While I was pregnant, gave an interview to Forbes in which he said that he intended to keep the names and genders of his children unknown to the public. He frowned when celebrities sold baby pictures to People or whatever, even if they were giving the money to charity. Fans had stalked and intruded on him in the past—fans as in “fanatics,” not the music lovers and concertgoers he referred to as “friends.” He wanted to keep our children physically safe and well away from the craziness of celebrity, and he wasn’t playing.
Early in the pregnancy, I bought a charming old-fashioned baby carriage—a “pram,” they’d call it in the United Kingdom—and the next day I found it up in Wardrobe. My husband had instructed them to cover it with a black tarp.
“The baby needs sunshine,” I said gently.
The tarp was not happening, but I did understand his fears about the damage that could be done to a kid by privilege and being in the public eye. We wanted to be normal parents whose normal kids grow up healthy, hardworking, respectful, and kind.
At the time, that didn’t seem like so much to ask.
This next part of my story is very difficult to tell, so please bear with me. It’s something I’ve never shared before, because my husband was extremely protective of our child, and I honored his wishes as long as he was alive.
In May, when I was almost four months along, we flew to New York for a premiere. Jan came with us, and Mama was flying in so we could all get together for her birthday, which also happened to be Mother’s Day. When and I arrived at the Girl 6 after party, the club was thick with cigarette smoke. My husband and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
I said, “I don’t want to be here.”
“I don’t want you to be here,” he agreed. “Wait for me in the limo. I’ll say hi to my friend and be out in a minute.”
I knew he did want to be there, though, so I was surprised when he came out in less than thirty minutes—and not so surprised when he said he was going to drop me at the hotel and go back. But surprised again when he returned to the hotel room fairly early.
The next morning, he told me, “I’m heading home.”
“What—now?” I said. “This was supposed to be a family day. It’s Mama’s birthday. She’s expecting you to be there.”
I was hormonal. Vulnerable. Insecure. Whatever. I didn’t take it well. I got angry and cried. After he left, I lay back down and fell into a deep sleep, dreaming strange, dark dreams. We were staying in the presidential suite at the St. Regis in New York, a place we’d stayed many times, and the foo foo folk had been there to make it feel like home for us, so the windows and the French doors out onto the balcony were sealed shut and covered with foil to keep the room dark enough for sleeping during the day.
I was jolted awake by a sudden burst of air and light.
I sat up, instantly wide awake, my heart hammering out of my chest—morning sun in my eyes, cool wind in my face—gradually putting it together that a gust of wind had blown the French doors wide open. Daylight, spring air, and distant traffic noise poured into the dark, silent cocoon. It took me a minute to get my bearings, and then I went out to the balcony and stood there in the midday sun. Below me, Central Park was spread like a bright green blanket. It was a beautiful day. I put my hands on my belly, imagining Amiir’s tiny body inside mine.
I called Mama to come up to the room with Hena.
“He left,” I told her. “Come up and we’ll go get something to eat.”
When she came up, I was sitting on the sofa. We chatted for a while, and then I got up to go get dressed.
“Mayte.” Her voice was odd. As if she was out of breath. “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at the back of my robe and saw a red stain. I ran to the bathroom. Blood was running down my legs. There was no pain. No contraction. Only blood and intense fear. I tried to call my husband, but he was still on the airplane. An ambulance met me at the back door and whisked me to the hospital without a siren. They put me immediately into an exam room, and I waited there, crying. The doctor came and did a down there ultrasound, and I didn’t object.
“The good news is, the baby’s still alive,” he said.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“If the placenta tears away a little, sometimes it can reattach, sometimes not. If it’s a miscarriage, you’ll know within a few days.”
“Am I okay to go home?”
“Don’t travel today. See your doctor as soon as you get home.”
When I finally got my husband on the phone in the studio, he said, “You’ll be okay. You just need rest. You need to come home.”
The next day, I flew home, and we went immediately to the obstetrician for another ultrasound.
She said, “I can see where the placenta is starting to tear away.”
“It’s in God’s hands,” said my husband.
I squeezed his hand and said, “Exactly.”
“We should do an amnio to make sure there’s nothing wrong genetically,” she said. “Sometimes the body is trying to release the fetus for a reason.”
She explained what that meant: long needle, aspiration of fluid, risk of miscarriage.
He said, “No. We’re not doing that.”
“The upside is that you know,” she said. “You won’t sit there and worry.”