Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Katie. She’d be devastated. How would I explain the loss to her? I stayed strong for her once, the first time we lost a family member when her mom walked out. I don’t know if I can be strong a second time.
“Dad?” the doctor’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You all right?”
I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Worried, of course. But I know we’re in good hands.”
“We’ll take good care of your wife and the baby.”
Wife. The word punctures my heart like an arrow. I should’ve made Maren my wife. The second I knew I loved her, I should’ve put a ring on her fucking finger.
Now I might never get that chance.
I’m spiraling. I know that. Watching the nurse fuss over Maren, hooking her up to an IV and some kind of heart rate or contraction monitor, I try to calm myself down. We’re in the hospital. If something bad happens, we’ll get the best care available. No one is going to die. Chances are, the contractions and bleeding will stop, and we’ll all walk out of here in the morning tired but healthy.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes, I can’t tell. Nurses come in and out to check on Maren. Her cramping begins to dissipate. She closes her eyes. Her chest rises and falls evenly.
Just when I think she’s asleep, she says, “Tuck?”
“Yeah?”
“You okay?” She cracks open an eye.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“Well, I’m still worried about you. And the baby.” So fucking worried I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“I am too.” She puts a hand on the swell of her belly. “But I have a feeling we’ll be okay. I already feel so much better.”
I swallow the emotion clogging my throat for the millionth time. “Happy to hear it.”
Silence. Her eyes are open now. I can tell she wants to talk. I want to comfort her. Crack a joke.
But there’s a dragon in the pit of my stomach. One that breathes fire any time Maren winces or a nurse comes in. It’s like being incinerated from the inside out.
I just sit in the chair across from Maren’s bed and try not to move.
“You can be honest, you know,” she says softly. “If you’re really not okay. I can handle it.”
I tug at the leg of my joggers. “I know. I appreciate that. Can I get you anything? A snack, some more water?” I nod at the Styrofoam thermos they gave her.
She looks at me for a long beat. She knows I’m deflecting. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice tells me to be honest. If I don’t talk about how I’m feeling, Maren can’t be there for me. And we need each other right now.
But I’m worried I’ll lose my shit if I open that can of worms. What if I upset her, and that makes the contractions start up again, and then all of a sudden she’s hemorrhaging on an operating table?
“A snack would be great, yeah,” she says at last.
I hop out of my chair, grateful for the chance to be helpful. If I can’t be there emotionally for Maren, at least I can take care of her physical needs.
Besides, busy is good. Having a task keeps my mind from wandering.
I return with a bevy of options. Granola bars, crackers, a Snickers. Maren grins when she sees the pile in my hands.
“I said a snack, not every snack in the vending machine.”
I shrug. “Wasn’t sure what you wanted.”
She grabs my wrist. “I want you to talk to me. I can tell you’re not okay, Tuck.”
Tell her how you’re feeling.
But my tongue refuses to move. I open a granola bar and offer it to her. “Let’s get you better first, okay?”
“Okay.” She frowns as she eats.
Maren is able to fall asleep shortly after. But I’m wired. The Coke I bought probably isn’t helping. I watch the sun rise over the hospital’s parking lot. Send everyone a text with updates. Katie is awake and doing just fine with Uncle Riley and Auntie Lu. Dad is bringing over a casserole. Mom offers to take Katie overnight tonight so Maren and I can rest at home. Jen is on her way to my house to relieve Riley and Lu.
By the time the doctor—someone new, a woman—comes in to discharge us later that morning, my knees and eyes ache with exhaustion. But the cramps and the bleeding have stopped, which apparently means we get to go home.
Clipboard in hand, the doctor looks at Maren and me over the top of her glasses. “This happens again, you come straight here, all right? Especially if the bleeding is worse.”
“You sure we shouldn’t consider bed rest?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not at this point, no. Obviously take it easy the next few days. Any questions you have, y’all reach out.”
On the way out to the car, I grip the wheelchair’s handles so hard my knuckles pop.