by Dee Palmer
“Call 911, call 911, Joel, do it now!”
May
When every breath you take hurts too much, how do you take another?
September
When pain consumes you, how do you carry on?
December
When there is no light bright enough to pull you from the darkness, the only thing left is to try and survive.
February
The only thing you can do is live.
Joel
One Year Later
I’m not too proud to admit that no amount of training could’ve prepared me for the hell that was that night. Impotent isn’t the right word, a fucking useless heap of skin and bones is more apt for all the help I was. I managed to call 911, but after that, I just stood by and let the most incredible woman I know and love work to try and save our daughter. I couldn’t move. I wanted to, every fibre in me wanted to spring into action and perform the miracle needed, but I was too terrified.
For the first time in my life, I was too petrified to do my job. I’ve never failed at anything, but that night I failed at being a doctor and a father. Of course, Regan sees it differently, and I’m so thankful she does, and that she is all about the second chances. Which is why we are here today.
“Tell me again why we’re here?” Regan shivers against the chill in the air, and I pull her a little closer to share my warmth. Her long black coat gapes open at the front, she hasn’t been able to button it up for over a month now.
“I’m going to buy you a new coat, that one is ridiculous.”
“So is buying a coat for the last month of pregnancy, now tell me again why we have to go through this? What’s wrong with the toilet bowl?”
“The death of a first pet is traumatic.”
“For who, because Ruby doesn’t look nearly as bothered by this as someone I could mention.” She arches a mocking brow that I ignore.
“I loved that fish.’
“I know you did, but I’m freezing my tits off here.” She uses her free hand to cross over herself.
“I second that.” Cameron adds, looking more confused than anyone else gathered. Harper just looks hung over, but then it is very early on a Sunday morning. Everyone close accepted Ruby’s last minute invitation to give Nero a formal send off. All of Regan’s friends, her old neighbours, and on my side, Trinity, are here.
This last year has been my greatest challenge, and I understand now exactly how important it is to have friends as well as family.
“Okay, so what now?” Cameron asks as we all fall silent, standing around a small hole in the ground in the garden of our townhouse.
“Ruby, do you want to say a few words?” I ask. She gives a little nod and holds the small cardboard box she decorated and Nero’s last resting place in front of her. She steps forward and places it in the hole. She stands back up, looks around, but doesn’t say a word.
“Joel.”
“Shh, let her speak.”
“Yeah, about that…Joel.” Regan squeezes a death grip on my hand and pinches out words that are strained through her gritted teeth.
“Ruby, momma’s kind of cold.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Ruby’s eyes widen and a deep frown creases her forehead. She is the spitting image of Regan when she does that.
“It’s okay, baby girl, just say what you feel.” I say softly and yet still failing to hide the urgency in my tone.
“Joel.” Regan pants and I know I need to get us out of here, right now. “Oh…OH!”
“You go, we’ll finish up here.” Trinity takes Ruby’s hand.
“Can I come?”
“Don’t you want to finish here?”
“Oh, yes….Goodbye, Nero, you were a lovely fish. I will miss you, but I have to go and meet my new baby brother or sister.” She pats down the small mound of soil over the box and jumps to her feet. Wiping her hands together and cleaning off the crumbs of dirt she looks up and declares.”OK, I’m ready.”
“Right then.”
“I can’t believe I got out of bed for this sh-“
“-You know, Harper, I’m more than happy to take you right back to bed if that will help your mood.” Cameron cuts in.
“Aren’t you just the selfless soul!”
“You know it.”
“Thank you for the kind offer, but I’m up now, may as well follow the herd. It’s not everyday I get to be an aunt again.”
“See, there is a heart in there. I knew it!”
“Ahh! Fuuudge, that hurt.” Cameron rubs his arm where Harper has just landed an impressive sounding thump.
“Come on, baby, let’s go.” With my arm supporting Regan, I steer us back to my car.
“You lied!” Regan grits out through her clenched jaw, fisting the front of my t-shirt. Her glare looks like it could melt paint from the walls.
“About?” I calmly reply, holding her hand as it constricts to the point I start to fear for my future as a surgeon.
“Many things.” She starts to pant through the pain as it peaks and ebbs in quick succession. She’s barely getting a moment in between contractions.
“If you’re referring to this situation, I did explain at the time that blue line confirmed you were pregnant, and that I never lied about the sperm donation. And in my defence at the time, I didn’t lie about my infertility. I had a very, very low sperm count after contracting mumps. It just wasn’t as permanent as I was led to believe. Oops. I try to pull off a light, apologetic smile, whilst smoothing the slick hair from her face only to expose narrowed eyes and a mean scowl.
“And you lied about the pain. You said nothing would ever hurt as much as…huff-huff-huff…and this…this hurts. This really fucking hurts!” She yells.
“I know, baby, but you’re doing so well.”
“I’m going to fucking rip your bollocks off for lying to me,” she snarls, and I’m surprised fire doesn’t explode from her nostrils, she’s so riled up, right up to the point she flops back exhausted onto the bed.
“Is this normal?” I address the nurse finishing her examination. I’ve asked the same question a hundred times even though we both know I know the answer. I’ve delivered babies before, I’ve just never been at this end of the table before. The nurse humours me with her reply.
“Everything is quite normal, Dr Prescott.” She snaps the latex gloves from her hands and gives an easy, calming smile.
“The language, I mean does every newborn enter the world wondering if the mother that has nurtured them for nine months is in fact a hardened dock worker?”
“You squeeze a melon out of your…huff-huff-huff… Oh, god, I can’t.” She starts to argue, but pain diverts her indignation.
“Everything is quite normal, Regan, you’re doing really well, not long now.” The nurse assures us both.
“Where’s everyone?” she asks, ignoring the supposedly encouraging news.
“I think they went for ice cream.” I tease and instantly regret my attempt to lighten the situation.
“Now? They had to go now?” Her eyes glaze with the burst of tears. “They were all supposed to be here, they promised.” She wails, and I quickly try and defuse this new dilemma.
“They are all here, baby, everyone is in the waiting room. I was teasing.”
“You were what? …huff-huff… Oh, god, Joel, I can’t do this. It hurts too much.”
“Yes, you can. Come on, Reggie, think of—”
“Not another word.” She holds up her finger, and my mouth snaps shut, because there is not a single thing I can say that will ease the pain of literally being torn in two.
“Okay, Mrs Prescott, you’re the boss,” I say and mean it.
“Damn right…ahh…ahhh!” She doubles up, crying out and holding her breath at the same time.
“I want to push!”
“What?”
“Did I stutter? I said I want to motherfucking push.”
“Okaaay, there’s my little hellion. Let me get the nurse back.” I take one
step, and she grabs my t-shirt with the strength of Hercules and pulls me to her face.
“No, now…I’m pushing now.”
“Oh, fuck!” I press the call button, snap on some gloves, and dive right in.
“No, Joel…not you!” She yells and groans as pain seizes her choking the words in her mouth before they reach the air.
“Too late, baby. This little one is coming.” I place my hands ready.
“Dr Prescott, I can take it from here.”
“Yes, yes, let her take it…ahh!” Regan pants.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Regan, better let Dr Prescott finish, now he’s started.” The nurse says and pats my shoulder before stepping up to hold Regan’s hand.
“Push, Regan, one more push,” I coax, and, despite the fear that has been my constant companion for the last nine months, I suddenly feel very sure. The pain takes control of her body and even though her screams are tearing me apart, I’ve got this, I’ve got her, and now, I’ve got our baby.
“Here you go.” I stand and pass the pink, slimy baby to her momma. Her skin is impossibly soft, warm, and perfect. Regan reaches with shaky arms and takes the baby from me. Her head lays heavily on Regan’s chest, and I still haven’t released the breath I’m holding. Regan’s hands lightly check every wrinkle, crease and tiny toe, before and only when she smiles a peaceful smile at me, do I relax enough to exhale.
“Oh, my god, Reggie, she’s perfect. She looks just like Ruby.” My eyes fill with tears, and my vision is just a blurry mess. I wipe them dry and carefully sit on the edge of the bed, as close as I can get without spooning.
“Really?”
“She looks like her momma.” I lean closer and plant a grateful kiss on her dry lips.
“Is she okay, Joel? Is she—”
“She’s perfect.” I touch the back of my finger lightly to our baby’s rosy cheek.
“Hey, there, little lady, welcome to the family,” Regan says softly, beaming and exhausted.
“You up for visitors? I don’t think I can keep them waiting much longer.” I ask, after we have had all the checks and Regan has had a quick clean-up.
“Sure, it’s not like they haven’t seen me looking worse.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.” I kiss her once more, then the top of our baby’s head, and walk out to get the others.
“Momma!” I hear the squeal before I see the blur of pink rush toward me.
“Ruby, do you want to meet your little sister?” I lift Ruby high on my hip, and then carefully place her beside Regan on the bed. My heart aches and swells at the sight, Regan cuddling the daughter she saved all those months ago.
She kept up CPR on Ruby until the paramedics could take over. The next few hours were my very worst, and I know I wouldn’t have survived any of it without her and her calm determination that everything was going to be all right, when it really wasn’t. She never faltered, even as we clung together and prayed, not for a miracle—I knew we were never going to find a donor at this stage—I just wanted to have one more day, where Ruby would wake, and we could say goodbye.
Even when she did wake the next day, we couldn’t give up. She argued for a second screening for me as a donor. We were out of options.
We held on to each other so tight throughout the four long days of G-CSF injections, which would stimulate my stem cell production enough for extraction. A second blood screen persuaded the transplant team that the risk of rejection was within the normal range, enough to proceed, and that’s all we wanted, because, without the transplant, Ruby would die.
“Here, sweetie, lean back against the pillow and me, and we can hold her together.” Regan tries to hand Ruby the baby, but the angle is all wrong. Trinity steps forward to help.
“Let me,” She holds my baby for a little hug, and then places her in Ruby’s eager waiting arms.
“Thank you, and thank you for this morning.”
“Nowhere we’d rather be,” Trinity says.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to have been in here earlier. Momma needs to put a hundred dollars in the cuss jar.” I wink at Ruby, who giggles and then stops herself when the baby wriggles.
Harper and Cameron are comically keeping their distance but venture a little closer when Regan waves them over.
It’s not like pregnancy is catchy.
“Cam, Harper, it’s safe. You can come closer.”
“We know,” They try to brush off the fear that has them both wide-eyed. Regan told me they weren’t around when Ruby was this tiny.
“So, what’s her name, Momma?” Ruby asks, and Regan looks over to me.
“We wanted you to choose.” I say, and Regan nods her agreement when Ruby looks at her with shock in her wide eyes.
“Really?”
“Ruby, you’re our little miracle, and we thought you’d like to name what turned out to be our other little ‘miracle’,” I explain, and I know it was the right decision when her face lights up with pride.
“Then let’s call her Miracle,” she says excitedly, after only a fraction of a second’s thought and with absolute conviction.
“Miracle, it is,” I repeat with a slight grimace. I mouths to Regan something about maybe needing a normal middle name, and she mouths back…maybe.
THE END
Enjoy this sample of Wanted
“JESUS, FINN, YOU SURE YOU’RE not emigrating?” Hope laughs out a dirty throaty sound, as she struggles with the last of my suitcases. Stacking the final piece on the back seat on top of the mobile mountain, which pretty much contains my life or what was my pathetic life. I flash a tight smile, which sticks to my teeth, and a punch of guilt hits me in the gut, which I clearly fail to hide in my expression. “Finn?” I can hear the wobble in my best friend’s voice, her tone pitched with genuine concern.
“No, I’m not emigrating.” I make a show of rolling my eyes at her dramatics, even as I mumble ‘probably’ under my breath so as not to be accused of lying outright, if all does go well. “One month is a long time. I need a lot of shit.”
“There’s a lot and then there’s all your shit. I should know, since you’ve been camped on my sofa for the last three months. My flat looks like it’s been burgled, it’s so bare. I think the only thing you haven’t packed is Dolly here.” She pats the soft-top roof of my ancient Citrëon 2CV.
“I would take her if I could.” I tilt my head and cast an affectionate glance at the car that has rescued me from many a disaster, the most recent, moving everything I own from my home with Dave to the aforementioned sofa in Hope’s flat. Luckily Dolly is like the frickin’ Tardis, and I only needed to make one trip. Come to think of it, that isn’t lucky at all, it’s just sad. I’m twenty-six years old, and I spent ten of those with the love of my life, yet all my worldly possessions fit inside a 4-door, antique car, which has wildlife growing in the footwells.
“It’s only a month; I’ll take good care of her.” Hope’s face fails to achieve the smile she’s desperately trying for, and I take that as my cue to jump in the car and avoid eye contact. I’m such a coward.
We chat for a while, and the car falls silent. Hope reaches over and her bony hand grips mine, which is clutching the steering wheel. Her eyes are glazing again, and I try, with enormous effort, to swallow the lump in my throat, but it won’t budge.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” she tells me for the umpteenth time. “Do you really have to go? He could be a psycho.” I twist my hand in hers so our fingers are now threaded.
“He could be, but he isn’t,” I reassure her.
“I still think you’re crazy.” She states this with certainty but no judgment.
There are many reasons she has been my best friend since primary school. For a start, she’s the keeper of all my secrets. The morning after every sleepover since my early teens, she would take delight in embarrassing me, regurgitating every word I spilt throughout the night when I talked in my sleep. The worst of all habits, in my opinion, because there
was nothing I could do to stop myself, and I was, by all accounts, shamelessly honest and open. I bought a dreamcatcher, which seemed to help. Nevertheless, in the end, I begged her not to keep me talking. I asked her to wake me or even add a gag as a preferable alternative to sneaking a peek inside my subconscious. She told me I was a spoilsport but agreed, because above everything else, she always has my back. Even if she doesn’t agree with my choices, she’s undoubtedly my one-woman cheerleader, crossing everything she has and wishing me all the luck in the world without so much as a twitch of a judgmental brow.
“No. Crazy would be giving Dave another chance to humiliate me and waste another God knows how many more years of my life.” My laugh is rightly humorless and filled with contempt.
“Yeah, that would be crazy. But the States? Do you really have to go all that way to find one decent guy?” I choke back a cough and feel my cheeks burn with the truth and lie I’m about to serve.
“Orange County, California, and yes, it would seem so.” Not technically a black lie, it’s vague enough. And if my damn cheeks aren’t flashing like a fucking beacon, I might get away with it.
“What aren’t you telling me, Finn?” Hope shifts in her seat, and her tone is deadly serious. Dammit.
Now I could lie, but she would know. If we lived in the Dark Ages, she would’ve been burnt at the stake years ago; it’s kind of spooky, her witchy ways. But the truth? If I tell her the actual truth, she’s likely to grab the wheel from my hands and flip a one-eighty in the middle of the motorway, rush hour traffic be damned, and probably end poor Dolly in the process. So, I have to give her something meaty, the truth, but not quite the whole truth and maybe a little bit of, nothing but the truth.