A Very Special Delivery

Molly rocked back and forth and hummed a lullaby. Laney’s blue eyes stared wide and intent.
    Without warning, the tiny face mottled. Laney coughed, sputtering cereal-laced formula onto Molly’s hands.
    Molly jerked the bottle from the baby’s mouth and sat her upright, patting her back. Laney coughed and struggled, pushing air out but never inhaling.
    Molly’s pulse clattered into her throat. Laney was choking. Strangling.
    “Ethan,” she screamed. “Ethan, help!”
    She flipped the baby over and dangled her across her knees. With the heel of one hand, she applied a not-so-gentle rap to the center of Laney’s back.
    Laney coughed again and then began to cry. Loud, wailing cries rent the apartment.
    Ethan’s footsteps thundered from outside. The door slammed open on its hinges. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
    He rushed to her side, jerking Laney upright.
    “She choked. She choked.” Molly’s voice shook with fear.
    Ethan made a quick examination of the baby. “She’s okay now.”
    But Molly wasn’t.
    What if she hadn’t been able to stop the choking? What if Laney had died? What if…
    Her chest tightened and her hands began to tremble.
    Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Not the panic. Not now. Not in front of Ethan.
    The tingling crept into her fingers like millions of crawling ants. Fear, terrible and consuming, gripped her.
    “Molly?” He frowned, concerned. “Laney’s okay. Calm down.”
    She shook her head at him, humiliated, terrified. It was happening and Ethan would see. He would know her shame, her weakness.
    She jumped up and rushed out of the room. She’d no more than reached the back bedroom when a tidal wave of panic closed in. Her heart thundered faster and faster. Sweat beaded her face, her hands and knees trembled as violently as an earthquake. Her throat closed tighter and tighter.
    What if another baby had died in her care?
    She stumbled toward the wall. Spots danced in front of her eyes.
    “Molly?” Ethan came through the door, and she longed for the floor to open and swallow her up. He reached for her, his face full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
    She pushed him away. He was blocking the air, crowding her. “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.”
    She was going to die this time. She wanted to.
    He grabbed her shoulders, squared her toward him. She fought at his hands. They smothered her, cut off her oxygen.
    “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
    “I can’t breathe. Go away. Take care of Laney.”
    “Laney is fine, I tell you. She’s fine. Now calm down.”
    She fought away from him, turned her back and went to her knees, shaking too hard to stand. But lying down strangled her. She had to prop up, get air. Her heart hammered incessantly, wildly. She was smothering. Dying.
    Suddenly, strong hands lifted her up and whirled her around, bracing her back against the wall. Ethan dropped to the floor beside her.
    He grasped her chin in his hard fingers, forced her face up. “Has this happened before?”
    She nodded. “Can’t breathe.”
    “Panic attack,” he said, making a paramedic’s quick assessment. “Listen to me. Let me help.”
    She nodded again. What else could she do? He was here. He’d witnessed her shame.
    “You’re hyperventilating. Breathe into this bag.” From somewhere he produced a paper bag and cupped it around her mouth.
    “Take a long, deep belly breath,” he said, laying a hand over her abdomen.
    Molly shook her head frantically, wanting to scream. How could she take a deep breath? She was strangling.
    “Do it,” he commanded in a voice that brooked no argument. “Look into my eyes and take one long deep breath. Now.”
    She locked eyes with him and did as he commanded. It wasn’t easy, but she did it.
    “Good girl. Do it again. Only this time, in your mind, count backwards starting at twenty. With every number think of someone you care about. Concentrate on that. Visualize that.”
    Twenty. She thought of Ethan.
    Nineteen. Laney.
    Oh, dear Lord, what if Laney had choked to death?
    Her fingers tightened on the paper bag. She started to pant again.
    Ethan tapped her knuckles. “Relax, Molly. Don’t pant. Breathe, slow and easy. This is going to pass. You will get through this and be all right.”
    She nodded again, concentrated on the soothing encouragement in his voice.
    “Count for me. What are you on?”
    “Eighteen.” Aunt Patsy.
    “Good. Keep counting. Concentrate on good things, good places, good people. Count your