by Julia Kent
“Oh, no,” I hear Andrew grunt from a million miles away, his hands going to my shoulder, my hips, steadying me.
“I'm. Oh. Kay,” I gasp.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, slow and low, meant to calm and soothe. “I called ahead. They know you're coming. Dr. Armaji is on duty.”
I remember her. A flash of memory hits me, no words attached, just a wide smile, slightly crooked front teeth, deep brown eyes with impossibly long lashes. Her older son plays lacrosse and Andrew gave her some tips to pass on.
And just like that, the grip lessens.
Shuffling, I notice each muscle of my inner thighs, how they stretch and tighten, my mind telling them what to do even as other muscles in me take over and do their work, heedless of my command.
“The doctor's office texted. Said to go in through the ER entrance but she's ready for you.”
We make it to an admitting desk, where we're waved onto an elevator to go to the labor and delivery wing. When we came here for childbirth classes, we entered a different way. I'm lost.
Andrew isn't.
“Do you need a wheelchair?” Andrew asks. For some reason, the question angers me.
Apparently, my glare is enough of an answer.
“Here,” he says, hands never leaving me even when he has to push the elevator button for the third floor. He's got the backpack over one shoulder now and my bag in his hand.
My hair must be a mess. We're not presentable. We're not–
“Shhhhh,” he murmurs, wiping away tears I don't even realize are there. “Here.” He hands me another water from the bag.
I sip slowly, then drink faster. If hydration takes the pain away, hook me up to a five-gallon jug and a hose.
Ding!
The elevator doors open and we're suddenly in soft light, a nurse's desk in front of us.
“McCormick?” a woman in scrubs calls out.
“Yes,” Andrew answers.
She points down the hall. “Room 14. Dr. Armaji's already there.”
“It must be really bad if we're getting this kind of treatment,” I gasp as we make our way to the room.
“Or she happened to be here at the hospital and we're lucky,” he counters, making me smile.
“Amanda!” Dr. Armaji is in scrubs, hands on her hips, the friendly, crooked smile making me relax instantly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I know, right?”
“Tell me what's going on.”
For the next five minutes, she checks the heartbeats, the soothing sound of twin galloping hearts making Andrew's jaw unclench, her long list of questions automatic for her. How do obstetricians handle the responsibility? Life itself is in their hands, literally.
Every decision they make in giving advice and counsel to pregnant women has a possible bad outcome. The weight of that must be enormous.
And speaking of enormous...
Dr. Armaji sits on a stool at the base of the exam table. I'm still fully clothed, leaning back, palms flat against the paper strip covering the cool vinyl.
“I'm not going to examine you, especially because the tissues are likely delicate from the sexual intercourse you engaged in last night. But my guess is that the cervix is starting to thin, though not much. You've been with me for eleven minutes and haven't had a contraction.”
“I swear I was!”
One hand goes to my knee, reassuring. “I believe you. And it must be very frightening. But the babies are fine.”
As if on cue, my lower belly pulls in. She senses it, but looks to the monitor.
“Here we go,” she whispers, watching. We all do. It's amazing. What my body does is being tracked on that thin strip of paper, documented in a way that medical professionals will interpret, then act on.
All to save lives.
I breathe through it. It’s painful, but in a shallow way. If nothing else, I feel grateful: My body is showing the doctor what's going on.
“Just breathe. You've crested the peak. The rest is downhill.”
I let out a long, slow sigh.
“Now drink.”
Andrew hands me the water.
“Here's what I see, Amanda. You're experiencing early contractions. Twin pregnancies have their own rhythm, so you can't go by singleton timelines. You're at thirty weeks. We want these little boys to cook for a while longer. We can do a cervical exam, but I'd prefer to wait and have you come into the office tomorrow and we'll do a full workup then.”
“I'm not–I'm not having the babies now?”
“No. Definitely not.” She looks at the water in my hand. “Keep drinking that.”
I obey doctor's orders.
“They need more time, don't they?” Andrew asks. “What if–”
“Let's not play the what-if game, Andrew,” she says kindly. “That will drive you crazy.”
“This is driving me crazy, too.”
“Amanda, you're fine. The babies are fine. We'll see you tomorrow in the office–it'll be a chance to meet another doctor in the practice,” she says with a chuckle.
“I do have two left I haven't met.”
She nods. “And I want you on bed rest.”
“What?”
“Bed rest is best, until you reach thirty-six weeks.”
“That's six more weeks! I can't just sit around for six weeks!”
Andrew interrupts. “You can, and you will.”
“I have a department to run!”
“We'll argue about this later,” Andrew says tersely as Dr. Armaji gives us side eye, using a stylus on a tablet to document something.
“Don't you mean discuss?”
His failure to answer fills me with dread.
Right. Argue it is.
The doctor hands me a short list of instructions that define exactly what bed rest means, but then her phone beeps. She looks at it and frowns.
“Excuse me. I have to take this. Laboring multipara.” She slips into the hall for a moment.
“How are you?” he asks, wincing the second the words are out because duh–how does he think I am?
But I also get it. I know what he means.
“I'm terrified.”
“So am I,” he confesses, surprising me.
“You are? Damn.” The tears fill my throat. “You're never afraid. That means I should be even more scared.”
“No! No, honey. That's not what I want. I was just being open.”
“I think I liked you better when you were an emotionless automaton fixated on work.”
“You've changed me enough that I can't go back to being like that anymore.”
“Is that a compliment?”
The doctor slips back in at that moment, so we shut up. I read the paperwork.
My eyes skim the part about sex.
No intercourse.
“None?” I gasp, Dr. Armaji clearly understanding exactly what I'm reading.
“There are plenty of safe sexual practices you and your husband can engage in, but at this point, intercourse isn't one of them,” she begins.
Is Andrew blushing?
His brow tightens–jaw, too–as he keeps his eyes on a spot at the hollow of my throat.
“We'll figure it out. That's the least of our worries,” he says firmly, making the doctor smile slightly.
“Good to hear. Not all partners are as understanding.”
“I'm not all partners, Doctor.”
He definitely is not.
In so many more ways than this one.
“Amanda, it's been twelve minutes since the last one.”
“It has?”
She nods. “How do you feel?”
“Deflated. Scared. Embarrassed.”
Andrew recoils. “Embarrassed?”
She pats my shoulder. “Never feel embarrassed. You're at thirty weeks with twin boys, who have underdeveloped lungs. You woke up to contractions coming close together. You did the right thing to come in.”
“But–”
“And you need to come back tomorrow. Just because I'm s
ending you home with strict bed rest orders doesn't mean this isn't serious.”
“Strict bed rest?”
“You need to be in bed or in a chair with the exception of bathroom breaks.”
“That's it?”
“That's it. Car rides to doctor's appointments are fine. But no dining out, no travel, nothing.”
“That sounds horrible!” I grumble. “But I'll do it.”
“Of course you will.” Andrew kisses my cheek.
“And no sex?” I ask again, struggling to process it all.
“We'll do it.” He frowns. “Or won't do it.” His hand rubs my shoulder. “We'll figure it out.”
I lean toward him and whisper in his ear. “I can still blow–”
Dr. Armaji clears her throat. “I'm sure you're capable of figuring out details. Just make sure nothing foreign enters your vagina, Amanda. And no orgasms.”
Andrew starts choking.
“None?” I squeak.
“I'm sorry. They increase blood flow to the uterus and cause contractions. We're trying to prevent contractions, so none.” She glances at Andrew. “The orgasm restriction only applies to Amanda, obviously.”
Did he just drop his shoulders in relief?
I nod. “I'll be fine. I understand. The babies are worth it.”
“Of course they are,” Andrew jumps in.
My breathing slows, the band above my pubic bone going taut again, but this time, it's light. A discomfort, but not pain-filled. Dr. Armaji watches me, observant but non-judgmental, as I take three deep, slow breaths.
The tightness fades.
“If the contractions intensify, or come closer together, come right in.”
We nod. She leaves.
I go numb.
Climbing off the exam table is an engineering feat, but Andrew helps me. Each step I take feels like I'm a Marvel movie monster made of stones aligned together to approximate a human form. We make it to the main entrance, and Gerald appears as if conjured by Andrew's telepathy.
He emerges from the black SUV, concern etched into his hardened, scarred face. “Everything okay?”
“For now,” Andrew says tersely.
I stare at the SUV. Lifting my leg high enough to climb in feels like being asked to summit Mount Everest.
“We need a sedan from now on,” I tell him.
“Noted,” Gerald says, frowning. “Should have thought of it. Suzanne's struggling with our SUV, too.”
Andrew says nothing, one strong arm going to my hip as I lift my foot up and leverage my way into the seat. He climbs in after. Twisting to grab the seat belt is an act of faith, but I do it, clicking in, then resting the back of my head against the seat.
Tears fall, fast, silent, and uncontrolled.
Andrew's arm is around me as Gerald pulls away from the neon glow of the hospital sign. My belly is loose.
But my heart is tight with fear.
“This is all my fault,” Andrew whispers, his tone making my eyes fly open.
“What?”
Gerald turns up the radio in the front seat, clearly signaling he's trying to give us privacy.
“I... I made a pass at you. Initiated sex. And that clearly triggered the labor.” His jaw is tight, hand in a fist as he punches his right thigh. “I won't be so selfish again.”
“Andrew.”
“It's different now. I can't just assume that if I want something, I can find a way to get it.”
“Andrew.”
“If I hadn't reached out for you, if we hadn't done that position, if I–”
My fingers fly to cover his mouth. His chin is scratchy from not shaving.
“Stop. You did nothing wrong. We didn’t know.” My whisper is low, too, lips against the curve of his ear.
“I'm a fool.”
“Maybe. But not because of this.” I smile.
“And now I'm making this all about me when it should be all about you.” His hand goes to my belly. “And them.”
“We're fine.” I swallow hard. “Or, at least, we will be.”
Andrew looks down at his crotch. “You are dead last in terms of priorities now,” he chides.
“What? No! You can still orgasm.”
“That's not a priority.”
“Since when?”
“Since three hours ago when you woke me up in bed and told me something was wrong and you and the babies were in danger,” he says softly.
I can't breathe.
“Are in danger,” he adds, squeezing my hand. “I'm not putting anything–not Anterdec, not my body, not my libido–nothing–at a higher priority than you and our babies.”
I want to argue, counter his words with something that takes the urgency away, that soothes the burden of terror I share with him. I hate being the center of attention like this, and knowing he's so deeply affected makes this all feel even bigger.
Andrew tends to underreact because he has a big-picture perspective of life that comes from a place of deep certainty.
In every way but the safety of people he deeply loves. Losing his mother to a random, freak event he had no control over is something he's had to overcome,
He has.
But I can feel how shaken that foundation is right now.
And I hate it.
“Drink,” he urges, handing me yet another water bottle. The cool, sweet water tastes good, and my bladder twinges. By the time we get home, I won't make it upstairs to our bathroom. I'll have to use the downstairs powder room.
Stairs.
My heart sinks. “The discharge directions say no stairs.”
“Then we can sleep in the guest room on the first floor.” He sighs. “Or you can sleep there alone, if you prefer.”
“Why would I prefer that?”
“Because...” His Adam's apple jumps with emotion, but he says nothing more.
“You'll sleep with me,” I say firmly. “And we'll use the guest bedroom. We're doing this together, Andrew. Together. I won't let you pull away from me now. I need you more than ever.”
“You don't need my morning wood poking your ass.”
“I sure do! It's how I know you didn't die in your sleep.”
Surprised laughter fills my ear. “What?”
“Every morning, as I slowly emerge from the haze of sleep, one of two things tells me you're awake. If you're spooning with me, it's the wood tapping at my ass. If not, it's the tent in the sheet.”
“My steady breath doesn't provide adequate proof of life?”
“It's not as amusing. Or as predictable.”
“Why are we talking about my penis so much, Amanda? I'm trying not to make it the center of attention, but you're making it hard.”
At his phrasing, my lips twitch.
He groans.
I squeeze his hand. “I need this. Being silly. Playful. Goofy. The serious part of it all is a given, Andrew. Of course, I'll go on full bed rest. Of course, you'll do whatever you can to make life safe for me and the babies. Of course, we'll both do the responsible thing. I married you because you're the full package–smart, sexy, and most of all–a grown-up. Mature and always ready to do what needs to be done so that everyone you love is taken care of.”
“You think that of me?”
“I know that of you.”
He nods slowly, methodically. “We're in this together. Forever.”
“Right. Together. So if I'm on bed rest, we're binge watching all those series we've been ignoring. Together.”
“Oh, hell.”
I give him an evil grin. “That's right! I get to pick everything we watch.”
“Not the baking show. It's like Ambien.”
“Then get ready to fall asleep to British accents and have cream filling dreams.”
He kisses my temple. “As you wish.”
16
Amanda
The door shuts and I find myself alone.
Completely alone for the first time in two days.
For the last twenty-nine hours, Andre
w hasn't left my side. We've binge watched all the baking shows I wanted to see, a round-the-world motorcycle show from the early 2000s, and a documentary series about a cult.
Andrew's begging for fiction, so Outlander's next.
But right now, he's at the office, tormenting Gina, and it's my turn to get work settled. “Clear the decks” is a horrible phrase for someone who prides herself on fixing problems, because it means I'm the problem. The stuff on my plate can't be there any more.
I have to transfer it to someone else.
So my notepad has a long list of tasks, starting with number one:
Call Carol.
Except... she beats me to it.
Carol's name pops up on the screen as my cell rings. I answer.
“Amanda! Shannon called and told me. Are you okay? What's happening?”
“Early labor. I'm fine. On bed rest, though.” I cross her name off my list. “And it means I need to make some big changes.”
“Right. Legs elevated, drink lots of water, no sex–” She gasps. “Poor Andrew.”
“Poor me,” I mutter.
Giggly, girlish laughter pours through my phone. “Okay. Let's change the topic. Back to work. What do you need from me?”
“For you to accept a new job.”
Silence. As the seconds tick on, I grow more nervous. Why isn't Carol saying anything?
“A new job?”
“Right.”
“Like, I'm fired?”
“WHAT? No! Of course not!”
“Whew.” A shaky series of sounds, like she's almost crying, come through. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I want to promote you, Carol. I need you more than ever.”
“PROMOTE? Like, a raise? More power?”
“Not sure about power, but yes. A raise. A promotion. Interim director of market research.”
“Director! But you're director!”
“I won't be for a while.”
“Are you doing this because of the babies?”
“Of course. That, and now you have to manage Agnes and Corrine.” I smile.
A low, feral sound pours through the speakers. “Ah, God, I forgot you hired them. Hmmm. I don't know...”
She knows, and I know, that she needs the money.
I quote her new salary.
“You're serious? What about Josh?”
“First of all, he has different skills, and his IT work doesn't cover what we do. Second of all, it's cruel to foist Agnes and Corinne on him.”