Giftchild

by Janci Patterson

  My skin went cold. I looked up at the monitor. There was my heartbeat, and the baby's. Still no contractions. No alarms, no odd beeps, nothing.

  "What's off?" I asked.

  "It's probably just the machine. You haven't felt the baby move yet, have you?" she asked.

  "No," I said. "Is that bad?"

  "Not at all," she said. "I was just asking."

  "So did that fix it?"

  "I'm going to send the numbers to the doctor," she said. "He'll come by and talk to you."

  The nurse put the sheet back over my belly and left. Mom walked over and looked at the monitor, her face stretched thin. I was pretty sure she couldn't read it any better than I could. Still, it looked to me like the blue line representing the baby's heartbeat rippled against mine differently than it had before. I looked for the actual number on the side, and though I found something I thought was it, that value didn't tell me anything more. I had no idea what a normal fetus heart rate was, let alone a sick one.

  I put my hands over my belly, careful not to disturb the sensors. The baby had been moving during the ultrasound, so he was okay then, wasn't he?

  "What's it feel like when a baby moves?" I asked Mom.

  Mom wouldn't meet my eyes, but she did answer. "Hard to describe. Kind of like a fish swimming around inside you."

  My hands shook. I focused on my abdomen, trying to feel any changes. How would I distinguish the movement of a baby from the gurgling of my stomach, or the squishing of my other organs? The inside of a body moved as it processed—these weren't sensations I paid a lot of attention to.

  But what if I couldn't feel it because it wasn't happening? "If there's no movement, that's bad, right?"

  "Don't worry about it," Mom said. But I could tell that she was.

  Sure. No problem. Jeez. Was that what I sounded like when I told people everything would be fine?

  By the time Dr. Kauffman came in, Mom was pacing again, walking back and forth in the little space at the foot of the bed.

  How are you feeling?" the doctor asked me.

  "Scared," I said. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

  "The baby's heartbeat has slowed."

  My hands and feet went cold. I looked up at the monitor. Which one of those numbers was the heartbeat? I'd known something was different. If an adult's heartbeat slowed, you'd take them to the emergency room. It seemed like a lot could go wrong with a person before their heart started to react. "So what do we do?"

  "There's not much we can do," Dr. Kauffman said. "Do you mind if I examine you? Just your stomach this time."

  Rodney was already up and by the door. "It's okay," I said to him. "You can stay." But he took the chair farthest from me, and focused on the corner. Doctor Kauffman pulled back the sheets over my abdomen and prodded the flesh over my hip bones. When he pressed to the side, a dull pain spread through my stomach.

  "Ouch," I said. As soon as he removed pressure, the physical pain stopped. But the ghosts of it radiated into my limbs. I was supposed to be getting better. I was supposed to be healing, and that meant it should hurt less.

  His face grew concerned, and he prodded more, asking me to identify the exact spot of the soreness. Then he sat down and put his elbows on the bed next to me. "We can do another ultrasound," he said. "But I'm not sure we'd see anything we haven't already. Your vitals are still okay. Are you having any dizziness? Feeling light headed?"

  I took a deep breath. I hadn't been feeling that way until he suggested it. I shook my head.

  "This problem may still reverse," he said. "You can have more time if you want. But you're young, and not very far along. I just want to make sure you understand that you have options here. At this stage, complications are a real possibility. If you continue bleeding, you could experience shock, and you run the risk of needing emergency surgery to terminate the pregnancy. You don't have to wait. We can do surgery now, if you'd prefer."

  My heart skipped. Terminate now? End the life of a little boy who might be just fine? Seal in stone my fate of becoming a wreck just like my mother?

  I put a hand on my belly, just below the sensors, feeling how firm my skin was. A lump formed at the back of my throat. I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breathe. I looked up at Mom, who clung to Dad's arm. She wasn't speaking up. She wasn't telling the doctor that of course I would never terminate. She wasn't speaking on behalf of her unborn child. She just watched me quietly, waiting for me to decide.

  Rodney looked at the floor. And I wished I could ask him what he wanted, but I couldn't. Not in front of my mother.

  Gah. Why was I still trying to spare her feelings?

  "Penny?" the doctor asked. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes," I said. "We can end this now, and if I don't, there are risks."

  He nodded. "Do you know what you want to do?"

  I looked up at the monitor, at the large arcs of my heartbeat, and, superimposed, at the tiny, rapid arcs of the baby's. Not as rapid as it had been, apparently, but still there. A boy. Biologically Rodney's son. In the future, my mother and father's son. But right now, definitely mine.

  I steeled myself. I wasn't going to give up on him. I wasn't going to let them take away his chance that everything would still be all right. I wasn't going to break my mother's heart again, and I couldn't accept the breaking of mine. Mom's pieces might never come back together, but this baby and I still had a fighting chance.

  "No surgery," I said. "I want to wait it out."

  From the way Dr. Kauffman's lips curled in, I could tell that wasn't the answer he wanted. But if the risks had been high, he would have insisted, wouldn't he? He was a doctor. He wouldn't let me put my life in terrible danger.

  My chest muscles tightened. Except, he needed patient permission for surgery, didn't he? And if my mother wasn't insisting, and I said no . . . . Would he let me die, rather than interfere?

  "That's okay, right?" I asked.

  Dr. Kauffman nodded. "If things get worse, we'll have to revisit this."

  I pulled in a deep breath, trying to send healing oxygen into every part of my body. Once, I sliced my finger open with a kitchen knife. It had barely hurt at the time, but days later, as it began to heal, pain shot from my knuckle to my fingertip. Sometimes healing can hurt worse than the injury.

  I looked at my mother, and I saw in her red-rimmed eyes the consequences for all of us if it didn't.

  When Athena came back, Dad told her to go home. "We can't all crowd in here over night," he said. "We'll call you if anything happens."

  Fear ran over me like an icy hand. Anything. Like what? My death?

  Athena stole a glance at me. "If I'm going to go home," she said, "you and Mom have to at least run home for a change of clothes first. You don't want to stay here all night without any kind of a break."

  I smiled. Athena was taking care of me, in her own way, by getting Mom out of my face. Was that why she was always the one to confront Mom? I'd always thought it was because she couldn't help herself, but for the first time, I wondered if maybe it was more about protecting me.

  My heart sank. That should be a good thing—protecting the ones you love. But in our case that meant Athena was part of our sick, twisted dance. Not the outside observer, but one of the principal players.

  How could I not have known that before?

  When Mom and Dad left, Athena sat down next to me. "I'll stay if you need me to," she said, "but I think I've done enough damage."

  "It's fine," I said. "Don't apologize. I should have said those things to her a long time ago." Before I got pregnant, really. I shouldn't have made Athena back me into it, but those were my steps, and I knew them well. What would happen if I took different ones? Things would change, for certain.

  But would they get better, or worse?

  Athena squeezed my arm. "You want me to stay?" she asked.

  I couldn't watch Athena continue to manipulate our parents on my behalf. Not now that I could see that was part of the problem. "No," I said. "Go sleep."<
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  "I'll come back tomorrow," she said. And then she slipped out the door.

  Rodney and I sat, alone. He hadn't left once since he'd arrived. I looked over at him. I had to try, one more time, for his sake. "You really can go home," I said. "You must have been miserable sitting here with my mother."

  Rodney looked at me like that was the dumbest thing I'd ever said in my life, which, considering our history, must have made this a real winner. "Penny," he said finally. "You're in the hospital. Stop trying to make everyone else okay."

  I turned my face away. I should stop. But maybe I didn't know how. Already I was trying to find the right words to make him feel like he was doing a good thing, here. To tell him that I needed him, and I was glad he'd stayed, without making it sound like I was pushing him for more. I dug my fingernails into my palms; he'd just asked me to stop that.

  But what else should I do? Just let everyone be miserable? How would that be better?

  I leaned back against my pillow when I felt something shift inside me—a tiny flutter against my belly button, like a butterfly flapping its wings. I pressed my hand to my skin, but it was gone. Had I imagined it? Had it just been my stomach settling? Was it the bleeding? I couldn't be sure, but I kept my hand there, in case the fluttering came back.

  Rodney inched closer to me. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I think maybe I just felt the baby move."

  His eyebrows shot up. "Really? That's a good sign, right?"

  The tiny flapping returned, like someone tickling my belly button with a feather from the inside. It was too soft to feel with my hand, but the internal sensation was definitely there.

  Rodney hesitated, his hands hovering above the couch arm, like they were trying to decide where to land.

  "I don't think you could feel it from the outside," I said.

  And he nodded, but even so he stood, moving closer, and settling back in the chair next to me. He hesitated a moment longer, and then he took my free hand in his, like that's where he'd wanted it to be all along.

  I didn't move; I didn't twitch; I didn't breathe. I couldn't do anything to let him know how badly I wanted him to hold on. Rodney lifted my hand in his, closing his eyes and pressing my fingers to his forehead. My whole arm tingled. This wasn't a just friend's move. He had to know that we'd never be that. And he was still here, despite my protests.

  What had I done to deserve that?

  My stomach sank. I didn't deserve it. I couldn't.

  After a moment, Rodney let go of my hand and stretched his arm, like he didn't know what to do with it if it wasn't connected to mine.

  Just then the door opened, and a new nurse came in. I resettled on the bed. We must have passed the shift change.

  She eyed Rodney. "Are you family?" she asked.

  My heart beat faster. If he wasn't, would she send him away?

  Gah. Wasn't that what I was supposed to want? For him to go home and get some rest and not suffer here with me?

  Rodney sat up straight, and shook his head.

  His words from earlier rang in my ears: the evidence states otherwise. My heart pounded harder, and as he opened his mouth to say no, I interrupted him.

  "Yes," I said. "He's the baby's father."

  The nurse checked the monitor and repositioned my sensor belt. She seemed to be totally oblivious to the look of shock on Rodney's face.

  For a terrifying moment, I was sure that I'd said the wrong thing. It would be painful for him to attach to a child that wouldn't be his, and I'd gone and pushed him into it. But then his mouth softened into a smile, just barely, and he leaned back into the couch.

  The nurse fussed over me for so long, I was sure that my mother was going to come back in before she left. But at last she straightened my sheet, pointed out my call button, and bustled out the door.

  I held my breath, looking over at Rodney. I found him watching me. Our eyes met.

  "Thank you," he said.

  My mouth went dry, so rather than speaking, I nodded. And a realization buzzed through me—this was what Rodney wanted from me all along. Not to be free from responsibility. Not my endless string of apologies. Not to take the baby. Maybe not even to marry me.

  He wanted me to recognize his part in all this. He wanted me to quit making excuses, and just say the truth out loud. He was the baby's father. He was involved, whether any of us wanted him to be or not.

  And even if it took me forever, at least I'd gotten that one thing right.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Week Seventeen

  Right after my parents returned, the cramps came back with a vengeance. I arched my back against the mattress as the pain shot up my spine. Rodney's grip tightened on my hand as I shut my eyes. Even beneath my lids, they filled with white spots. My skin went clammy all over, and my feet turned to ice.

  I heard Rodney calling my name, and the door opening and my dad's voice shouting down the hall. There's a call button, I thought, but I couldn't open my mouth to tell him. A roar in my ears drowned out all sound, and for a long queasy moment, I prayed to lose consciousness.

  When my mind finally cleared, I opened my eyes. A nurse was jabbing an IV into my left arm, and Rodney still had hold of my right. My parents stood crowding around the foot of the bed. The door opened again, and Doctor Kauffman came in.

  He motioned for my parents to step aside, and they reluctantly did, though Mom never took her eyes off my face. The doctor asked the nurse a question, and she hung a bag of fluid above my bed, attached to my IV. My head started to clear, and I tried to sit up, only to wilt back into the sheets.

  "Penny," Dr. Kauffman said, "how are you feeling?"

  My voice came out scratchy and weak. "Crappy. Am I okay?"

  He shook his head. "Your blood pressure is dropping."

  Another wave of nausea washed over me. "That's bad, right?"

  "Yes," Dr. Kauffman said. "We're going to need to deliver. Now."

  I clawed at the mattress. "No!" The word came out so loud that everyone in the room, nurse included, stared at me. "I mean," I said, "can't we wait longer? Can't we see if it gets better?"

  Doctor Kauffman leaned over me. "It's getting worse," he said. "You're bleeding too much. If we don't deliver, you could end up in emergency surgery. You could die."

  Rodney's hand clamped down on my arm, like he could anchor me here.

  But I shook my head, my hair knotting against the pillow. "If you deliver, the baby will die."

  "That's right," Dr. Kauffman said. "I'm sorry."

  I squeezed my eyes shut. If I didn't give permission, would they go ahead and do it anyway? If Mom insisted, they probably could. I looked up to find her standing at the foot of my bed, looking me in the face at last.

  "Mom," I said. "We can't do that. This is your baby we're talking about."

  Mom spoke firmly, like there was no doubt in her mind about what should be done. "Penny," Mom said. "I'm looking at my baby, okay? And I don't want your life in danger. Not for anything. Do you understand?"

  That should have made me feel better. It should have made me feel like I was loved and wanted. But all I felt was a surge of anger, the strong, forceful kind that I didn't even know I was capable of.

  "Not for anything?" I shouted. "Not for the child you made us all miserable for?"

  "Penny," Dad said sharply. "Your mother is right." I recognized that tone. It was the one he used on Athena, when she went after Mom. My nerves caught on fire. I hadn't changed the dance; I'd just stepped into her shoes.

  I glared at him. "Why does Mom always have to be right?" I yelled. "Why does the whole world have to revolve around her?"

  Dad put a hand on Mom's arm. "She's hysterical," he said. "She doesn't know what she's—"

  But Mom put up a hand, silencing him. She stared at me, but her eyes glazed over, like she wasn't really seeing me.

  Or maybe she was seeing, not just me, but the last seven years of our lives. Finally. Clearly. For the very first time.

&n
bsp; "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  I dropped my head onto the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut. I wished I could block them all out, ignore them, make the whole world go away. Everyone but Rodney, who blessedly still hadn't let go of my hand. I squeezed it, trying to draw strength from him. Strength I didn't deserve, after dragging him through hell for nothing.

  "Okay," I said. "If there's nothing else we can do, then let's get it over with."

  My ears rang. Get it over with? This was a baby. My baby. Whose heart was still beating, at least at the moment.

  I fought to catch my breath.

  But I knew from Mom's experience how quickly that could change. And she was right. I couldn't kill myself over this. The baby couldn't live without me, not for several more weeks. If I died, we both died. It didn't get much more senseless than that.

  The muscles in my pelvis tightened, like menstrual cramps from hell. After everything I'd lost over this, here we were at another failure. It was supposed to be a good thing to sacrifice your own comfort for the people you loved. It was supposed to be the right thing to do, wasn't it? So why the hell didn't anything good come out of it? How did I end up here?

  The doctor knelt so his face was level with mine. "Penny," he said. "I need you to listen carefully, okay? You need to make a choice here, and I need you to understand your options."

  I spoke through my teeth. "I already told you I don't want to wait any more."

  "I know. But you have two options for termination, and I need to talk about the possible risks with you." He waited.

  I pried my eyes open. "Okay," I said. "I'm listening."

  He nodded. "We can remove the baby surgically," he said. "It's called a D&C. But if we do that, you won't be able to hold your baby. You won't be able to see him, understand?"

  I swallowed. It wasn't until that very second that I realized I could hold a seventeen-week-old baby. My arms ached. "Don't do that."

  "Okay," Dr. Kauffman said. "The other option is to induce you. You'll have to go through labor—though we won't let you dilate as far as if you were full term. The contractions might help the bleeding some, or they might make it worse. If you continue to hemorrhage, we'll have to stop and do the surgery anyway."