“I love it, and now that you’ve told me where it came from, I love it even more. Our Amelia Grace. I can’t wait to hold her in my arms.”
I place her foot in my lap and run my hand up her leg, stopping when I reach her belly. It’s so swollen now. So full of life. Every little movement is visible from the outside. Two more weeks, and she’ll be here with us. The thought fills me with a fear unlike any other. Two weeks until I’ll be responsible for the care of another.
“I have an NST tomorrow. Doc says I need them three times a week now through the end. It’s kind of nice, though, just sitting, listening to the sound of her heartbeat. And when I get the room at the end of the hall, I get to enjoy the magnificent afternoon light.” She lets out a sigh, her hand tracing infinity symbols across her belly—something I’ve noticed she does when she’s relaxed and lost in thought.
“I’ll take the day off, go with you. We’ll have lunch, maybe hit the baby section at Target before we go.”
She’s had so many appointments through the whole pregnancy and never complains about any of it. I should have gone to more, taken off more days—lived in the moment like Bernard said. This is my baby, too. I want to sit in the room and listen to her heartbeat. “I’ll call Ms. Brand now.”
“Really? Are you sure?” she asks, sliding her feet out of my lap so I can grab the phone.
“I’m sure. I want to be there. I want to do this.”
31
Non-Stress Test
“Let’s get it for her.” The little pink flamingo is soft in my hands, and I can’t explain my insane desire to purchase it. I want it so badly for her.
“We don’t need it. We should be saving for things like diapers—ouch—” she pauses, hand at the top of her belly, “—that one hurt.”
She sets the onesie she’s holding in the cart and places her other hand beneath her belly. “Good thing that appointment’s soon. This feels different.” Her eyebrows scrunch, in worry, and pain.
She’s been having Braxton Hicks for months now. She says for the most part, ’they’re painless—like a muscle flexing and releasing. The doctor says they’re harmless.
“Let’s go. We can show up early.” I toss the flamingo in the cart, heading toward the checkout. I slow down when I notice it’s hard for her to keep up.
“Do you think she’s coming?” she asks as she catches up. “I think she might be coming.” An excited smile lights through her pain. She’s never looked more beautiful.
I push the cart to the side of the aisle and go to her. “What can I do? Do you want me to carry you?”
She shakes her head, no, placing both hands at the top of her belly. “It shouldn’t—”
Her eyes connect with mine, and the fear I see there makes my heart stop. She closes them, crouches down, and lets out a scream that turns my heart to stone. Her body goes slack, and I just catch her weight before she falls to the floor.
“It shouldn’t hurt on top. It’s never hurt on top before,” she whispers, her voice full of pain.
“I’m calling for help.” I flip open my phone, punching in the three numbers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“It’s my wife, Brice Wade. She’s thirty-six weeks pregnant, a type 1 diabetic, and I think she’s in labor. Oh, and we’re at Target in the middle of the baby section—” I look for an aisle number, “—aisle 16, and I think something’s wrong. She says it hurts on top.”
“I’m dispatching an ambulance now, Mr. Wade. Help will be there soon. Try to remain calm.”
I laugh at the notion—calm—yeah right.
Brice’s grip tightens on my hand as she lets out another scream that causes my flesh to pebble. Cold sweat moistens my shirt, my heart racing beneath it. I hope the medics are fast.
“Oh dear! Looks like someone’s decided today is the day!”
I look up, and there’s a petite little woman with hair that can only be described as purple watching us. Maybe that’s what happens when you try to do a deep-red over gray, I’m not sure, but I like her immediately. The fear coursing through me needs a distraction.
“What can I do to help?” she asks, clapping her hands.
I don’t have a reply, and the seconds feel endless before she begins again. “Is that your cart?”
A direct question—I’ve got this.
“Yeah, but it’s the least of my concerns at the moment.” I chuckle, but it sounds more like a strangled cry. I take a deep breath, willing the fear away. Hope is what I need right now.
“I’ll be right back,” the little woman says. With a determined look of glee, she ditches her cart for ours and disappears from the aisle.
She’s continually rubbing the top of her stomach. Her eyes are an emerald forest fire—fear alive and free in the depths of them.
“She’ll be all right. They’re coming. It won’t be much longer.” I throw a string of hollow promises her way, just to say something.
“Feel it… Something happened…”
She grabs my hand and rubs it across the top of her abdomen. I feel a large bump, as if her stomach has a goose egg.
“I don’t know what happened.” She’s crying silently now, and all I can do is hold her hand. I know nothing, have no words, and it’s taking every bit of me to hold onto the flame of hope inside. Please, God.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wade?” a man asks from behind me, causing the flame of hope to spark back to life.
“That’s us,” I say, leaving Brice’s side so they can reach her. “There’s something wrong,” I state, lamely backing into the shelves.
I watch as they do a quick check of her vitals and load her onto the gurney.
“Just in time. Here you go, Dad,” the woman with the purple hair says, having reappeared beside me. She thrusts a bag into my hand, just as they start to push Brice out of the aisle. “You’ll do great. You’ve got this.” She chuckles as I rush to catch up.
32
Life has its own Plan
“Abruption.”
I say it out loud, wondering if it sounds as powerful and terrifying on the outside as it does on the inside. The couple waiting across from me gives one another a terrified look. He places his hand protectively over her belly; hers meets his there, rubbing lovingly across it. I can’t look away from their hands.
Brice is in surgery. What she was experiencing was an abruption, meaning her placenta tore away from her uterine wall.
Meaning Amelia was floating in a pool of water—without any air.
They said there’s still hope, but it didn’t live on their faces. I didn’t hear it in their words.
“Mr. Wade, let’s get you to Brice’s room. She’ll be out of surgery soon,” the nurse says as she walks in. Her shoulders are slumped, and every time our eyes meet, she looks away. “The doctor will be in to speak to you soon,” she finishes, turning to lead me down the hall. I feel my heart ripping, and I imagine the blood spraying from the torn ventricles as I pull myself from the chair.
I can’t… I don’t want to do this…
The walk down the hall seems to last forever—the eerie silence broken only by the sound of our footfalls as we make our way to the end. She finally stops. I notice a little picture above the room number. A small leaf floating on the surface of water with a single tear running across its dark green surface. It opens a cavern inside of me. I’m helpless to stop the tears as they begin their journey down my face.
“Is Brice going…is she…is she going to be okay?” I manage. I’m falling apart in front of this woman. I can’t even bring myself to care. I can’t lose Brice, too.
“She’s all right, Mr. Wade. She’s going to be fine.” The false smile on her face as she squeezes my upper arm makes me want to shove her out of the room and slam the door.
“Harry!”
Julie bursts into the room. She’s gripping her purse straps so hard her knuckles are white and her
hands are shaking.
“What happened—” Her words are halted, her worst fears confirmed at the sight of me. She rushes to me, and I fall into her, the silent tears giving way to sobs as we share the heartache together.
She only lets me sob for a moment before she pulls away from me, takes a deep breath, and straightens her shoulders. “Okay, that’s enough of that. They told me Brice would be out of surgery soon. We have to be strong… We have to be strong for our girl,” she says, squeezing my hand.
I feel her shaking begin to subside, and I try to draw strength from her, to do the same. She’s right. I can’t be a puddle when what Brice needs is a mountain.
The nurse is standing, motionless, in front of us. “I-I-I’ll go get—I’ll go get the doctor,” she stutters, before she takes off for the door.
“She must be new,” Julie says, sending motion through my hand. “She didn’t handle herself very well.”
The simplicity of her statement causes me to forget, for a moment, the reason for my heartache.
Two hours ago, I was feeling my baby tickle my hand with her foot.
Two hours ago, I was going to be a dad.
“What did they say? What happened?”
I don’t know how to answer her question.
Still connected, I lead her to the chairs against the wall, and we sit. I’ve been holding her hand for an eternity, and I don’t know how to let it go. We sit like this for five minutes, or a hundred, until the silence is broken as two new nurses push a bed through the door.
Their heads are covered with surgical caps, and I wonder if the patterns lend to their personalities or if they were purchased on a whim. One has roses, the other flames. I glance down at the bed. As soon as my eyes lock onto Brice, I’m out of the chair, my connection with Julie broken as I step forward.
Her curls are a tangled halo around her head. Her eyes—closed. I run my fingers lightly down her arm, and they flutter open.
“Hey,” she says so softly, I’m not sure it really made a sound at all.
“Hey,” I croak back, the sound of my voice causing two deep crevasses to form between her brows.
I watch helplessly as her confusion shifts to panic. She pulls back the covers and begins grasping wildly at her stomach.
“Be careful, darlin’, you’re going to rip open your stitches if you keep that up,” the nurse with the flames says, gently taking Brice’s hands, moving them away from her stomach. “There, that’s better,” she finishes, as Brice’s hands begin to still.
When she steps away, I grab Brice’s hand, needing to feel the weight of it in my own.
“Where is she? Where’s my baby?” Her words slice through the air, sharp and jagged.
Her eyes search the room, frantically, landing on Julie. “Mama, where’s my baby?” she cries, her whole body beginning to shake from the force of her sobs.
Julie rushes to her, squeezing into the space at the head of the bed. She wraps her arms around Brice’s upper body and begins rocking quietly back and forth. “Shh sh sh sh sh…”
The nurse with the tiny roses on her cap appears beside me. “The doctor will be right in.” Her eyes are deep, sapphire pools—the sadness of the day living in their inky depths.
I can’t make any words, so I nod my head in acknowledgment.
“I’m so sorry,” she adds, breaking the dam inside of me.
They leave the room as Brice’s obstetrician, Dr. Rowles, walks in. “Harrison,” he says, nodding in acknowledgement, as he pulls a chair beside Brice’s bed.
Julie sits up, but her arm is still protectively surrounding Brice.
“Where is she? Where’s my baby?” Brice’s voice is barely a whisper.
It’s a question with an answer too horrible to hear, but it has to be asked, anyway. I’m thankful for her bravery. I couldn’t form the words myself.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for her trembling hand.
“There’s never an easy way to say this, but she didn’t make it. We tried everything in our power. But she was without oxygen for too long. We couldn’t revive her. I’m so sorry,” he replies, rubbing his hands over his aged face. “I know this isn’t something you want to even think about now, but there was no damage to your uterus. You should be able to carry a child again.”
“I want to see her,” Brice says, her shoulders shaking with quiet tears as she holds her head high—determination on her broken face.
“I’m not sure…” he trails off, looking to the door.
“Bring her in. Let us see her,” I demand, the words coming out harsher than intended.
Dr. Rowles stands, his gaze connecting with mine for a long moment before he leaves the room.
Julie slips off the bed as the door closes. She wraps Brice’s face in her hands, laying a tender kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be right outside,” she says, dropping her hands. She stands quietly for a moment before she follows the doctor out.
I can’t form words.
I’m sorry seems like the worst possible thing to say. I let go of her hand and slide further up the bed so that I can hold her, but she motions me to stop.
“Please…” She shakes her head. “I can’t… I can’t feel you right now,” she finishes, putting her face in her hands as her shoulders are wracked with silent sobs.
I sit, statue-still, as the emotions swell like a turbulent sea inside of me. I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around her, letting my tears mingle with hers. But Julie’s right. She doesn’t need the weight of my heartache smothering her own.
A light tap on the door releases me from my stillness, and I stand as Dr. Rowles walks in, a tiny pink bundle in his arms. His eyes are red-rimmed glassy balls. “I’ll leave her with you for a few moments.” He places the bundle in my arms.
My chest aches as I pull the blanket from her. Her petite face is blurred as I take in her delicate features. Her tiny heart mouth is parted slightly, as if breath could move through it at any moment, but her skin is colorless, and her chest is still.
I feel the edge of the bed behind me, sitting before I fall. I memorize her beauty—the rise of her button nose, the swell of her cheeks. And when I run my fingers over her silky fine curls, I lose my composure—a strangled sob breaking free. I pull her to me, allowing myself a moment of grief before I lay her in her mother’s arms.
Today, the color has left my world.
I pace to the window, unable to watch as Brice has her moment with our daughter. I watch as drivers pull in and out of the busy hospital parking lot, each with their own set of worries and fears.
“I saw him.” Her words are soft, riddled with heartache. “When I first got out of surgery. He was wearing his favorite hat, you know, the gray corduroy newsboy one?”
I nod my head in understanding, afraid that if I open my mouth she’ll quit speaking.
“He was holding her, a huge grin on his face, her tiny hand clasping his dark finger tightly. He took her—” her voice shifts, and when her eyes finally meet mine, they’re a wildfire of anger and sadness, “—He took her. She wasn’t his—she was mine… She was supposed to be mine.” The sobs overtake her as she pulls Amelia to her chest, rocking frantically back and forth. “She was mine…they both were supposed to be mine.”
I don’t care what she wants.
I’m on the bed in an instant, my arms wrapped tightly around them, my body rocking with the motion as our hearts bleed out across the floor. I imagine the pain seeping under the door and tainting the happiness of this place. There is no life here, only death and heartache.
33
How to Survive
“Are you all right?” I ask, walking into the living room where I’ve come to feel like a trespasser.
She’s drawn an invisible line, and I’m not allowed to cross it. I’m not allowed to touch her—even with my eyes. If I do, she dissolves into fluid sadness. She’s faded—gone. I’m worried. The house is too still, too quiet, and it’s been this way for too fucking long.
I round the couch, standing silently, waiting for a reply.
She’s bundled in the throw her mom knitted for her when she was first diagnosed. It’s hideous. The bright shade of green is an assault to the eyes. She loves it, though. It brings her comfort, which means I love it, too. Sort of.
Her gaze turns toward me, but it doesn’t connect—it’s slightly to the right. The way she’s staring so intently at nothing, I know—she’s low. I see a bowl of oatmeal in her hand. Has it been there since this morning?
“Brice!”
The anger in my voice surprises us both, and her eyes connect with mine, the imminent tears beginning to swell.
“You need to eat!”
She shakes her head, causing the tears to spill over, leaving red streaks in their wake.
We’ve been home for weeks—six weeks to be exact. The amount of time it takes for an exterior wound from a c-section to heal.
But she isn’t healing.
She isn’t eating, and I’m getting really fucking tired of it. I feel rage building inside of me. I can’t take it anymore.
“You know you need to eat, right? You know you will FUCKING DIE if you don’t eat, right? What the fuck are we doing, Brice?”
I leave the room, not waiting for a reply. I know I won’t get one. I never fucking get one.
I pull open the fridge and grab the jug of orange juice. I fill a glass, then pull a straw from the drawer. This is the routine. She’s living on orange juice and I can’t fucking deal with it anymore. I can’t. I slam the drawer and pull the phone from its cradle.
“Jesse,” I say as he comes on the line. “I need you to get over here. I have to leave before I explode.” I slam the phone down, not waiting for a reply, and take the juice to the living room.
I grab the monitor from the coffee table. She reluctantly produces a finger. She’s as familiar with the routine as I am. Is she just as tired of it? Is she even in there at all?
24.
Jesus, fuck, that’s low.