving the gated, enlisted men’s trailer park, Britt drove, conscious of the need for speed but also of the need to be careful. She didn’t want Sara to feel the slightest bump. A traffic cop on a motorcycle stopped her car before the turn toward the hospital. The President‘s motorcade was crawling across the road in front of them. Britt’s heart squeezed, and her insides churned—was she going to be sick? But the police must be obeyed—if she disobeyed and was arrested…her mind couldn’t go there. She braked to a stop. Hurry up! Please, God, HURRY UP! Britt looked at her daughter lying on the front passenger seat of the car. Sara is wearing her yellow snowsuit, as February in Newport, Rhode Island is cool, and she’d been outside. Her brown eyes fixed on her mother. She made no sound. “It’s o.k., Sara. It’s o.k., you’ll be o.k.” Britt’s eyes filled with tears. She looked away from Sara and out at the road, fingers tapping the steering wheel. Through blurred eyes, she watched the slow progression of President Eisenhower’s motorcade. It is taking forever! And my baby is hurt. Britt turned her head to check on Sara. She hasn’t moved, not even her eyes. She’s quiet—no sound, no sound. She just looks at me. Just when Britt knew she could not wait another second and remain in one piece, the policeman motioned her forward. She lowered her foot to the accelerator and went as fast as allowed to Newport Navy Hospital’s Emergency Entrance.