Jade

by Sarah Jayne Carr

  That sentence hit like no other, and nameless dread engulfed me.

  A stroke? Lost them both? Dr. Bundgaard didn’t understand. Luck? That word didn’t hit right. At all. If anything, I was her bad luck charm. I was the reason Jade and our baby were in that hospital. Me! All because I walked out the door and abandoned her.

  “After admitting her from the ER, we also gave her a corticosteroid to speed up the baby’s lung development.”

  All tension left my face and my upper body. The idea of our child potentially struggling for air filled me with a parallel of guilt and blame that shipped me back to Charlotte drowning. My thoughts hiccupped for a few seconds. “Are they going to be okay?” I didn’t try to remove the emotion from my voice. It didn’t matter who saw me weak.

  “They’re both in good hands. We’re doing everything we can to keep them safe and comfortable.”

  “Can I see her? Is she awake?”

  “You can, and she’s been asking for you,” Dr. Bundgaard paused, “but know she’s likely tired and may be confused or dazed. Jade’s blood pressure has been alarmingly high. Anything above 140/90 is cause for concern. When she arrived, it was 170/115 and near hypertensive crisis. It’s important she stays calm.”

  Crisis? I took three long breaths as if I’d just broken the surface from the depths of the ocean. But they weren’t relief. It still felt like I couldn’t tread water or save myself— not that I deserved it.

  “You said she hasn’t experienced any previous signs or symptoms?” Dr. Bundgaard continued.

  “Jade’s OB mentioned her pregnancy being textbook, he even joked about it being boring at our last appointment.” I thought back to Jade saying she’d rescheduled her OB appointment for tomorrow. “He hasn’t mentioned…”

  “Headache. Edema,” Dr. Bundgaard said.

  “And I have a raging headache, not to mention all of this water retention.”

  “Decreased urination,” she added.

  “I must need more water. I’ve hardly had to pee today.” Speaking of pee, you’ll never guess the latest in town…”

  Next, she said, “Excessive swelling.”

  “These shoes are so tight right now.”

  “Right upper quadrant pain.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked again, reaching for the back of a chair to support her shaking frame with one hand, the other pushing against her ribs.

  “Blurred vision.”

  I thought back to the text messages she’d sent me when I was at K-7, text messages I didn’t read until I sat in the waiting room of the hospital.

  Wife

  Pleawe don’t do thjs.

  I need youu.

  Seth, I’n sorry. I love you.

  Come home so we can tzlk?

  “Thinking back, she… but…” I stopped.

  The doctor’s hesitation paired with her concerned expression was my answer. She didn’t need to say it. Fault fell to me. Every afterthought. I needed to find a way to fix it— even if it took the rest of my days. I should’ve clued in. Just like with Charlotte, I only looked away for a second. I was right there. Damn it. I was right there.

  “In my experience, sudden onset pre-e isn’t unheard of, but eclampsia is rarer.” She’d noticed my worry and pulled me back to the present, motioning for me to follow her. “We’ll take this day by day and monitor her closely. It’s a balance. We want to improve the baby’s chance to do well, but we don’t want to risk Jade getting worse.”

  For information I desperately sought out minutes ago, all of it overwhelmed me.

  I followed Dr. Bundgaard down a long hall and around the corner to the doorway where I saw Jade. With her eyes shut, she looked both peaceful and helpless. Those descriptions shouldn’t sit side-by-side. As I watched her lying in that hospital bed, I ached for her like never before, and she was only a few feet away. I wanted us to be at home, in our bed with her in my arms, where she belonged. My throat tightened and it choked me knowing I couldn’t help her. Dr. Bundgaard touched my shoulder from behind. “I’ll leave you two.”

  Before I stepped foot inside, I saw a TV perched in the upper corner of the room. Muted. A music video channel listed the beginning of R.E.M.’s Everybody Hurts. Its blurred imagery of asphalt quickly passing by and broken white lines on a road took me back to my drive to K-7 a few hours ago, and I started to lose control of my emotions all over again.

  The sterile design of the room left me on edge with fear spiking across every inch of my skin. All of it reinforced the severity of Jade’s condition. The monitors. Her IV. A bedside table. The phone. Two clinic chairs. Brown blankets. White sheets. Curtains with a geometric pattern. Even the damn pillow.

  “Doc?” I asked softly, walking to her bedside. The amount of puffiness in her face and hands had increased.

  I watched my wife open her swollen lids. She may have been sick, but that flame of adoration in her eyes was strong as ever, and the hint of a smile she offered gave me the hope I desperately needed. “Hey.”

  The backs of my eyes pricked. I pulled a chair next to her and sat down, stroking her forehead. “I am so, so sorry.”

  “Me too,” she whispered.

  I’d struggled to hold it together in the waiting room. The dam burst with her being so close now, even with the bar of the hospital bed ironically acting like a barricade separating us. With the back of her hand pressed to my lips, I fought back tears and lost.

  “It’s okay,” she quietly soothed.

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “I wasn’t there when you needed me. For that, I’ll never forgive…”

  “Seth,” she rubbed her soft fingertips on my knuckles, “it’s no one’s fault.”

  “It’s mine. I chose to leave tonight and wedged that distance between us. I walked out on us. If I’d stayed…maybe you wouldn’t be…” I looked around the room.

  “Distance means nothing,” she squeezed my hand,” when someone means everything.”

  The look on my face must’ve said what words couldn’t.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too. So much it hurts.” It took a while for me to go on. “Doc, I’m brave enough, and I’ll be brave enough for both of us, as long as you let me.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the napkin I’d found next to her seizing body in the living room. Worn with age. A two. Coffee stain. A three. Wrinkles. Sorry. An equation. Jade had taped the two pieces after I left. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. Each of us represented one half, holding tight to the other.

  She looked at the napkin and reached for my other hand, the thin layers of paper sandwiched between our palms. “We’re a team, remember? Both of us need to be brave enough right now. Together.”

  I nodded and held her grip tight in mine.

  Her eyes drooped with a yawn. “I’m going home tomorrow.”

  Through her lethargy, I couldn’t tell if she’d asked a question or made a statement. Even though I knew she wouldn’t be leaving the hospital in twenty-four hours, I remembered what the doctor said about keeping her calm and didn’t argue. “One day at a time.”

  “Tomorrow,” she repeated, forcing her lids to pop open for a short amount of time again. “You need to go to the house.”

  “What?” I blurted. “I’m not leaving.”

  “You need to let Charlotte in.”

  “No. The cat will be fine,” I replied firmly.

  “Not with a coyote running around at night. I love that cat.”

  “I’ll call Sienna then.”

  “Remember? She and I didn’t meet for coffee today. Her key’s still in my bag, and she lost her cell phone yesterday.”

  I gave her a disapproving look.

  “Please? Let Charlotte in.” She repositioned her body. “Besides, I know you; if you stay
, you’ll just pace and bounce your knee,” her slow speech was sticky with sleep. “You can do that at home too.”

  Like always, she’d pegged my mannerisms.

  “Jade…”

  Keep her calm.

  I pushed away my reluctance. It wasn’t the time to argue, and she needed to rest. After I showered her forehead and cheeks with kisses, I told Jade I loved her a dozen times and I’d see her in the morning. She didn’t need to know I’d hurry home to let Charlotte in and be back at the hospital in under an hour. I refused to stay away any longer.

  She spoke with closed eyes. “I’ll see you soon. Promise.”

  * * *

  I found Charlotte sitting in the planter box outside the window when I got home. Rain dumped from the sky in heavy sheets, pouring from the roof corners like runny pancake batter. Heaviness of the night hit hard when the cat and I went inside. They say home is where the heart is. Jade wasn’t there, so I wasn’t home. It felt empty. Wrong. After I ensured Charlotte had enough food for a few days, I looked at the clock. 12:01 a.m. I couldn’t handle the quiet and turned on the radio to give her some noise while I was gone. Eagle-Eye Cherry’s Save Tonight played midway through, the chorus hitting me extra hard as the power flickered twice and went out. More unbearable silence.

  I grabbed my keys and locked the backdoor behind me. “Sorry, Charlotte,” I mumbled. “You’ll have to listen to…”

  Listen.

  I froze.

  Let Charlotte in.

  Looking to the right at that driftwood bench, everything clicked. Another hard hit. It didn’t take much coaxing. I did what Jade wanted me to do and what I needed to do. I slowly crouched down, resting my forehead and hand on the cold wood. Tears fought my voice for first place and won, “Hi, Charlotte.” The lump in my throat wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I swallowed. “It’s taken too long for me to do this, and I’m sorry, but your brother can’t stay tonight either.” I wiped my eyes. “It’s for a good reason, though. You’re going to be an aunt soon. Can you believe it? And your sister-in-law, Jade? She’s…God, she’s everything. You’d love her.” The next sentences were harder to let go as I tapped the heel of my fist against the bench. “My biggest problem over the years is how much I’ve missed you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you, and I hope…that while you’ve watched over me…I’ve made you proud. This isn’t goodbye. I know you’re there waiting.” A sob escaped me. “And I’m scared right now. So fucking scared.”

  I caught my breath, gave the bench a pat, stood up, and hurried down the sidewalk toward the truck. When I unlocked the door, I jumped. My phone rang with the ID listed as RESTRICTED.

  I answered before the first full ring. “Hello?”

  “Mr. McCullough...”

  The groupings of words “fetal and maternal distress” with “liver and kidney failure” repeated through my head with no break in-between as I raced through those hospital doors from where I’d parked three blocks down the street. Zero margin for error. If I slowed down at all, I might miss out on one of the most important events in my life. Even that late, I had to dodge crowds of visitors, patients, doctors, nurses, three gurneys, and two wheelchairs, trying to make my way to Jade’s room while feeling like a salmon fighting upstream. When I got to the doorway, her bed was gone. Emptiness in its place. I ran to the nurse’s station and braced the lip of the counter, barely able to get the questions out through my labored breaths and piercing side ache. “Jade…McCullough? C-section. Am…I too…late?”

  A nurse looked up at me from her focus on a computer screen. Her badge read “Yvonne.” “Less than a minute ago, I got a call confirming the OR’s prepped, they gave her an epidural, and an orderly’s wheeling her there now.” She motioned for me to follow. “Are you ready to meet your daughter?”

  Without knowing it, she’d asked me if I were brave enough.

  I kept pace with Yvonne’s hurried steps, wishing she’d move faster, into a room where I was shown my disposable armor to prepare for Jade’s battle. Scrubs. A cap. Shoe covers. A mask. She hadn’t asked me to wash my hands yet, but I’d already found myself at the sink. While I fumbled my way into the papery gown over my street clothes, her crash course of directions and questions came at me like rapid fire. Where to stand. What to do if I thought I’d pass out. That I wouldn’t be able to cut the umbilical cord. Plan for the baby being immediately taken to the NICU. A lot of her other instructions fell to the wayside. Most of all, I remembered Yvonne telling me to support my wife. Even if the rest of what she said sounded muddy, that part was clear as glass.

  When I entered the OR, it felt like a different dimension. I tuned out the digital wall clock with ridiculously large, red numbers. The lighting. The consistent beeps. The screens assessing Jade’s blood pressure and her heart rate. The IV and bag of drip fluid. The fetal heart rate monitor. The peek-a-boo edge from a tray of silvery tools lying on a blue surgical towel and its equipment stand. All of them were critical components in her safety, but I focused on the critical component in my safety. Jade was lying on a table with a blue drape blocking our view from her abdomen to her feet. Her head was tilted my way as if she’d been waiting all along for me to walk through that door.

  Her swelling had increased more from when I’d left, Jade’s eyes still heavy. I pressed my lips to her forehead and grabbed her clammy hand just as firmly as she did for me when she’d read that letter on the beach. “Doc, I’m here.”

  “You made it,” her voice was weak while a tear slid from the outer corner of her eye down to her temple. “Can you believe it? I’m early for once.”

  The fact she’d tried to make me smile, and barely succeeded, under those harsh circumstances made my sinuses burn.

  “Did you let Charlotte in?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said quietly. “We talked before I left.”

  “Thank you.” She allowed her lids to drop farther. “Still brave enough?”

  I rubbed her fingers. “Forever.”

  Her head bobbed a little. “I don’t regret ever being brave with you.”

  I took a deep breath, rigidly holding back my emotion. “I know. Me too.”

  The anesthesiologist stood on the other side of Jade, his unsmiling eyes consistently bouncing between watching her face and observing her vitals. The few times I daringly glanced his way gave me no sense of reassurance.

  “Let’s have a baby!” the obstetrician interrupted our moment from behind his surgical mask with mild enthusiasm, which felt like more than the situation warranted.

  That overbearing digital clock didn’t need to tick or tock. I still heard it in my head. Each second was its own maddening chaos, even with the room nearly silent. The OB murmured firmly with two nurses through each step of the procedure, but I didn’t untangle what he said. Instead, I whispered to Jade, reminding her of her strength and how proud she’d made me. I breathed every word of support and praise possible into her ear. If it made the slightest difference in comforting her, I’d do it until I had no air left to give.

  Periodically, Jade’s body moved as the doctor manipulated her. I felt discomfort on her behalf as he tugged and pulled, but Jade didn’t flinch.

  Then, I heard it.

  The long-awaited baby’s cry, the cry I’d anticipated sounding…

  Didn’t. In its place, my world fell flat with an endless beep. My stomach clenched. What was supposed to be the start of a new life became the opposite. On the turn of our dime, the room’s energy shifted from serious to grave.

  It was as if the Grim Reaper wrapped his proud arms around me and left a cloud of heartbreaking sorrow in his wake. I squinted, I blinked, and I opened my eyes wide. It didn’t matter.

  Jade released my hand, her head relaxing lifelessly against the table. For as much as I’d wanted information a short while ago, panic suddenly gripped me by the throat w
ith spindly fingers and forced me to choke on the truth. Some of the terminology I didn’t understand, some I wished I didn’t. It’s like Jade and I were in a small boat. The medical staff’s words were tossed around, their equivalent a storm of dangerous ocean swells.

  Hemorrhaging.

  Bradycardia.

  Crashing.

  Vitals lost.

  Apnea.

  Cardiac arrest.

  Asystole.

  A nurse swiftly approached me. “Sir, we’re going to need you to wait outside the OR.”

  “But that’s my wife!” I reasoned as if the loudness of my voice paired with my title would change her mind or the situation. It didn’t fix anything.

  “Sir!” she repeated. “Please.”

  The nurse bullied me to walk backward to the doorway, but I couldn’t look away through my blur of racing thoughts and impending tears. That moment showed me real fear, the fear of losing someone I loved and needed for the first time in over twenty years. As the door started to shut me out and threatened to divide us like that torn napkin once did, I stared through the decreasing sliver of space. Medical workers in sterile gear swooped in around her like vultures. I caught a glimpse of a doctor performing chest compressions while another called for her to be intubated. Then, nothing was left but a wooden panel with a square window situated too high to show me my future.

  Our small boat I mentioned? That day, it capsized.

  I couldn’t breathe, but neither could she.

  * * *

  Four months later…

  Time heals some wounds — not all of them. When someone you love is taken, there’s an emptiness, a cold that invades and sets so deep you wish to be set on fire to extinguish it. A tingle crosses your skin as if that person’s still there, fighting to invisibly hang on while you’re being forced to let go. Your lesson begins in learning how to be without them, but you have no tools to teach yourself. So, you fail that lesson. Over and over. Minute after minute, hour after hour. Because that’s all you can physically handle. Time. It becomes an increasing separation. A ringing in your ears as if you’re shouting for one another from both sides of the veil, but the silence is truly the only one who’s screaming and keeping you apart. Time. It describes a mind that won’t rest and can’t breathe because it’s too busy racing to package up every detail, moment, and memory possible so you don’t forget the exact shade of their hair color, the smell of their skin, or the sound of their laughter. Time. It tries to steal the sensation of their warmth, instantly cooling while you ache to capture and memorize that heat— what their lips, their skin, and their fingertips felt like against yours. Time. It’s a fear of losing what was once everything as if it were simply nothing.