Текст книги "Every Second With You"

Автор книги: Lauren Blakely

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Four Months Later

Harley

It’s not a stretch when I say the last four months in San Diego have been happiest of my life. The busiest, too.

I’ve finished my junior year of college, I’ve learned to drive, and I’ve expanded to house-size. I’ve gone shopping with Debbie’s daughter, who lives nearby, and has two kids a few years younger than me. I’ve also spent a winter in shorts and sandals, I’ve served sandwiches when I’ve filled in at Once Upon a Sandwich, and I’ve gone to the movies every Saturday night with Trey, Debbie and Robert. It’s become our tradition and I love it.

We still don’t have a name for the baby, but every night Trey and I toss out new options, and I kibosh his ideas and he nixes mine. I’m pretty sure we’re at the point where we’re blackballing the other’s ideas for fun. But soon, we’ll have to settle on names.

Meanwhile, my husband has landed a job at one of the best-known tattoo shops on Ocean Beach. He entered some of his designs in a contest, and he won his first award as an artist for a cherry blossom tree he inked on a woman’s upper back. He also learned to drive, too, and gave Robert an ulcer in the process, because it turns out Trey has quite a lead foot.

Trey’s better now behind the wheel, and I’ve told him that driving like an old man is much more appreciated by his wife and child. So, as we park at the doctor’s office for my thirty-six-week appointment, gently gliding the Honda into a spot, I pat him on the arm, thanking him for his “feathery touch.”

In the exam room, the nurse weighs me and takes my blood pressure, telling me everything looks good. The doctor listens for the heartbeat, and checks my cervix, then examines my hands, face and ankles for swelling.

“It can be a sign of preeclampsia,” she says in an offhand way.

“Oh. Do I have that?”

“I don’t see any evidence that you do,” she adds. “If you notice any unusual swelling, weight gain, or headaches, let us know and we’ll check you again.”

“Unusual weight gain beyond having to roll me down the hall because I’m so ginormous?”

She smiles briefly at my comment. “Your weight is perfect, Harley.”

Then she reviews the signs for Braxton-Hicks versus real contractions, and I make a mental note to look them up again later because how on earth will I tell the difference?

“Do you have any questions?”

I raise my hand, even though I’m the only one in the exam room. “Can I still have sex? It’s not going to break my water or anything, is it?”

She shakes her head. “You have a perfectly normal pregnancy, and sex won’t hurt you or the baby. So, by all means, enjoy yourself. It’s a great way to take your mind off the final weeks.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I went right up till the end for both my pregnancies. Just find a position that works for you.”

When I’m done, Trey’s waiting patiently in the lobby with other expectant parents, the fathers forming a motley crew of men—some middle-aged with bald patches, some sharp in their suits and ties, one in a blue button-down with a name patch from Bob’s Mechanics, and then my guy, with thick hair I love to run my fingers through, strong arms covered in ink, and that gorgeous face, sculpted cheekbones, and the scar that’s still as sexy to me as it was the night I met him.

My young, handsome, thoroughly in love twenty-two-year-old husband of mine. We are kids having a kid, and maybe some of these other parents think we’re a joke, but I know we have an unbreakable bond. We have a brave and crazy, a messy and honest kind of love. Eight months ago, I was terrified of how he’d react to the news, and I was petrified of having a kid. Now, I’m almost there, just a few more weeks until I’m a mother. A mother. It’s so huge, and so scary, and so amazing. I know so very little, but I know, too, that we have all the essential ingredients, and more—because we have Debbie and Robert by our side.

Somehow, this has become our life, born from the darkest of circumstances, bred from the painful pull of addiction, and even so I wouldn’t change a thing.

Trey closes the paperback he’s reading, stands up, and takes my hand. We head to the parking lot, and it’s still odd to get in a car, rather than to race down the steps to the subway. I buckle, grunting playfully as I stretch the seatbelt over my basketball, and then I turn on the satellite radio, tuning in to a Katy Perry song.

Trey rolls his eyes as he backs up.

“What? Not cool enough for you? Do I need to play the college alternative station?”

“You can play whatever you want,” he says. Then he pauses. “For the next four weeks.”

“Ha. So you’re only going to be nice to me till I pop?”

“Yup.”

He navigates out of the lot, and then backs onto the main drag, toward Ocean Beach. The sidewalks are crammed with tourists and locals, enjoying the late afternoon sun, high in the sky. Women in sundresses and men in cargo shorts wander in and out of the boutiques, bakeries and cafes.

I roll down the window, letting in the warm air. The station shifts to James Blunt’s Bonfire Heart, and I nearly shout. “I love this song!”

I turn up the music, and he slows the car as we reach a red light.

I start singing along, then look at Trey, rolling my hands, encouraging him to join in. “Days like this . . .”

“I don’t know the words,” he says.

I lean in closer. “Well, I know them all, because this song reminds me of you and me. Because—” I take a beat, and wait for James Blunt to sing my favorite line, then I join in, “You light the spark in my—”

Then I’m jerked forward, and there’s a loud crunch of metal against metal. Instinct kicks in, and I raise my hands to brace myself against the dashboard, but the seatbelt snaps me back in place, slamming the back of my head against the headrest, and sending a sharp, searing pain through my skull.

The car stops running instantly. My pulse is quickening and fear gallops across my skin, centers in my chest. My head pounds, and my heart races.

“Are you okay?” Trey’s face is pale, all the color drained out.

My hands go to my belly, and I nod. But I’m so shaken, and it feels like a firecracker is exploding behind my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he repeats, his voice etched with all the worry I feel. “Say something. Talk to me.”

“I think so. But my head hurts so much,” I moan, dropping my forehead into my shaky hands.

I’m vaguely aware that there’s a knocking on his window. Trey rolls down the window, and I hear a girl’s voice. “I’m so sorry for hitting you. I feel terrible. Is everyone all right?”

She’s so young, maybe a teenager, but I can’t even focus anymore, and the conversation lasts all of ten seconds, as Trey says, “Just give me your number. I’ll call you later.”

He starts the car, the engine rumbles to life, and he calls my doctor immediately.

“Yes, I’ll take her there now,” he says into the phone. Then he tells me, “They want you to go the hospital. To get checked out. Just as a precaution.”

His voice is calm and strong. He’s unwavering as he lays a hand on my thigh, and I simply nod, and close my eyes.

Within minutes, we’re at the ER, and my head is still bursting with pain, but I’m not bleeding, my water hasn’t broken, my husband isn’t freaking out, and my baby is kicking me. Everything will be fine.

He holds my hand the whole time as we wait to be seen, talking to me, reassuring me. Soon, a nurse with a clipboard calls my name, and brings me back to a hospital room in the ER. Machines bleat out sounds, and nurses and doctors shuffle quickly in and out of rooms.

“Is the baby okay?” Trey asks, as the nurse yanks the curtain around the bed.

“Well, let’s just see,” the nurse says, and hooks me up to the heart monitor, where we’re rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the world: a loud, thumping heart. Soon, the obstetrician on call comes by, and after a quick exam, pronounces mom and baby perfectly fine.

“But let’s give her some Tylenol for that nasty headache,” the young doctor, so pretty she could be on a TV show, says to the nurse. Then to me, “And why don’t you go home and get some rest, sweetheart?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Trey says, answering on my behalf .

An hour later, I’m feeling much better. I’m tucked in bed, and Debbie brings me a grilled cheese and chicken sandwich. I take a bite, and it’s delicious.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Seriously. The Tylenol worked, my head is better, and I don’t have any bruises or scratches or anything,” I say, holding up my arms for a display of all my scratch-less-ness.

“Good. That’s what I like to see. Now, eat your sandwich, and lie down.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re all seriously overreacting. The doctor said everything was fine.”

She rolls her eyes back at me. “I am not overreacting, nor is your husband. It is our job to treat you like a queen, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“It was a tiny little fender bender. The doctors only checked me out because it’s standard, or something, for any pregnant patient to go to the ER after a car accident,” I say, repeating what the obstetrician told me.

“Standard, schmandard. I want you to take it easy. Why don’t you plan on watching a movie with me tomorrow? Something sweet and easy. A romantic comedy. Nothing that’s going to make you cry,” she adds.

“Will you make me popcorn?” I narrow my eyes, pretending I’m holding her hostage to my food demands.

“Whatever you wish, sweetie.”

“Popcorn it is then,” I say, and then eat more of the sandwich.

I let her take care of me, handing her the plate when I’m done, staying in bed. She leaves for her house, and Trey rejoins me, curling up next to me in bed.

“So, that was a fun evening,” he says, exhaling as he wraps his arms around me.

“I’ll say. Did you call that girl who hit us?”

“I was a little more concerned about you than the car,” he says. “I’ll call her tomorrow. I’m just glad you’re fine. How’s your head?”

“Better. Tylenol is like a miracle drug,” I joke.

“I gotta say, now that you’re here and safe and everything is fine, there was a moment there when I felt my heart stop. It was like all the air in the world was sucked out, and all I could feel was this terrible fucking sense of déjà vu,” he says, shaking his head, as if he can rid himself of whatever memories are lurking there. “Even though this never happened before. But still, I felt that way.”

“Me too. If that makes sense,” I whisper.

“But we’re here now, and you’re both good, and that’s all that matters. And hey, look on the bright side—we’ve had our big scare, right?” He smoothes my hair, runs his fingers through it, and then plants a kiss on my forehead. “Sure, it was scary for a bit, but it was minor, and now here we are. And you made it out all clear. We’re on the other side, and it’s all going to be fine now.”

“Yes. Everything is going to be fine,” I say.

“And I agree with Debbie. I want you to take it easy for the next few weeks.”

“You’re already plotting behind my back,” I tease.

He nods. “Yup. We are. You’re done with classes, and we want you to lie on the beach, read, play with the dog, watch movies—”

“Basically, stay away from cars?”

He smiles. “Exactly.”

“We’ll see,” I say with a yawn. “I think I just want to curl up to the ocean breeze and fall asleep.”

“Did you think I was going to try for a little action the night you’re all banged up from a car accident?”

I laugh. “Oddly enough, it hadn’t even occurred to me that you would put the moves on me right now.”

“I won’t. But if you want to sleep naked, I won’t complain.”

“The same goes for you,” I tell him, as I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. He does the same, then we return to the bedroom and I strip off my clothes, and pretend to do a sexy dance for him as he lies down on the covers. “Here’s that rain dance you said you wouldn’t mind.”

He laughs, and reaches out a hand to pull me into bed. “And I don’t mind at all,” he says then kisses my neck, my earlobe, my eyelids, soft, sweet fluttery kisses that make me feel warm and safe, the perfect antidote to a stressful day. I kiss him back once, lingering on his minty breath, before I shift to my side, and he spoons me.

Flesh to flesh, skin to skin, we drift off, and my head doesn’t hurt the next morning. As I stretch in bed, I feel back to normal, and a bit horny. Thanks to a full night’s sleep filled with incredibly dirty dreams, fueled by massive amounts of hormones cranking through my body, I am ready for a little something. Judging from the erection pressed against my back, Trey won’t need much convincing.

I reach my hand back and stroke him once, twice, three times till he stirs.

“Hmmm. Good morning to me,” he murmurs and kisses my neck, a sexy, sleepy morning kiss.

“It will be soon,” I tell him.

“Lucky me,” he says, looping his arm around me and cupping my breasts, squeezing them softly, then playing with my nipples.

I moan lightly and wriggle against him. “I’m ready,” I whisper.

“But how do you feel? After yesterday?”

“Totally fine. Like new.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to have sex after the car accident?”

I roll my eyes. “It was a tiny fender bender, and I’m all good. I feel fabulous. Here, let me show you.” I take his hand and slide it between my legs. He groans as he feels how ready I am for him. “See? I am one hundred percent normal and fine. I am your standard order thirty-six-week pregnant woman who still wants to have sex with her husband. And the doctor said I’m allowed. So count your blessings.”

“One,” he says, as if he’s counting. Then he strokes me more, making me gasp as his fingers draw delicious lines across me. “I’ve lost count,” he whispers sexily, working me where I’m hot for him. “But that’s only because you distracted me with your trick to have sex with me.”

I laugh. “Yes, I tricked you by dreaming about you doing naughty things to me last night.”

“Naughty things. Tell me more.”

“Trey,” I begin.

“Yeah?”

“Can we do it from behind?”

His hand freezes on my breast, and he tenses. “Really?”

“Yes,” I say, and I know he’s thinking of that time in the kitchen at his apartment. And he’s worried. But I’m not. I trust him completely. I trust him with my whole entire heart. “I want to. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the only position that’ll work right now.”

“Are you totally sure?”

I turn to look him in the eyes. “So sure. I want this. I want you like this.”

“I want you,” he says, “any way I can have you.”

We get out of bed only for him to line me up on the edge of the bed, my hands pressed against the mattress. He brushes my hair over my shoulder so he can kiss my neck as he edges his erection between my legs. I watch him as he enters me.

“Mmm. This is the perfect wake-up call from my wife.”

“I agree,” I say softly as he fills me up, and I shut my eyes, savoring the sensations, reveling in my need for him, my deep and hungry desire to be close to him right now, to feel him all the way inside me.

He makes love to me like that, slow at first, then faster, his hands on my breasts, then between my legs. He kisses my shoulders, keeps me close, whispers my name, telling me he loves me, he wants me, he will always want to touch me. I lift my butt higher, giving him more room to rock into me, to drive deeper, and he does, bringing me closer with each thrust. All the while he’s here with me, nowhere else, and it feels fantastic. Like we’ve come full circle.

And then we do.

* * *

I spend the day doing nothing but lying on the beach with The Sheriff, and it’s blissful, watching kids build sandcastles, and dogs chase Frisbees, and women set up under umbrellas to read their paperback beach reads. Trey’s at work, my semester is over, and I want to enjoy this free time while I can.

Besides, he and Debbie made it pretty clear they want me to do as little as possible. As the sun beats down on me, I can honestly say I don’t mind their directive. I don’t mind basking in the rays.

I even fall asleep on a blanket with the dog next to me, but when I wake up under the hot afternoon sun, there’s a dull throb in my forehead again, a reminder that Tylenol will be my best friend for a few days. As I stand up to collect my blanket and beach bag, the ground tilts momentarily, and my vision goes fuzzy. But within seconds, the dark stars in front of my eyes fade and I’m fine. Must have been from the sun blaring at me, blinding me momentarily when I opened my eyes after napping.

“Let’s head inside,” I say to The Sheriff. He stretches in that downward dog style that only canines can truly master, then trots beside me through the sand as we head inside.

I drop my bag at the kitchen table, and take two Tylenol. Then I root around in the fridge for a snack. I find an orange, grab a bowl, and return to the deck. As I peel it, I’m reminded that I’m sharing space with someone else, and that someone must have been kicking my ribs while I slept, because my side is killing me. I drop the orange peels in the bowl for a minute to rub the right side of my abdomen.

“You have strong feet,” I say to my belly as I rub. “Because you made your mama really sore.”

When Debbie stops by later, we sit on the couch and chat about her day and mine, then she cues up a romantic comedy. “It’s more like an anti romantic-comedy, but it’s still funny and still romantic,” she explains as the title credits for a little indie flick I Give It a Year flash across the TV screen. And she’s right; the film is laugh-out-loud funny, a cheeky reversal of the popular genre, but after a while I can barely keep my eyes open. “I’m so tired,” I murmur, as I try to shift into a more comfortable position on my left side because the right still hurts.

“The last few weeks are like that,” Debbie says, and turns the volume down as I doze off.

The next couple of days continue in that same rhythm. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and my ribs are still so sore. My headache wakes me up each morning, and each time I down a few red pills. I must have whacked my head harder than I’d thought on the headrest. My naps turn epic, the heavy kind that last for hours, and when I wake up from them I feel sludgy and sleepier than when I started, a bone-heavy sort of fatigue.

When Trey returns from walking The Sheriff on Sunday morning, he finds me in front of the bathroom mirror rooting around for the Tylenol, with a hand on my forehead, the other one on my ribs, and he asks what’s going on.

“Stupid fender bender. My headache won’t go away,” I mutter. I start to return to bed, but the floor is coming at my face, and I grab onto his shoulder, gripping him hard. He’s so fuzzy, all black and hazy, like a TV on the fritz, and if I let go I might fall because everything around me is bobbing up and down. He grabs me firmly, but carefully, and guides me back to bed.

“I’m calling the doctor,” he says. “This isn’t normal for a minor car accident.”

Two hours later, I’m diagnosed with severe preeclampsia.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Trey

“But how does this happen?” I ask again, standing outside the ER room with the doctor. I’m stuck on repeat, asking for the fiftieth time how Harley has high blood pressure in her pregnancy. He’s already told me how, but I refuse to accept the answer.

“Some things just happen,” he says one more time, crisply enunciating each word.

No. No. No. That’s what doctors say to explain all the bad shit in the world. That’s their reasoning for death, and pain, and heartbreak. Things happen. When I used to say things happened to my shrink, she called me on it. She practically smacked me, and told me to take responsibility for my actions. Why can’t doctors do the same? Things happen is a euphemism for people die.

I hold my hands out wide, as if that will transform the information into something that makes sense. “How does she have preeclampsia?”

“It happens to some women,” the doctor says calmly. The OB on call with the practice, he’s a tiny guy and he has a baby face, as if he’s never shaved and never had to. He wears glasses and looks like he aced all his classes in school.

Admittedly, that’s a good look for a doctor. But still . . .

“She’s fucking twenty. How does it happen to a twenty-year-old? Her doc in New York said her being young was the best thing she had going for her.”

“And it still is,” he says.

“Then why does she have this preeclampsia thing?”

“Because one of the risk factors is being young. The risk of preeclampsia is higher for pregnant women who are younger than twenty, and for women in their first pregnancy. Both of which apply to your wife.”

“My wife isn’t younger than twenty. She is twenty,” I point out, as if this fact will suddenly clear up Harley’s health. She’ll sit up in bed, he’ll detach her from the machines, and he’ll send her home.

But that’s not what he’s saying.

“I understand,” he says calmly, nodding. “Even so, this is what we are dealing with. And technically, she has advancing preeclampsia.”

“So, what’s next?”

“She’s getting magnesium sulfate right now,” he says.

“Right. I know. And then after that?”

“My recommendation is that as soon as we stabilize her with the mag sulfate, which should be within a few hours, that we deliver the baby then. That’s the only treatment for preeclampsia.”

I shudder. “Is that safe?”

“She’s nearly thirty-seven-weeks pregnant, and that’s essentially full-term. When patients present with preeclampsia earlier in their pregnancies, this is about the gestational age we try to get them to. In her case, she’s there, so that’s very good. And at nearly thirty-seven weeks, the baby isn’t considered premature, so won’t need to be admitted to the NICU. You should be able to take the baby home with you.”

I exhale, and push my hand through my hair. “Whew,” I say, then breathe out hard again. “Thank god. I thought you were going to say . . .” But I trail off, because I don’t know what I thought he was going to say. I just assumed the worst, because that’s what I do. But this isn’t so bad, right? “Does any of this have to do with the accident, though? The car accident,” I add, and then quickly explain what happened a week ago.

“Hmm,” he says, tapping a pencil against his chin, as he considers. “I don’t think so. This is entirely separate. But it sounds as if her symptoms—headaches, dizziness, and tiredness—could easily be confused with the minor trauma from a fender bender. And the pain she said she was feeling in her abdomen was likely epigastric pain from her liver, since preeclampsia can impact that organ.” Then he points his pencil high in the air. “It’s a good thing she almost fainted, then. If she hadn’t, we might have thought it was all accident trauma. You caught it in the nick of time. I’ll be back shortly to see how she’s responding. And to get the results of some other routine tests we need to run for preeclamptic patients.”

He heads off, and I’m left scratching my head over his chipper attitude. But cheery is better than the alternative, I reason, as I return to the room where Harley’s nurse has started the mag sulfate drip, and is recording some information on the chart. Harley’s lying on the hospital bed, a flimsy blue gown tied at her back, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She turns her gaze to me, and smiles weakly, and then lifts her hand to wave. “Hi.”

I close the distance between us quickly. “Hi,” I say softly, standing by her side, taking her hand in mine. “How do you feel?”

“Well, the nurse said the side effects of mag sulfate include headaches and blurry vision . . . so about the same,” she says, her voice slow and sluggish, the sound of it digging hard into my heart. I wish I could take the pain away from her, bear it myself so she wouldn’t have to go through any of this.

“This should kick in soon, and reduce the risk of seizure,” the nurse says, flashing a business-like smile as she drops the chart in the holder at the end of the bed with a clang. But all I hear is that last word. Seizure. Sharp, like a nail in my back.

“What? Nobody said anything about seizures? Is this from the medicine?”

The nurse shakes her head. “It’s one of the possible side effects of severe preeclampsia. That’s why we’re doing the mag. To reduce the risk of seizure.”

Holy shit. “The doctor didn’t say anything about seizures,” I say, in a voice coated with nerves.

The nurse pats me on the arm. “That’s what preeclampsia can lead to. That’s why we need to deliver her, sweetie. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She leaves and I turn to Harley, and it nearly breaks me as I see the rabbit fear in her eyes. But I push aside my worry because I have to be strong for her. She’s the one who has to go through this. She’s the one whose body is taking a pounding. All I have to do is be here for her, and that’s easy, and I have to show her how easy it is. I can’t let on that my heart is running the one-hundred meter dash. I squeeze her hand. “Did the doc tell you they want you to deliver today?”

She nods, her eyelids fluttering with sleepiness. I have no clue how she’s going to have the energy to handle labor. This high blood pressure is sapping all her strength.

“I guess we really better come up with a name soon,” I tease.

She nods. “Fred.”

“Barney.”

“Wilma.”

“Betty.”

“Bonnie.”

“Clyde.”

“Calvin,” she says.

“Hobbes.”

“Batman.”

“Robin.”

“Starsky.”

“Worst name ever.”

“Then you’re nixing Hutch too?”

“Yes.”

We toss out names for the next several minutes, none of them serious, all of them a Band-Aid to pass the time.

When the nurse returns, her first task is to recheck Harley’s blood pressure. We both stare hard at the cuff as it puffs up on her arm, and expands, with a tick, tick, tick. The nurse keeps her eyes trained on the readout on the machine. Then she tsks once, shakes her head, and turns to Harley. She clasps her hands together. “I need to get the doctor.”

She leaves quickly, her rapid clip the surest sign that whatever is happening to Harley is speeding into the danger zone. My blood races at a kamikaze pace, because when the nurse takes off to find the doctor, you know the news is going to be bad.

“Sherlock.” Harley’s voice is so soft now, so weak, as she tries to play the name game again.

I’m about to say Watson when she draws a sharp breath, and slaps her palm against her forehead. She scrunches her eyes closed and moans, like a cat trapped, and the sound turns my skin cold. “What is it?”

“My head hurts so much.”

My stomach drops. I can’t sit here and let this happen. “Fuck. We need to figure out what’s going on.”

I stand up and head to the doorway, scanning the halls quickly for the nurse or the doctor. I look past the counter where all the lab techs are gathered around charts and computers, then the other direction, where I come face to face with the doctor.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” I ask heavily.

“Her blood pressure is rising, and her platelets are low,” the doctor says.

“Which means?”

“It means her preeclampsia has advanced into HELLP syndrome.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a variation of pregnancy hypertension. She and the baby are at risk, so we need to deliver immediately.”

“Okay. But I thought that was already the plan. To deliver,” I say, and my throat is dry, my heart is thumping. “So are you gonna induce or something?”

He shakes his head. “No. We need to deliver right away. We were hoping to give her more time on mag, but we need to move quickly. She’s going to need an emergency C-section. We’ll need to start prepping her now.”

Emergency.

The word rattles in my head, rings in my ears. The word I least want to hear. The word no one wants to hear.

With leaden feet, I follow the doctor into Harley’s room where he gives her the new diagnosis.

“Is the baby going to be okay?”

The doctor clasps his hands. “Our goal is always to protect the health of the mother and the baby, and to do that, we need to get the baby out of you as soon as possible.”

She turns her head to me, and it looks like it takes all the effort in the world for her to move. “Can he be with me during the section?”

The nurse chimes in. “You can’t have the epidural with your platelets this low, so you need to be under general, and that means no one can be in there but doctors and nurses. But we’ll bring the baby to your husband as soon as he or she is born.”

“You’ll meet our baby first,” Harley says to me, and her hoarse voice hitches. “Please give my love to our baby.”

My heart lurches toward her; I’d do anything to comfort her. “I will. I promise. And you’re going to be fine,” I tell her, leaning in to give her a sweet kiss on the forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you. I’ll see you on the other side.”

And then they wheel her away.