Throughout dinner, we all made a great effort to keep the conversation lively, but as on New Year's Eve, there was an unmistakable tension, a lot of fake smiles. Bottom line, nobody was having a particularly good time, and I had the feeling that it would be our last double date.
Then, right before our desserts arrived, I excused myself, announcing that it was the longest I had held my pee in nearly two weeks. To my dismay, Sondrine said that she would join me. We weaved our way through the maze of overdressed couples to the bathroom, where she tried to make interstall small talk with me, saying something about what a cute couple Geoffrey and I made. I couldn't bring myself to reciprocate the comment, so I just thanked her instead. That's when I turned to flush and saw a bright red ribbon in the water below. For one brief second, I was confused. Then it registered. I was bleeding. I panicked and wiped. Another smear of blood appeared on the white tissue.
The next few minutes were hazy, but I remember gasping so loudly that Sondrine asked if I was okay. I remember saying no, I wasn't okay. And I remember feeling my heart thudding in my ears, as I crumbled onto the edge of the cold, enamel toilet seat.
"What's wrong, Darcy?" Sondrine asked over the sound of flushing, an automatic hand dryer, and happy female chatter.
I managed to say, "I'm bleeding." Then I remember just sitting there in my stall with my underwear down at my ankles, holding my legs together, as if the babies would fall out otherwise. All the while, I visualized the passages I had skimmed over in my pregnancy books. I could see the words on the page: phrases such as "placenta previa" and "premature rupture of the membranes" and even the horrifying acronym CLIMB, which stood for "Center for Loss in Multiple Birth." I couldn't catch my breath, let alone stand and leave the bathroom.
Some minutes later I heard more commotion as Sondrine announced that a man was entering the restroom. Then I heard Geoffrey's voice outside the stall and the sound of his knuckles rapping hard against the metal door. Somehow I managed to stand, pull up my pants, and swing open the door. I saw Sondrine hovering at Geoffrey's side, and a few other women standing near the sinks, mouths agape.
"Sweetheart, what is it?" he asked me.
"There's blood," I said, feeling faint at the sound of the word.
"How much blood?" he asked, his brow furrowed.
I turned and pointed downward. The strands of red were dissipating, turning the water a frightening pink hue.
Geoffrey glanced down and then spoke with measured calm. He told me that third-trimester bleeding, particularly with multiples, was not uncommon. He said that everything was going to be fine, but that I needed to go to the hospital.
"Right now?" I said.
"Yes. Ethan's getting my car now."
"So this is really bad, right?" I asked. "You're scared, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not scared, sweetheart," he said.
"Could I be losing my babies?"
No.
Are you sure?
I knew he couldn't possibly be sure of such a thing, but felt grateful when he said yes anyway.
"If I delivered now, would they live?"
He told me that it wouldn't come to that, but that if I had to deliver the babies, I was far enough along that they would survive. "Everything's going to be just fine," he kept repeating as he put one arm around me, the other hand at my bent elbow, and guided me out of the bathroom, through the dining room, and past our four plates of beautiful desserts. At the front door, Geoffrey handed the maitre d' his credit card and said, "We're having a small emergency. I'm very sorry. I'll send someone to collect my card later."
The drive to the hospital was a blur, but I remember catching glimpses of Ethan's pale, worried face in the rearview mirror. I also remember Geoffrey repeating that everything was going to be fine, just fine. And most of all, I remember thinking that if he turned out to be wrong, if things weren't fine in the end, I wouldn't be able to bear the grief.
When we arrived at the hospital, Geoffrey and I went immediately to a small room on the labor and delivery wing, where a nurse handed me a hospital gown and instructed me to change and wait for my doctor to arrive. Mr. Smith came in minutes later, consulting with Geoffrey for a moment before examining me. He felt inside me with a look of intense concentration. Geoffrey hovered by my side.
"What?" I asked. "What's happening?"
Mr. Smith told me that although I was slightly effaced, my cervix was still closed. Geoffrey looked relieved, but I asked Mr. Smith the question anyway, "Does that mean the babies are okay?"
"Yes. But we're going to hook you up to the fetal monitor just to be absolutely sure," he said, and then motioned toward the nurse. I shivered as she slid my hospital gown up and strapped three monitors around my stomach. She told me one monitor would measure contractions, and the other two would trace the babies' heartbeats. I held on to the cold bar next to my bed and kept asking her if she could hear them.