“You feeling okay?” Arturo says that evening, as we hang out in front of one of our favorite food trucks.
“Sure.” I scrape my shoes back and forth in the gravel beneath this red picnic bench. All around us, groups of people are eating the best fish tacos in town from small plastic baskets, using their cups to hold down brown paper napkins that would otherwise flutter away in the breeze. Shay’s gone to the truck across the lot to get us some churros for dessert. Nearby, a grackle hops toward our table and cocks his head in the hope we’ll drop a bit of food he can steal. Overhead, strands of kitschy multicolored lights with big, fat, 1970s-style bulbs stretch between the trailers and the tall tree near the road.
Arturo gives me a look. “That was the least enthusiastic ‘sure’ I’ve heard in a while.”
“I’m fine. Really. Just—having a down day.”
No doubt Arturo knows better than that, but he also knows when to let something go. “We all have those sometimes. You know what fixes down days? Tacos. So get to work, girl.”
“I think I’d rather fix today with churros,” I reply, because I see Shay walking back toward us. But then I realize she doesn’t have the churros. She has one hand to her forehead and is walking slowly.
Getting to his feet, Arturo puts a hand out to support her. “Feeling light-headed again?”
“Yeah.” Her smile is weak and watery. “You know, I don’t want to stick around for dessert. Can we just go home?”
“Sure, honey,” Arturo says. I mean to tell them it’s fine with me too, but that’s when I happen to glance downward.
When I see the red droplets of blood on Shay’s white tennis shoes.
“Shay—” I get up and support her other arm. “Don’t freak out, but—”
“Oh, my God.” Now she’s seen it too, and as we stare downward, another drop falls onto the gravel. And another.
“We’re going to the hospital,” Arturo says. “Don’t move, okay? I’m driving the car right here. You’ve got her, Vivienne?”
“Yeah, of course, go!” As Arturo runs for the car, I squeeze Shay’s hand. “You should probably sit down.”
“I’m okay,” she says faintly, as if nothing in particular is happening. I realize she’s on the verge of shock. So I put my arms around her to hold her steady and upright until Arturo gets to us—he’s already in the car, best to let her stand so we can get her into the vehicle and on the way as fast as possible. Shay’s head rests against my shoulder; the skin of her forehead is cool and clammy.
I’m scared, or so I think, until I look down and see the bloodstain spreading across her white skirt, darker and wider every moment. That’s when I discover just how scared I can be.
? ? ?
“Please, can Dr. Campbell come?” Shay pleads as the orderlies wheel her stretcher down the hospital corridor. Arturo and I jog beside them; he’s determined to stay with her until the moment they physically pry him away, and I want to be with him when that happens. “Is she coming?”
“An obstetrician will be here any second,” says a nurse in yellow scrubs.
“But I want my own doctor—” Shay’s voice is so faint. It sounds like she might pass out at any second.
As they get her into a room and strap a fetal heart monitor around her belly, Arturo clasps her hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. “It’s got to be.”
Please, I pray to a God I believe in but rarely speak to. Please let Shay be all right. Please let the baby live.
I’m ushered out just as the OB-GYN runs in, and I hear Arturo say, “Dr. Campbell!” before the door shuts. So her doctor was the one on duty anyway. Maybe that’s proof God’s looking out for the baby after all. Or maybe it’s just dumb luck. Either way, I’ll take it.
For the next couple of hours, I have two jobs. The first is to sit in the waiting room and try not to cry. The second—and worst—is to call Carmen and tell her what’s happening. Carmen arrives about ten minutes after she hangs up, in the faded jeans and ratty T-shirt I know she only wears when she’s working on her thesis. When she sits beside me, I hug her tightly; now we can only hang on.
Carmen whispers, “They think I don’t want them to have the baby, and if they lose it—”
“They’re not going to. And you’re going to be a great Tia Carmen. Wait and see. Hey, you want to help me throw the baby shower? Shay would love that.”
Slowly, Carmen nods. So I start talking about presents and party games and cupcakes and everything else I can think of that could possibly be at a baby shower, in the hope that all that pink and yellow and baby blue will erase the memory of dark red blood.
Finally Arturo walks into the waiting room. He looks exhausted and pale—but not broken. “She’s okay.”
“Dios mío.” Carmen jumps up to embrace her brother, and he hugs her back tightly. “What happened?”