“Evan?” My mouth dropped and stayed open so long it could have been a haven for generations of flies. “Hand me the hammer now. I’ll put both of us out of my misery.”
“Stand back and tell me if this is centered,” he said, adjusting a painting of St. Louis Cathedral.
“No, move it a smidgen to the left,” I said. “Dad, in a few months I won’t be able to see my feet, much less a golf ball. If you want someone on the course with you, I’ll drive the cart.”
He wasn’t having it. For every objection I raised, he responded with, “But you haven’t even tried it yet. Give it a chance.”
By the time we finished hanging all four paintings, each one depicting a French Quarter scene, I learned I would be meeting Evan at the golf course first thing in the morning. Dad would load my mother’s golf clubs into my Jeep, and Evan would unload them at the driving range.
I wanted to argue that, if I couldn’t pick up a golf bag holding a set of golf clubs, I shouldn’t be playing. But the longer my father talked about my lessons, the more excited he grew. I didn’t have the heart to deflate him. The man would never experience any of the father-son bonding over football: beer drinking, belching, or whatever they did. Later, it occurred to me that, like a single parent sometimes had to play both roles for a child, a single child had to play both roles for parents.
“My appointment for the ultrasound is the day after tomorrow,” I reminded my parents on my way to bed. “If you want to come with me, let me know. If you’re there, you’ll find out if you’re having a granddaughter or a grandson. If not”—I paused for the sweetest of smiles—“it might be months before you find out.”
“Is that some form of emotional blackmail?” The question from my father sounded lighthearted. His face conveyed otherwise.
“Absolutely not,” I chirped. “It’s the truth.”
I hadn’t heard from or seen Evan since I insulted him in our driveway after our Sunday outing. I hoped meeting him at eight o’clock in the morning on a driving range counted as justified retribution.
I looked like a rerun from the last day we were together. Same blouse, same shorts, same hat. If nothing else, golf lessons would require me to expand my wardrobe. I had no idea if a line of golf clothes existed for pregnant women, but my father’s credit card needed to be ready since these lessons were his idea.
Evan was already there when I arrived. He was talking to two men in a golf cart, gesturing like he was giving them directions. Then he patted the roof of the cart and off they went. Watching him in those moments when he hadn’t seen me yet, I was reminded of my conversation with Mia. No doubt, even in the early morning, wearing his collared golf shirt and his khaki shorts, his hat folded and shoved in his back pocket, he was swoon-worthy.
I still wasn’t sure why he insisted on calling our time together “dates”; maybe he used the word to annoy me. We barely held hands the few times we’d been together, which was strange in itself considering our college relationship history. Maybe I was one of his volunteer projects. Someone lost, who needed attention. Someone he could help.
What did it say about me that I could fathom a relationship with another man when I was pregnant with Wyatt’s baby? Evan didn’t ask a lot of questions about the baby, and I didn’t volunteer much, either. Shouldn’t that be a red flag or at least a yellow caution light?
If he hadn’t looked up at that moment, I would’ve driven right back home, called him, and said I didn’t feel well. Because I didn’t. I’d managed to make myself feel sheepish and embarrassed by the time he told the golfers good-bye.
All of my hand-wringing about lingering awkwardness between us dissipated as soon as he opened my car door. “I’m so glad you’re here after your dad told me his surprise for you. I wanted to call to warn you. But if you hadn’t reacted with honest shock, like I’m sure you did, he would’ve known I’d told you. I wish you could’ve seen his face. He was almost as excited as the day he told me he was going to be a grandfather.”
I doubt Evan realized why, but my father had managed to shock me again. He’d actually shared with someone that he was looking forward to this baby. Hearing that made this morning a small sacrifice, in light of the overwhelming joy of knowing that at least my father wasn’t embarrassed by my pregnancy.
Evan toted the golf bag, and we walked toward the driving range.
“Did you know I was going to need this after Sunday when you gave it to me?” I tugged on the pink cap and tucked my hair behind my ears.
He set the bag on the ground between us and shook his head. “Nope. This actually didn’t come together until yesterday.” He opened a nearby ice chest and handed me a bottle of water. “Drink some of this before we get started. It’s warmer out here than it seems at first, especially when you’re standing in one place. Definitely don’t want you to get dehydrated.
“I probably shouldn’t be admitting this, but I’ve never taught golf to a pregnant woman. An obviously pregnant woman,” he said.
“Then I hope my father’s getting a special rate,” I teased as I pulled my hair into a ponytail.
“Are you kidding, Kavanaugh? I told him I charged extra for you because you’d probably question every instruction I gave you.”
I pretended to pout. “But that’s one of my most endearing qualities.”
“Sure it is.” He rolled his eyes. “Let’s get started before the it’s too hot to breathe.”
Evan pulled a club out and said we’d start with the grip. He didn’t warn me it was the hokeypokey for my hands. Palm there, curl your right pinkie here, roll your thumb there, index finger here . . . If I’d been made out of Play-Doh, it would have been far easier for him to manipulate all eight fingers and two thumbs.
“Okay.” I think he was speaking as much to himself as he was to me. “I’m going to show you how to address the ball.” He took a wooden tee out of his pocket and jammed it into the grass in front of me.
“Address the ball? This game is quite stuffy, isn’t it?”
“Olivia,” he said, choking down a laugh. “You can release the club now before your hand cramps.”
“Hey, I’m trying to be a good student. You didn’t tell me to let go.” I dropped it on the ground and did finger aerobics until the blood circulated again.
Words dropped out of his mouth and fell into a wormhole between the two of us. I held up my hand. “Stop. I lost you at where to put my left foot . . . though by the end of this lesson, I might have a place.”
He started over again, his voice shifting as if he were teaching a Remedial Golf 101 lesson.
“I’m not sure I’m going to be successful at a game that requires me to remember where every appendage of my body is at any given time, before I can even hit the ball,” I said, my frustration making my gut hurt even more.
“Relax. It’s all about muscle memory. And practice,” said Evan. “You’ve only been at this for, let’s see”—he looked at his watch—“fourteen minutes.”
“It would be easier to whack you over the head with this club than to hit that little ball.”
“Yes, but then you’d be arrested for assault, and orange is not your color.”
A golf cart pulled up near us, and one of the two women in it stepped out and asked Evan if she could speak to him for a few minutes. He reminded me to drink water, then excused himself, saying he wouldn’t be long.
Swinging a golf club, especially when I missed the ball more times than I made contact, digging up wads of dirt in the process, was more strenuous than I’d anticipated. But then the most exercise I’d participated in the past few months was running after Lily or walking to and from the car. So when my stomach felt tight, I was surprised the rest of me wasn’t sore.
I bent to pick up the ball at my feet when a searing pain shot through my abdomen. I supported myself with the golf club until it passed and decided the lesson was over for the day. Subjecting myself to torture should only be required if I intended to become a Navy SEAL, not a golfer.
>
Evan was a few steps away when I doubled over with the next pain. “Olivia.” He stood next to me, one arm wrapped around my waist and the other holding my shoulder. “Are you having muscle cramps? Sometimes dehydration causes that. Did you finish that bottle of water?”
I nodded, took a few deep breaths. You’re fine, Olivia. Relax. Stay calm.
“I’m getting you another one.”
But the next cramp hit, and seconds later I knew why. I waved the water away. “No, that’s not what I need.”
Evan started unscrewing the top.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s not dehydration, Evan. I’m . . . I’m bleeding. I’m bleeding . . .” I sank to my knees, holding my stomach as if somehow I could prop the baby up. Keep it from leaving me. I don’t even know who you are, little nugget. Don’t go yet. Please. Please. Stay with me. I’ve already lost your daddy. I can’t lose you, too.
I reached in my pocket for my cell phone and handed it to Evan. “Call my father. Tell him to come get me now.”
Evan took the phone. “We’re not waiting for anyone to come get you. I’m here, and I’m taking you to the emergency room. We’ll call your doctor and your parents on the way.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“I need you to listen to me. I’m taking this golf cart to the parking lot just around this bend to get my car. Don’t move.”
It seemed like he had just told me he was leaving when I heard him call my name.
“Livvy, I’m here.”
I started to stand.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I can do it. I can walk.” By now the insides of my thighs were wet and sticky.
“Are you always this stubborn in an emergency? I know you can walk, but you’re not going to.” And with that, he scooped me into his arms and carried me to his car.
“Evan, your seats. I’m . . . I’m a mess.”
He released my legs, opened the door, and guided me into the seat. “I don’t care about the seats. The entire car could be a mess, and it wouldn’t matter to me. You matter to me,” he said as he leaned over, buckled my seat belt, and reclined the seat. As soon as he was in the car, he started it and pulled out my cell phone. “What’s your doctor’s name?”
“Baby. She’s listed under ‘baby.’”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he said as he held the phone to his ear. “For a second there, I thought that was her name—hello, I’m calling for Olivia Kavanaugh. She’s a patient of . . .”
“Dr. Schneider,” I answered before he could ask.
“She’s, um, bleeding and cramping. We’re on our way to the emergency room at Lakeside Hospital. I’m handing the phone to her now.”
Before he backed out, he kissed me on my forehead. “Hang in there, Livvy,” he said, his voice soft and low. “I got this, okay? You’re not going to be alone.”
But I am. I am. I’m losing this baby. I’ll never know this child I’ve carried with me for months. All I have of Wyatt. Almost gone.
CHAPTER 47
Dad and Ruthie were in the emergency room waiting area when the EMTs wheeled me through the doors.
I looked at them, and Dad saw the question in my eyes. “Your mother didn’t come because she said she’d slow us down. Really, honey, it was more important to her for us to get here as soon as possible.”
“She asked us to call as soon as we saw you, so she could talk to you,” my grandmother said.
“First, I’m going to take her to admit to get all the paperwork started so she hopefully won’t have to wait too long. The doctor said she would meet us here as soon as possible,” Evan said.
“My dad or grandmother can help me, Evan. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but you don’t have to stay.”
Evan crouched in front of the wheelchair, his eyes reminding me of Laura’s when my mother was discharged. “How long have we known each other? Isn’t this what friends do . . . help?”
“But you’ve already helped, and I’m sure you have a lot to do at the club. It’s not like . . . It’s not like—”
“What? It’s not like it’s my baby? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” The pain I saw in his eyes that Sunday in our driveway resurfaced. “I know I can leave. I choose to stay. Because you’re my concern . . . pregnant or not.” He stood. His expression somber. “If you really want me to go, I will. Only because I respect what’s important to you. You tell me.”
Another cramp curled through my abdomen, circled around itself over and over and over, each time tighter than the last. I heard a sound like an injured animal, a high-pitched growl, and realized, as I lost more blood, that it was coming from me.
When the cramp unrolled itself, I reached for Evan’s hand. “Stay.”
“Why is God still punishing me? What have I done now to deserve this? Was it something I hadn’t done? I don’t understand.” I’d moved past tears, past sobbing, to a convulsing, ragged-breath squall.
I’d been moved to one of those curtained-off partitions where human suffering became a shared affair of faceless voices.
The nurse gave me a hospital gown and pads that hooked to some contraption that looked like a garter belt for Wonder Woman. She asked me if I wanted her to contact the doctor about something for pain.
“The cramps are doubling me over sometimes. Are they going to get worse?”
“Depends. It’s not the same for everyone, and if she’s not going to be here for a while, you might want to consider something to take the edge off. It’s best to stay ahead of the pain, if you can. I’ll call her, and I’ll let you know what she says.”
“Okay, but tell her I’d rather drink a bottle of wine or two martinis than deal with some of those pain medicines.”
She nodded and smiled. “Will do.”
I’d asked my grandmother to come with me, and she rubbed my back and shoulders while I lay on my side, being sucked in and spewed out by one whirlpool of cramps after another.
She didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to. Her gentle touch, reaching every so often to smooth my hair back, was all the conversation I needed.
Evan and my father rotated in and out for a few minutes at a time, looking so helpless and worried that I was beginning to feel sorry for them. My dad seemed relieved when my grandmother suggested that he and Evan go to lunch and bring something back for her.
Evan came back to ask what I wanted. My grandmother told him the nurse had suggested I not eat in case I needed anesthesia later.
“Do you, uh, want something to read? I have a few golf magazines in my car, or we can stop while we’re out and pick something up for you,” he said.
“That’s very sweet of you to offer, but I’m hoping the doctor shows up soon, and I can”—What? Get this over with? I waved my hand—“can something.”
“I got it,” he said and patted my shoulder.
“If you’re not up for doing this favor I’m about to ask, it’s fine. I know it’s probably been a while since you’ve talked to or seen Mia and Bryce. But would you mind very much calling Mia for me?” I stopped to clear my throat. “I . . . I can’t right now. And if she calls and doesn’t know . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Of course. Of course. Your dad has your phone. I’ll get the number and call. Do you want to talk to her? I’ll bring your phone back here if you do.”
I shook my head. “Not yet. Tell her I’ll call after I’m home. She’ll understand.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “The Mia I remember might understand; that doesn’t mean she’ll listen. Your dad and I will run interference for you.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll keep you updated. We shouldn’t be long.”
“Take your time. It’s going to be a while yet. For a man who owns an insurance business, he’s one of the worst drivers ever, even when he’s not in a hurry,” Ruthie said.
“My grandmother thinks anyone who doesn’t exceed the speed limit by at least seven miles shouldn’t be on the road,” I said.<
br />
“My kind of woman,” he said and flashed one of his epic grins.
When he walked out, Ruthie smiled and said, “You know, I don’t remember that man being quite that charming.”
“He wasn’t. He’s just proof we can change. I’ll fill you in”—I groaned, more from the dread of feeling the cramp start. I pulled my knees into my stomach, clenched my teeth, and vaguely remembered my yoga teacher telling us to “breathe into the pain.” I should have made an effort to attend more classes, because the pain was winning.
The nurse came back and said Dr. Schneider had approved some over-the-counter meds and a prescribed medicine. “If you don’t want anything now, just hit the Call button when you do.”
She left, and I asked Ruthie to raise the bed so I could sit up. An ultrasound technician came in and said Dr. Schneider was on her way, and she wanted me to have an ultrasound before she reached the hospital. The tech rolled the cart in, apologized for the cold gel she rubbed on me, and moved the wand over my abdomen.
I turned my face away from the screen. My grandmother watched from where she stood behind me at the head of the bed, and one glance at her face was the only screen I needed.
“I was scheduled for an ultrasound tomorrow to find out if the baby was a boy or a girl. Can you tell me?”
“You’ll need to ask your doctor when you see her,” she said, turning off the machine and wiping off the gel. “She was just a few blocks away when she called. Shouldn’t be much longer.”
Ruthie wiped her eyes with the corner of my bedsheet.
“Did you see a heartbeat?” The question tiptoed out as if it could walk past the truth without waking it.
She shook her head.
You’re gone. You’re really gone.
Your little heart stopped beating, and my grown-up one wished it could have beat enough for both of us.
My love wasn’t enough to save you or your daddy.
I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
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