I’m awakened when I hear Jack Henry on the phone, yelling, and I get up to see what’s going on. “Your son isn’t mine. There’s nothing else for us to discuss.” I don’t have to hear another word to know who’s on the other end.
He’s quiet for a moment but then I’m startled when he throws his phone across the room hitting the wall only a few feet from me. “Mother-f*cking-bitch!” He’s so angry, he’s shaking. It’s frightening to see him like this.
He sees me standing close to where he just busted his phone into pieces and his eyes grow large. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you standing there.”
“What was that about?”
He sinks into the couch. “That, my dear wife, was the sound of me being threatened and blackmailed by Jenna Rosenthal.”
“With what?”
“She began by accusing me of having someone change the paternity test results. I told her we could take a hundred paternity tests and they would all exclude me as her son’s father. Once she realized she wasn’t going to hoodoo me into claiming her kid, she threatened to expose my past. She said you’d leave me for sure, out of embarrassment, if everyone knew what I used to do.”
“What does she want?”
“What she wanted from the beginning—money.”
Of course she does. Money-hungry bitch. “What kind of numbers are we talking?”
“She asked how much money I was willing to part with to keep you.”
She’s going to play hardball. “She probably thinks I don’t know about your past.”
“Or if she suspects you were a part of it, she thinks I’ll pay to keep you from being humiliated as one of my companions.”
I don’t really give a rat’s ass what people think. “I’m not going anywhere, so I don’t want you to pay her one damn cent unless you think you can’t live with people knowing.”
“I really don’t give a damn but I don’t want that for you. It would kill me to see your picture in the gossip column with some stupid heading about me once being some kind of bizarre sexual deviant.” He’s still shaking.
“It might not stick. You’re no longer one of Australia’s most eligible bachelors. Your days of making the papers may have ended when you put a wedding ring on your finger.”
“That’s not really how it works. What I did was illicit. People love a scandalous story—especially when it’s real. It’s way more interesting than the happily ever after.” He fists his hair and groans. “F*ck, Margaret McLachlan will kill me if she finds out.”
“Then we should tell her about the baby as soon as possible. She won’t want her grandchild to be fatherless.”
“I don’t know about that. She’s going to be mad as hell.”
Margaret isn’t dumb. She’s going to put the pieces together. Everyone will. “I spent three months with you and left. She’s going to figure out I was one of them. I’m not really crazy about that idea. I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“My mum loves you, L. She won’t think less of you.” He gets up from the couch and walks over to gather the pieces of his phone. He takes his SIM card out and inspects it. “I need your phone. I have an important call to make.”
I retrieve my phone from the bedroom and give it to Jack Henry and he makes the card exchange. He’s standing with his back to me when he dials a number and waits for an answer. “Jim, I have another job for you. I need you to look into someone—a woman named Jenna Rosenthal.”
Jenna Rosenthal. Another bitch I’d like to kick in the ass while wearing my boots. And I will if the opportunity arises, with a big-ass smile on my face.
We decided we wanted to tell Margaret and Henry about the baby in person, but because of work Jack Henry needed to do at Avalon this week, we had to wait until the weekend to make the trip to Sydney. I’m sure my mother-in-law suspects why we’re coming again so soon. I could hear the exhilaration in her voice over the phone. We’d only hung up for a few moments when she called back to tell me she’s baking a chocolate cake for me—one I can take home when we leave—and even gave me permission to not share with Jack Henry.
We’ve taken my in-laws out to dinner instead of cooking at their place. The restaurant is formal, and overpriced, but it’s what the McLachlans are accustomed to. There’s even a woman walking around serenading diners. She stops to sing for a couple and belts out “At Last.” I’m watching the scene happen from a distance but it’s quite clear at the end of the song that the man is proposing to his dinner companion when he drops to one knee. The diners around them begin clapping and it spreads throughout the entire restaurant, most patrons likely believing they’re applauding the songstress.
Everyone at our table has ordered wine, except me. Henry pays that little tidbit absolutely no attention but Margaret takes notice. I know because she’s suddenly giddy and it’s not from the wine.
“Jack, Randall tells me you brought his granddaughter on for an internship.”
Uh-oh. “I did, but she found another one. She wanted to be closer to her college friends. She was more concerned with partying than learning to manage a vineyard.” Nice one, McLachlan. The only good thing I can say about Bianca is that she had the good sense to go away quietly so Jack Henry and Mr. Brees didn’t experience a hiccup in their business relationship.
Jack Henry and his dad speak the vineyard language and I’m mostly lost. I think Margaret understands a lot but chooses to not join in. I think she still holds a little resentment for that life, although it made her and Henry a nice living. “Do you understand anything they’re saying?”
She lifts her glass and takes a drink. “More than I care to know.”
“I’m interested in learning. I want to understand so he can talk to me about things happening on the vineyards.”
“I’m going to give you some advice.” I smile, remembering the last bit she gave me. She grins too and leans in, lowering her voice. “Some more advice. A vineyard is work to him. It’s his profession and he has employees he discusses that with. He pays them quite well for that service and you aren’t his employee. Don’t allow the vineyards to enter your home life and make damn sure you don’t let them into your bedroom. Be his outlet—a safe place where he can escape—when all the shit that goes along with that life becomes too much for him.”
Margaret has a different way of looking at things. Here I thought I would be bringing myself closer to my husband by becoming part of his work life, but she’s telling me the opposite. And I think she’s right.
“Trust me, Laurelyn. He will hold you in a different regard if he views you as his refuge and not his confidant.” She returns to her entree and I can only think of how I hope to be the kind of mother she is. I want to be strong and confident, yet gentle and loving. I wish I’d had her as my role model instead of my own mom.
Jack Henry takes my hand and gives it a squeeze under the table after we order dessert. I’m guessing that’s my cue he’s ready to spill the beans. “Laurelyn and I have an announcement.” Henry is yet to be in tune with what we’re about to say but Margaret can predict it easily. She literally looks ready to burst. “Laurelyn’s pregnant.”
Henry does the manly, fatherly slap on Jack Henry’s back as he congratulates us. I almost think I see his chest inflate, like some sort of pride thing about his boys being able to swim hard enough to impregnate me on the first try.
Margaret comes out of her chair and I do too. She pulls me into her arms in a tight embrace. “I knew it. Ohh … I’m so happy for you.” She releases me and holds my arms out for a look. “When can I expect my new grandbaby?”
“October first.”
“You have a date. Does that mean you’ve already had a visit with a doctor?”
“Yes. I have an ultrasound picture. Would you like to see it?”
“Absolutely.” She pulls glasses from her purse, slips them on, and looks up at me. “It sucks getting old eyes. I can’t see anything without these ridiculous things.”
“I think you look really good in them.” Margaret never looks anything less than classy.
“Bullshit. I look old as hell,” she laughs. She holds the printout at a distance for a better view. “I do believe that is one of the sweetest little dots I’ve ever seen.”
I laugh because she’s right. The baby is tiny. “It’s quite early—only six weeks. The doctor says it’s the size of a rice grain. Most people don’t announce their pregnancies until twelve weeks but we’re too excited to wait that long.”
“Will you tell everyone or are we privy to the information because we’re the grandparents?”
I don’t know. We haven’t discussed anything beyond telling Margaret and Henry in case this story gets out about his past. “What are we doing?”
“I told you from the beginning, love. I want the world to know my wife is pregnant.”
Okay, then. I guess we’re telling the world.
I call my mom from the car as Jack Henry drives us home from Henry and Margaret’s. I’m excited to hear her reaction. I hope she’s as happy as Margaret is.
We begin our conversation like normal, her catching me up on everything going on in her life, before I move on to the news I called to share. “Mom, Jack Henry and I have wonderful news. I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
“Mom, are you still there?”
“Laurie, why would you allow that to happen? A baby is going to ruin your career.”
Just because I ruined her life doesn’t mean my baby will ruin mine. Why can’t she understand that? “We chose to have this baby because we want to start our family.”
“You’re being stupid. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
I can’t take hearing these things from my mother. “I have to go.”
I end the call and let her reaction soak in for a minute before I tell Jack Henry the terrible things she said. I wait for his temper to engage, but it doesn’t. He pulls the car to the side of the road and takes me into his arms where I cry until I have no more tears to shed.
It’s almost been a week—that’s how long that blackmailing bitch said she’d give Jack Henry before she called again—so we expect to hear from her tomorrow. My decision still stands. I’m supporting my husband, even if this goes public. I say that with incredible allegiance but then I become afraid when I think of the remaining ten women I’ve not had the displeasure of meeting. Will they come out of the woodwork? There could be more false paternity claims. Or true ones. Are we making the wrong decision by not paying her off? I don’t know.
Jack Henry is expecting a call from Jim today. I hope he is the best—as my husband believes—and tells us he’s found something we can use to rid ourselves of that woman.
Jim phones while Jack Henry is sitting at my bedside during my morning routine—lying in bed nauseated, sipping Mrs. Porcelli’s remedy while nibbling on crackers. He sits with me every morning and helps me to the bathroom when my nausea progresses to something more.
He’s listening intently when the nearly overwhelming wave hits me. I close my eyes, wishing it all away, but it refuses to obey so I’m scrambling to get out of bed. “Just a minute, Jim.” Jack Henry drops his phone to the bed to help me up.
I rush to the bathroom but wave him away. “Take the call,” I tell him between heaves. “I’m fine.”
He’s hesitant as displayed by how long he stands in the bathroom. “Call out if you need anything.”
I nod, my head hanging over the toilet.
I wash up following my vomiting episode and I think it’s possible that I feel better. Yes, I believe I do.
As I come out of the bathroom, Jack Henry is finishing his call. “My man, Jim, has discovered a lot of dirty little secrets about one Jenna Rosenthal. Most are insignificant for our needs but one transgression will be of use. I say we invite Miss Rosenthal to dinner. I don’t believe a phone call will do.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Something not befitting a gentleman—and I want to see her face when I do it.”
We wait in the restaurant at the hotel where all of this shit began—the one where I came to Jack Henry as someone else. Worst idea ever.
I can’t believe Jenna agreed to meet us here. It’s really sort of stupid on her part since it’s her place of employment, at least the hotel is, but the restaurant is inside. I wonder what she does here—and what she did three years ago that drew Jack Henry to her.
He hasn’t told me what Jim found on her. Frankly, I don’t care as long as it gets her out of our lives. I shudder when I think of how differently this could have gone. What if Jack Henry had been her son’s father? What a nightmare that would’ve been.
“She’s late.” That irritates him even further.
“Don’t worry, that money-hungry bitch is coming. She didn’t do all this to not carry through on it.”
She arrives ten minutes later. “You’re late.”
“I couldn’t get here sooner because Ashton is sick. He probably caught whatever it is at that medical clinic you made us go to.”
Jack Henry is quick to reply. “Maybe you should’ve tried knowing who fathered your child and we wouldn’t have been there in the first place.” I think I’m most glad her son wasn’t his because I don’t think I could have taken the bickering between them.
Our server comes by and Jenna orders a glass of wine. “I’m only staying long enough to discuss what I want from you.” She looks at me. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here, so that can only mean one thing: you once agreed to be his whore just like the rest of us.”
I don’t respond because I can’t deny what she’s saying.
“She was never my whore.”
“Right.” A glass of wine is placed in front of her and I watch as she goes through the process of using her senses to judge it. “Logan Ross, that’s who he was to me, taught me a lot of things but appreciating a great glass of Shiraz is something I’ve kept with me. Which wine has he taught you to enjoy?” She looks down at my water. “What … no wine for the vineyard princess?” Neither of us replies and she begins smiling. “Ah-hah … you’re pregnant. I guess congratulations are in order for the perfect couple.” Her voice is saturated with venom. “Is that why you stood firmly by his side? Or is it because he’s filthy rich?”
Jack Henry is fuming. “Not what we’re here to discuss.”
She’s grinning. “Then let’s get down to why we’re here. I’ve done a little research on you since we spoke and I’m glad I did because it turns out you’re even wealthier than I first thought.”
“Say what you want,” he tells her.
“I was going to ask for a million but then I decided I was lowballing myself. I want two million dollars and all of this goes away. I won’t go to the press about your nasty little practices and you’ll never see me again.”
“Two million dollars for your silence seems reasonable until I consider that I can have it for free.”
She’s clearly confused. “It’s not free.”
He passes a manila envelope to her. “But I think it is … Aurora Dawn.”
She doesn’t even open the envelope. “Do you seriously think you’re going to convince me to keep my mouth shut over some stupid porn video I starred in for a lousy hundred bucks when I was eighteen?”
“No. I just brought that to humiliate you. The thing that’ll keep your mouth shut is the proof I have of you embezzling a shitload of money from this hotel, the very one we’re sitting in. So while it might be uncomfortable to know your coworkers can watch you take it up the ass on film, jail is a hell of a lot more uncomfortable. And I’m sure you’d miss your son terribly. Maybe he wouldn’t be completely grown by the time you got out.”
She appears indignant. “Well, you have me over a barrel and you’ve f*cked me again.” She throws back the last of her wine before taking her purse and the manila envelope from the table. “I’d be careful with this one if I were you, Mrs. McLachlan. He always gets his way.”
She’s right. Jack Henry generally gets his way—whether the means are reasonable or not.
Our friends and family have known about the baby for weeks but there’s something grand about hitting that twelve-week mark. We’re finally able to breathe a sigh of relief since that typically means the pregnancy has made it to safety and the miscarriage risk is behind us.
We hear twelve to fourteen weeks is when the morning sickness gets better so we’re hoping for sooner rather than later. These past several weeks have been miserable for L, but she never complains. She does what she needs to in the mornings, while listening to the beating and banging of the construction work going on in her studio, and then works writing music as soon as she’s able to get up and around. It’s not ideal but she somehow manages.
I’m ready for work but I’m sitting next to L on the bed while she trudges through another morning of nausea. Damn, it’s been relentless but at least it doesn’t usually last beyond the morning hours. I hear some women have it all day. “Do you have anything planned for today?”
“I’m hoping to put the final touches on a song I wrote for Southern Ophelia and then go see Addison for a little while.”
“How’s she handling the whole bed-rest thing?”
“Not good, I’m afraid. She feels like a caged animal but I keep telling her to be compliant so she doesn’t end up back in the hospital. Her doctor warned her that if she had problems at home, he’d admit her for the rest of the pregnancy.”
I don’t care who you are, that would be a shit-ton-load to handle. “I’m sure she’s bored and needs something to do. Maybe a project would take her mind off everything. Why don’t you hire an interior designer to decorate the nursery? It can be our gift to her.”
“You are amazing. She hasn’t been able to get out and buy anything since they found out it was a boy, so she’s going to be so excited.” She sits up to hug me. “I would kiss you if it wouldn’t make me throw up.”
“Nice, L. Thanks a lot.”
She shrugs. “You know what I mean.”
Another reason the morning sickness needs to go away. My wife won’t kiss me—or anything else—in the mornings, and I really miss our first-thing romp before I shower for work. Evan warned me a baby would be a cock-blocker—and it is—but only in the mornings so far. L’s pregnancy hormones have her primed and ready to go at it all the other times of day. Really. “So I don’t get a midday naughty at lunch?”
“Not unless you can talk Mrs. Porcelli into it?”
I could’ve gone my whole life without her saying that. “Damn, L. You could’ve just said no.”
“But that wouldn’t have been near as funny.”
The alarm goes off, waking me from one of my more erotic dreams, so I’m hard. Damn.
I lie in bed thinking about anything except the only thing that’ll relieve my raging hard-on, but it’s no use. This isn’t going away without some kind of action and I know the kind I prefer.
We’re at the fourteen-week milestone and L has felt much better this week, so I decide to test the waters. She’s lying on her side, her back to me, and I creep my hand around her waist. I rub her lower belly where our baby is growing and recognize the firmness now present. It doesn’t seem like that was there last week.
I slide my hand lower and kiss the back of her neck before I cup my hand between her legs, rubbing up and down. “Babe, I’m getting up to shower.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
I press my hard-on against her bum. “I’m sorry. I was having a really good dream when the alarm went off and I’m still wound up by it.” Wound up is putting it mildly. I want inside L bad. I kiss the back of her neck and down her shoulder. “But it’s fine if you don’t feel up to it. My palm can become better acquainted with my cock in the shower.”
She places her hand around my wrist and pulls it away from her body, deflating my hopes for an early morning f*ck, but then shocks me when she slides it down the front of her knickers and begins moving her groin back and forth. “F*ck me from behind.”
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
I shove my hand further into her knickers and hear threads popping. I’ve never ripped her undies off but the sound is hot, I give the crotch a hard yank, tearing them to give me access to get inside her. “Oh, f*ck.” I want to slam my cock into her hard but I can’t. I have this phobia about hurting her or the baby, so I use every ounce of self-restraint to ease inside gently.
I’m only a few strokes in when L starts talking. “I know you want it harder than that.”
This isn’t the way we f*ck hard but it’s still good. “I do but you know why I hold back.” I’ve told her my fears.
She pulls away from me. “Get on your back.” This is how we do it most of the time now, with L on top, and I don’t mind a bit. She’s in control and I’m able to enjoy sex without the fear of being too rough with her. We both get what we need.
I move my hand to her * and stroke it as she slides up and down on my cock. I want her to come too. If she doesn’t, I feel like a selfish, inadequate lover. “Does that feel good?”
“Yeah, don’t stop.”
And just like two, perfectly synced bombs, we explode together.
Eighteen weeks—almost halfway through the pregnancy. I can’t believe how much L’s belly has changed in the last month. It’s a small bump you can barely detect beneath her clothes but I’m amazed by the way it feels when she lies flat, like a firm grapefruit protruding from her lower abdomen.
L has a visit with her OB today. I had to skip her last appointment because of work but I wouldn’t miss today for anything in the world. She’s getting her first four-dimensional ultrasound. I’ve been looking online at some of the pictures and we should be able to see our baby’s face for the first time today.
Dr. Sommersby comes into the room and does all the routine stuff first. I get to hear the heartbeat for the first time and I swear it triggers something in my chest, a sensation I’ve never felt before, and I have this crazy picture pop into my head of my heart growing like The Grinch’s.
“Are you okay?”
“That’s my first time to hear the heartbeat. I didn’t know it would make me feel like this.”
Dr. Sommersby laughs. “Well, Mr. McLachlan, you’re going to be feeling a lot of different things when you see your baby on this ultrasound. He or she is going to look a lot different than when we looked at six weeks.”
L pushes the waistband of her bottoms down and the good doctor begins the scan. It takes a minute for me to get my bearings but then it becomes clear. “Look, L.” I laugh—maybe even sort of giggling. “It’s a hand—and I can see all of the fingers.” I watch the screen, mesmerized by what I’m looking at because it’s so much better when it’s your own child you’re seeing.
I’m not sure I blink for fear of missing something. It’s moving so much—she hasn’t mentioned feeling anything. “Do you feel those somersaults?”
“Maybe little flutters here and there—nothing I registered as the baby moving. I thought it was gas bubbles or something.” She giggles.
Dr. Sommersby moves the probe and we get a perfect shot of the face so she still-frames it. “This is a nice one.”
“Look at that. It has to be a girl because that little face looks just like you.”
Laurelyn doesn’t take her eyes from the screen for a moment. “I don’t think so. That’s definitely your nose and chin so I think it’s a boy.”
“Do you want to find out who’s right?”
Neither of us answers because we’ve been having this discussion for weeks. She’s dying to know and wants to have everything purchased gender-specific and ready to go when the baby arrives. It’s killing her that Addison already knows she’s having a boy. But I want to be surprised. I think nothing would be more special than seeing your baby for the first time and hearing it’s a boy or it’s a girl.
“I’ve seen that look before. Can’t agree, huh?”
L shakes her head. “Nope, and no one is budging.”
“I can always write it down and seal it in an envelope for the one wanting to know.”
I’d rather be told now rather than her know and let it slip in casual conversation or me find out when I see a nursery painted pink or blue. So I give in, pushing aside what I want just as I always do with L, because I love her so much and want her to be happy. “It’s fine. You can tell us.”
“Let’s see if this little booger will cooperate and shows us.” She moves the probe across L’s belly. “I make it a habit to not look until I’ve been given the go-ahead so I don’t let it slip.” I hold my breath, waiting to hear the verdict. Do I have a son or a daughter?
“No, don’t tell us.” L looks at me and squeezes my hand. “I’ll know what the baby is when it gets here and I can buy all the clothes I want then. You deserve to have this surprise.”
I don’t want her to give in—that’s my job. “But you’re dying to know.”
“It’s okay. I have the rest of my life to know if it’s a boy or girl, so let’s enjoy the angst of not knowing.”
I lean up to kiss her. “Thank you, love.”
“All right, then, we’ll move on to measurements.” Our fun is over as the diagnostic part of the ultrasound begins—no more cute shots of the baby’s features. “Laurelyn, have you been having any contractions?”
“Not that I know of.” She laughs but then sees the concerned look on Dr. Sommersby’s face. “I’m assuming that’s something I would recognize, wouldn’t I?”
“You’re a first-time mom, so you might not. Any cramping at all?”
“No, nothing. Is something wrong?” I hear the panic in her voice and it sends my heart to racing.
“Your cervix length is shortened and you appear dilated. The membranes are hourglassing through the cervix.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Dr. Sommersby stops the exam. “When a mother goes into labor, her uterus contracts and over time, this is what causes her cervix to shorten, or thin, and dilate. The contractions start out mild and gradually become more intense, but that’s not the case for about one percent of pregnant women. They have weakened cervical tissue, for one reason or another, and the weight of the fetus causes dilation without any contractions at all. It usually isn’t diagnosed until the mother has had at least one second-trimester miscarriage. I’m afraid that’s what is happening here.”
I hear the word miscarriage and I’m confused. I thought we were beyond that risk. “How serious is this?”
“Critical, I’m afraid. You’re at least two centimeters.”
She’s too early. I already know it but I ask anyway. “What about the baby?”
“Viability is considered twenty-four weeks but even then, survival rate at that gestation is around fifty percent and the lifelong deficits can be devastating.”
“That’s at least five weeks away.” Laurelyn looks at me, her face pained. She doesn’t have to say the words—I doubt she could if she tried—because we both comprehend what the outcome will be. Our baby won’t survive being born now.
“We have two options: let nature take its course and allow the pregnancy to terminate on its own, or do everything possible to maintain it.”
We look at one another but don’t need time to talk it over. “We want everything possible to be done.”
“You should know this will be a very long road. We’ll make decisions about your plan of care on a daily basis since your condition can change rapidly.” Dr. Sommersby picks up the phone to make a call. “I want you transported to the hospital by ambulance. There will be no going back if those hourglassing membranes rupture.”
The shock sets in and Laurelyn begins to cry. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anything was wrong. I felt completely normal.”
This isn’t her fault. It’s mine. I’m the one ramming my dick into her when I should’ve been keeping it to myself. “I think I did this—last night. I was too rough with you.” I knew I’d end up hurting her and the baby.
Dr. Sommersby ends her call. “I’m admitting you to labor and delivery and your orders will be there when you arrive. The nurses are going to be doing a lot of things to you at once but most importantly, you’re on strict bed rest in Trendelenburg position. That means the head of your bed will be in the lowest position and the foot will be elevated so you’ll almost be standing on your head. It’s going to be an uncomfortable position but if we’re lucky, the membranes will go back up into the cervix. If that happens, it’s possible I can take you to surgery and place a cerclage where I’d weave a suture through the cervix and then pull it closed and tie it shut.”
“How long does the cerclage stay in?”
“I’d clip it around thirty-six weeks.”
“So there’s a chance I could still carry the baby to full term?”
“We have a shot if I’m able to get the cerclage in, but it’s tricky because there’s risks associated with placing it. The needle I’d use to place the suture can rupture the bag of waters. That’s why I want you lying with your head down—so it can go back inside the cervix—or I won’t even make an attempt.”
This is scary as hell. I don’t recall ever feeling this kind of terror.
“Could I have caused this during sex?” The guilt I feel is killing me and if I did this, I should know I’m the cause.
“No. With incompetent cervix, there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. And there’s no way of knowing you have it until there’s a problem. But the good news is that we know Laurelyn’s cervix is weak, so I’d bring her in with her next pregnancy, somewhere around fourteen weeks, and place a cerclage before this happens again.”
I hadn’t even considered future pregnancies. I’ve barely had time to wrap my head around this one. “So it’s possible for her to become pregnant again and carry the baby to term?”
“As long as the suture is placed in time, she shouldn’t have any complications.” That’s such a relief to hear.
The ambulance service arrives and I can only stand back and watch as they move her over onto the stretcher. “Are you her husband?”
“I am.”
“We can’t let you ride with her but you can follow us in your vehicle.”
I want to argue, tell them they’re nuts if they think they’re separating me from my wife, but that’ll cause an unnecessary delay. “Okay.” I kiss her forehead. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I’m following the ambulance and the harsh reality of our situation hits me—Laurelyn and I could lose our baby. Suddenly, all the problems we encountered along the way to this place seem so insignificant. “Oh God, please take care of Laurelyn and our baby. I beg you to not take our little one before it’s had a chance to live.”
L is already admitted to her room in labor and delivery by the time I park and find her. Just as Dr. Sommersby promised, she’s already been positioned in a bed with the head down and her feet up. Gravity. It’s what we used to get her pregnant and now it looks like we’re going to use it to keep her that way.
Several nurses are doing different things to L at the same time—one starting an IV, another getting vital signs and placing a monitor on her stomach, a third asking a long list of questions about her medical history. It’s a lot to take in at once seeing so many things done to your wife simultaneously. And I have no control over any of it. All I can do is sit back and hope these people know what they’re doing.
An hour later, the whirlwind of getting L admitted and the nurses completing the doctor’s initial orders is over. She’s settled in—best she can be while almost turned upside down—and we’re left alone for the first time since this nightmare began. I scoot my chair to the head of her bed so she can see me and I take her hand. I lean over and kiss it. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Wake me up and tell me it’s all a bad dream.”
“Everything is going to be okay. Our baby has a fighter’s heart. She’s part of you so she doesn’t have a choice.”
“You said she. You’re so convinced this baby is a girl.”
I am. “You’re so convinced she’s a boy.”
“Why a girl? I thought every man wanted a son.”
Too much emphasis is placed on men wanting sons. “When I lost you, I had a lot of time on my hands. I spent most of it thinking about what my future would look like if I got you back. You holding a little girl with long brown curls and your same caramel-colored eyes … that’s what I always saw and I guess her image stuck with me, but I’d be thrilled with any child you give me.”
Tears fill her eyes but they run toward her hairline instead of down her cheeks. I reach over and wipe them away. “I should call my parents to let them know what’s happening. I’m sure my mum will be in the car immediately.”
“Tell her she doesn’t have to come. There’s nothing she can do but look at me … like this.”
“As if that’s going to happen.” Margaret McLachlan will be here in less than four hours. I predict it and pity any who gets in her way.
This is going to be miserable for L. Only an hour in and she’s already slid toward the headboard so far that her head is pressed against it. “Want me to pull you down in the bed?” Or up? I don’t know which you’d call it.
“Yeah, but don’t tug on that.” She points to a plastic tube hanging on the bed.
“What is it?”
She wrinkles her nose. “A catheter.”
Oh God. “Inside you?”
“Yeah. That’s generally where they go.”
I didn’t see them put that in her. “Why?”
“I can’t get up to the bathroom and I think you can imagine why a bedpan isn’t going to work.”
“Oh, L. I’m so sorry you’re the one going through all of this.” I would do it for her in a second.
“I can do anything I need to for our baby. I’ll forget all about this little bit of discomfort when they place him in my arms.”
I lean down to kiss her forehead. “Her.”
I help L with repositioning before going out into the hallway to phone my parents. I’m not sure I’ve ever dreaded a call so much in my life. Mum is going to be devastated.
We do our normal greeting but then the part comes where I have to tell her why I’m calling. I start at the beginning, careful to not leave out any details, and I can hear her crying before I even get to the part about the cerclage. “Listen, Mum. The doctor is optimistic that the membranes will go back inside so she can stitch the cervix closed. There’s hope.”
“How is Laurelyn handling this?”
“She’s okay—willing to do whatever it takes to keep this baby inside for as long as possible.”
“I’m packing a bag as we speak. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
This is going to be a long road per Dr. Sommersby. “You don’t have to come now, Mum. There’s nothing you’ll be able to do except sit in an uncomfortable chair and look at Laurelyn while she slowly slides toward the head of the bed.”
“Then that’s what my job will be—not staying four hours away.”
I hang up and prepare myself for the other call I have to make to Jolie Prescott. I still haven’t forgiven her for making Laurelyn cry, telling her she had made a stupid mistake by becoming pregnant. L didn’t tell me so but I wonder in the back of my mind if her mum might have encouraged her to have an abortion. If she did, she’s smart for not telling me. I don’t think I could ever forgive her for such a thing.
“Jolie, it’s Jack. Laurelyn asked me to call you because something has happened.”
“Is she okay?”
“She is but there’s been a complication with the baby and she’s in the hospital.”
“Is she having a miscarriage?” Her voice sounds a little too hopeful.
“She could lose the baby but the doctor is doing everything possible to prevent it.”
“I need to talk to Laurelyn because I have some great news. Jake and I are getting married.”
All I see is red. What a bitch. She finds out her daughter is in the hospital fighting to save the life of her grandchild and her response is to tell Laurelyn about her happy news. Un-f*cking-believable! Perhaps she’s mentally ill on some level. No sane person would be so indifferent to their child.
“She’s asleep,” I lie. I won’t allow her to upset Laurelyn. “I’ll have her call when she wakes.” Or maybe I won’t. I’m not sure speaking to her mum is beneficial right now. I think it could cause a lot more harm than good.