by Nicola Marsh
And this time, he’d make sure Samira knew it.
Forty-Six
Samira hadn’t wanted a baby shower. She didn’t want the fuss, not when most of the aunties barely looked at her at the last gathering she’d attended, a Diwali celebration at the Dandenong Town Hall. The festival of lights was supposed to promote peace by celebrating the triumph of good over evil, light over dark, and blessings of freedom and enlightenment.
Some of those judgmental aunties could do with a hefty dose of enlightenment.
After Rory had left Melbourne, she hadn’t wanted to face them, so she’d chickened out and got her mom to break the pregnancy news to her cronies. Kushi had been circumspect when Samira had asked about their reactions, but she knew her mom was protecting her. The aunties, especially Sushma, would’ve had plentiful advice to remedy her unwed state and the scandal of having a child without a husband at her age or otherwise.
To take some of the heat off her mom, which she knew Kushi would be copping with, Samira had attended the Diwali celebration. But whether she’d been admiring the rangoli, the intricate floral design made of colored rice and flowers at the entrance to the town hall, or helping light the lanterns surrounding the main room’s perimeter, or watching the fireworks, she’d felt the aunties’ stares boring into her. Cynical. Harsh. Judgmental. They’d spoiled her appetite so she couldn’t even enjoy the Indian feast laid out for attendees.
So why would she want a baby shower with these women in attendance?
But Pia had insisted, saying they could be found lacking together, a way of giving the aunties the finger, that they were happy in their life choices and wouldn’t be criticized for it.
So Samira had gone along with it, but now, as she sat in the middle of her mom’s family room, surrounded by cakes made out of diapers and baskets filled with lotion and baby clothes, all she wished for was the sanctity of her apartment.
She’d been having Braxton-Hicks contractions all morning while the ache in her lower back intensified. If it persisted, she’d get it checked out, but at thirty-two weeks, this baby was a long way off from being born.
Besides, she may not want a relationship with Rory, but he deserved to be at the birth if he wanted, and she had no idea when he’d be getting back. He hadn’t responded to any of her texts beyond the same “thanks” to every one. He didn’t ask how she was feeling or whether she’d been attending prenatal classes. Then again, she’d made sure he wouldn’t when she’d told him she’d be marrying another man.
As for Manny, she’d distanced herself from him too. She felt bad using him as a tool to drive Rory away, even if he didn’t know it. So they’d chatted a few times on the phone, but there had been no more coffee dates, and she’d made Kushi promise on her grandchild’s life not to invite him around anymore.
Thankfully, her mom was resigned to the fact she’d be a single mother. The one and only time Kushi had asked about Rory, Samira had snapped that they weren’t together and she didn’t want to discuss it. Again, her mom had surprised her by giving her the space she wanted. But today, surrounded by baby paraphernalia and listening to tales of water births and hypnosis to experience a painless labor, a small part of her wished she had Rory by her side.
She thought she’d loved Avi once; she’d been wrong. Because ending her marriage hadn’t hurt half as much as watching Rory walk away from her car that night several months ago.
She’d been a fool. A fool who hadn’t thought this through much beyond that night, because what would happen when he came back and discovered she hadn’t married Manish after all? Could she keep holding him, and her feelings, at bay when he wanted to be involved in raising the baby? More importantly, did she want to?
“Samira, there’s one more gift,” Pia said, touching her arm before leaning in and murmuring, “Are you okay? You seem really out of it.”
“False labor pains.” She forced a smile that ended on a hiss at a particularly vicious stab low in her abdomen.
Pia’s gaze clouded with worry. “You sure it’s false? Because it’s too early—”
“I know,” she snapped, instantly regretting it when Pia’s expression closed off. “Sorry, Cuz, I know how hard this must be for you, throwing me a shower, and I can’t thank you enough. But this pain is making me crabby, and I really want to get out of here.”
Pia nodded as she started gathering up wads of torn gift wrapping and stuffing them into a trash bag. “Consider it done. Open this last gift, and I’ll start ushering them out on the pretext of a half-price sale at that new sari shop at the end of the block.”
When Samira was younger, she’d almost been caught in a stampede when the aunties had heard about one of those sales, so she knew it would do the trick.
“You’re a lifesaver . . .” Samira couldn’t speak as a slash of pain from her abdomen ripped through to her back. She stiffened, bracing for another, exhaling slowly when it didn’t come, but fear making every muscle in her body tense.
“You’re not okay,” Pia said, helping her to her feet. “Come with me. You rest in the bedroom. I’ll get rid of this crew.”
Samira managed a grateful smile and mumbled a collective thanks to the aunties before Pia led her to her old bedroom. Kushi had been in the kitchen, and when she entered the family room and took one look at her, her mom rushed over to help too.
“Don’t panic, you two, but I think I need to go to the hospital,” Samira said, as they led her to the bed and she sank onto it. “The pain is pretty intense, so I’m starting to wonder if it’s more than Braxton-Hicks.”
Pia blanched. “Fuck,” she muttered, and the fact Kushi didn’t even blink told Samira exactly how worried her mom was.
“I’ll send everyone home,” Kushi said, “and you ring for an ambulance.”
When Samira didn’t protest, her mom’s and cousin’s worry lines deepened. A worry that didn’t let up when the paramedics arrived, examined her, and pronounced her three centimeters dilated.
“Your baby is on its way.” The older paramedic, a woman with barb on her name tag, took her blood pressure. “Nothing can stop these little blighters when they want to come.”
Samira waited until the cuff pressure eased before murmuring, “But it’s too early. I’m only thirty-two weeks.”
She glimpsed a flicker of something in Barb’s eyes before the paramedic said, “We’ll take good care of you. You can give us your ob-gyn’s details in the ambulance, but I’ll be honest, love, you’re not going to the hospital you probably booked into. We’re taking you to the closest one.”
Samira bit back a cry as another blinding cramp, which she now knew to be a contraction, tore through her. Sweat broke out over her skin, and her palms grew clammy.
“Take me anywhere you goddamn want,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Done.” Barb squeezed her hand. “You’ll get the best possible care. Now, can you walk out to the stretcher?”
Samira nodded, though it was more a hobble as it felt like her baby had descended and was clawing its way out of her. She may be a physical therapist who knew about strengthening the pelvic floor and strong core and abdominals to help with labor, but she knew next to nothing about the possible complications of a premature birth.
She’d been lulled into a false sense of security, feeling invincible she could do this on her own. She thought she’d done everything right by this baby, but what if the stress of pining for Rory had brought this early labor on?
A wild supposition, maybe, but as they strapped her into the back of the ambulance, then she clung onto the metal railings as it seemed to travel at breakneck speed to the nearest hospital, she hated the ongoing doubt that she’d done the wrong thing in making herself unhappy and thus affecting her cortisol levels.
Her mom and Pia were driving behind the ambulance, and one of them would have her cell. Amid the terror and the fear and the pain, she
knew what she had to do.
She had to contact Rory and tell him their baby was on the way.
Forty-Seven
Relieved his dad would be okay, Rory headed toward his car parked out front of the hospital. He’d wanted to make sure his dad wasn’t underplaying his stroke before he made an all-important phone call to Samira. He had his plan all worked out, and this time he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
As he slid behind the steering wheel, his cell beeped and he glanced at the screen. Fantastic. Just the woman he wanted to contact. However, as he read the message, fear gripped his heart and squeezed tight.
She was in labor at a hospital in Dandenong. She’d let him know as soon as the baby was born. The message was short and didn’t tell him much, but for a genius who had aced his economics degree, he could do the math.
This baby was being born eight weeks early.
Rory wasn’t a worrier as a rule. He let fate run its course. But after firing off a quick response, I’M HERE FOR YOU, WILL BE THERE AS FAST AS I CAN, he broke the land speed record between Prahran and Dandenong, reaching the hospital in twenty-five minutes.
She wouldn’t be expecting him. She’d think he was still in the outback, and while he didn’t wish his dad ill, he was glad he’d come back a few days early to visit Garth. Otherwise, he would’ve missed the birth of his child, and considering the complications of a premature birth . . . He didn’t know the specifics, but he knew enough to figure this could be dicey.
It took him five minutes to find the maternity ward and another five to convince the nursing staff his girlfriend was about to give birth. It wasn’t until Pia caught sight of him and told the nurses he was indeed the father that they let him in.
He didn’t know what to expect as he knocked on the door of Samira’s birthing suite. Loud screeching, moaning, maybe an expletive or two directed his way when she caught sight of him. However, as he eased the door open and saw her lying propped up in bed, her pallor matching the sheets, something in his chest twisted and he couldn’t breathe.
She looked absolutely terrified.
When she caught sight of him, she tried a tentative smile that ended in a crumple as she broke down, and he flew to her side, bundling her in his arms.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, hoping to God it was true.
“It’s too early,” she murmured, ending on a sob, and he tightened his grip, infusing her with strength for what they were about to face, before easing away to look her in the eye.
“Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”
She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded, but the shimmer of tears in her expressive eyes gutted him.
“They’ve given me an epidural, and I’m heading off to surgery soon, because the baby is showing signs of distress . . .” She swallowed, several times, before continuing. “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know how or why you are, but I’m glad.”
“We can talk later,” he said, as a team of midwives bustled into the room.
“Is this Dad?” the oldest one asked, a fierce sixty-something woman who looked like no baby would dare do the wrong thing as they came into the world.
“I am,” he said. “Rory Radcliffe.”
“Well, Rory Radcliffe, you can gown up at the OR and watch your baby being born,” the nurse said, taking Samira’s pulse. He didn’t like the small frown that appeared between her brows. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Rory had jumped out of moving cars and taken tumbles off bridges, but the fear of injury performing stunts had nothing on the terror dogging his every step as he followed the nursing entourage to the operating room. He walked beside Samira’s bed as the orderly wheeled it, clutching her hand like a lifeline he needed.
After traversing endless corridors, they reached their destination and a nurse stopped him. “I’ll take you to get gowned up now.”
“Okay.” He bent down to press a kiss to Samira’s lips. “I’m here for you and our baby. Today and forever.”
Either she didn’t register the implications of what he’d just said or she was too withdrawn into her fear, but she offered a brief nod before they wheeled her through the swinging doors.
Leaving him bereft.
If he’d had any doubt about his feelings for Samira before now, this moment, today, had solidified his love.
He loved her.
Whatever may come.
Hopefully, she’d give him a chance to prove it to her for the rest of their lives.
“Come on, Dad, let’s get you gowned up.”
As he entered an area where medical staff scrubbed down and a nurse handed him a gown, cap, and mask, a surprisingly young doctor approached. With her black hair in a ponytail and her face free of makeup, she looked about eighteen.
“You’re the dad of the baby being born in this upcoming C-section?”
“Yeah, I’m Rory.”
“Okay, Rory, I’m going to give you a heads-up before we get started.” She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to say more, and he held his breath. “At thirty-two weeks, your baby is what we class as very preterm. So it will be small, about three pounds.”
Rory’s stomach went into free fall. Three pounds. How could a baby that small survive?
“There’s also the possibility of respiratory distress due to immature lung formation, and feeding difficulties, due to lack of sucking and swallowing reflexes. Heart and gastrointestinal problems are also common.”
Fuck, this just got better and better.
Some of his terror must’ve shown, because she offered a reassuring smile. “But rest assured, we have a fantastic team in the neonatal intensive care unit, where your baby will spend the first few weeks of its life until it can breathe and feed on its own, and we’ll do our best to ensure you take home a healthy baby.”
He managed a mumbled “thank you,” as he followed her into the OR. The sight of a pale Samira lying on a gurney, her lower half shielded by a blue sheet, clutching at the side of the bed tight, made his heart flip.
They would get through this. He had to be strong, for both of them. And their baby.
He sat by her head, clutching her hand, maintaining eye contact the entire time. He saw her flinch slightly when the doctor made the first incision, he saw her grit her teeth as the doctor tried to pry their baby free of her uterus, and he saw the relief mingled with joy as the doctor held up their baby and they heard a feeble cry.
“A boy,” she murmured, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “We have a son.”
Rory couldn’t remember the last time he cried, but in that moment, he rested his forehead against the woman he loved and let the tears fall.
Forty-Eight
Over the next seven days, Samira’s world constricted. Nothing else existed but her room at the hospital and the short walk from the maternity ward to the neonatal intensive care unit. She’d always hated acronyms, but NICU became her focus day in, day out. She spent every waking hour beside her son’s incubator, watching him, willing him to grow and be strong and survive.
She ignored the tubes helping him breathe and the ones feeding him. She ignored his tiny size. She ignored the bone-deep dread that took hold when she allowed the doubts to flood in, doubts that centered on whether he would live or die.
She didn’t care about the doctor’s dire warnings revolving around long-term damage, vision and hearing problems, learning difficulties, chronic health issues, recurrent infections, and all kinds of bad stuff.
All she cared about was survival.
And through it all, Rory was by her side.
He held her hand, he cradled her in his arms, he wiped away her tears. She’d never known anyone so stoic, so strong.
Pia and her mom were as bad as Samira, their expressions equal parts frightened and sad when they peered through the glass into the NICU. Not that th
ey weren’t supportive—they’d been great—but she had enough to deal with, with her fear, to manage theirs too.
Through it all, Rory had protected her. He hadn’t spoken much, and that was one of the things she liked the most. He didn’t offer trite platitudes. He didn’t fill fraught silences with false humor. He didn’t expect anything from her. He was just there, and she loved him for it.
A fine time to discover she loved him, when they clung to each other beside their son’s crib, willing him to start breathing on his own.
There would be time enough to tell him. For now, they had more important things to discuss.
“We should name him,” she whispered, hating to disrupt the peace of the NICU. Despite the infernal beeping of various machines keeping premature babies alive, the place exuded a calmness she needed. “Do you have any ideas?”
Rory flashed the lopsided grin she loved so much. “Rocky, because he’s a fighter.”
“Uh, no.” She cleared her throat, surprised how emotional she was by her choice and hoping he’d go for it. “I was thinking Ronald Garth. After his grandfathers.”
His eyebrows rose. “Wow, you are a traditionalist.”
“Not really.” She managed a soft laugh. “I’ve spent a lifetime trying to buck tradition. Hell, I fled to another country to escape it.”
She reached out to touch his hand. “But I’ve quit running, and I think it’s nice that our son embodies the best of both our families.”
“I-I don’t know what to say.” He blinked and turned his hand over to capture hers. “Ronnie sounds close enough to Rocky, so let’s do it.”
She smiled as he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the back.
“We can leave the discussion of his surname until another day,” he said, with a meaningful stare.
Samira wasn’t a fool. She may be spending most days in a fog of restless sleep and silent praying, but she knew what Rory meant. He may not have actually said the words “I love you,” but she’d heard him say he’d be with her forever just before she’d been wheeled into surgery. And by his actions the past week, nothing had changed. Now that she loved him, what would she say if he wanted to make their relationship official? He’d once proposed out of obligation. What would she do if he did it for real?