Beyond These Walls (The Walls Duet #2)

by J. L. Berg

  I’d just never expected this.

  I didn’t know why I’d awoken.

  Maybe I already knew. Somehow, deep down in the marrow of my being, I’d known tonight was the night everything would change. Our extended honeymoon was over, and like the sound of a movie reel settling back into place, our life was restarting.

  Whatever the reason, I’d woken up to find Lailah tossing madly. She was in a deep sleep, her eyes moving rapidly, as the moonlight drifted through the window, casting a deep shadow across her tortured face.

  “Lailah,” I whispered tenderly, caressing the skin across her cheekbone.

  She felt warm and sweaty.

  “Lailah,” I said again, this time with a bit more urgency.

  Her eyes opened weakly.

  “I don’t feel well,” she said immediately, grasping her stomach.

  “When was the last time you checked your blood pressure?” I asked, my body shifting into high gear.

  Ever since her trip to the ER in the spring, she had been put on medication to regulate her blood pressure. She’d also check it once or twice a day, just to be safe.

  “Before bed . . . maybe dinner?” she answered sluggishly. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  I stood quickly, grabbing her hand, as she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. As she rose, I could see her eyes lose focus, as if the world had just tilted on its axis.

  “Lailah?”

  “I think we need to go to the hospital,” she stated, her voice clear and calm as she gripped her chest.

  It was the calm part that made me feel anything but.

  I didn’t even bother acknowledging her. Rather, I jumped into action. I ran to the closet and dresser, pulling out clothes, anything I could find—jeans and a T-shirt for me, yoga pants and a hoodie for her. Shoes were found, and within three minutes, we were out the door, leaving a very sad and confused puppy behind.

  “He’ll be fine,” I promised as I sped down the highway toward the hospital. “I’ll call your mom and Grace the minute you’re in a room and have one of them check on him.”

  “Okay,” she answered softly.

  I grasped her hand across the seat.

  Flying into the parking lot, I stopped in front of the emergency room doors and helped her out. Thankfully, she was wheeled straight back to labor and delivery, and paperwork was put off until things settled down. I didn’t think I could even remember my own name right now, let alone be responsible for completing insurance forms.

  A nurse helped her strip down as they eased her onto a bed, hooking her up to a fetal monitor. The whooshing sound I’d become familiar with during doctor’s visits and ultrasounds gently filled the air. I watched the woman as she wrote numbers down, and she quickly left the room, only to return a moment later with the on-call doctor.

  Lailah and I nervously looked at one another, gripping each other for support.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Truman. What seems to be going on tonight?”

  Lailah briefly explained waking up, feeling disoriented, her chest burning. The more she spoke, the more anxious I became. Dr. Truman’s head bobbed up and down, as if she were neatly fitting all the pieces of a puzzle in her head. It was obvious she already knew what was wrong, and she was just confirming as Lailah spoke.

  “And how do you feel now?” the doctor asked.

  “Worse. Like I’m crawling out of my skin. My head is pounding, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  “Well, considering what your blood pressure is, I’m not surprised.” Her eyes narrowed. “How do you feel about delivering tonight?”

  I could see the panic immediately flare to life in Lailah’s expression.

  “But I’m barely thirty-one weeks. It’s not time.” The words rushed out of her mouth. “I’m not due until October. It’s not October yet!”

  Tears flooded her eyelids as I tried to comfort her even though my own heart was beating in a rapid staccato rhythm that I was finding hard to hide.

  Preeclampsia. Maybe worse.

  The doctor was sugarcoating everything, trying to keep Lailah’s stress to a minimum, but I knew that was what we were facing. They wouldn’t be risking a premature birth otherwise.

  “It is early,” the doctor replied. “But right now, we have to focus on the health of you and the baby, and this is the best option we have.”

  “We can’t just put me on bed rest? Up my medication to lower the blood pressure?”

  I could see it in her eyes. She was grasping at straws. She knew as well as I did that this was fruitless, but the idea of seeing our child in the NICU was sending her into mindless hysterics.

  “Lailah,” I said calmly, pushing back an errant strand of hair from her face, “I think the doctor is right. We need to do what’s best for Meara.”

  The use of her name seemed to calm Lailah instantly, refocusing her priorities and drive. Silently, she nodded, squeezing my hand, as tiny tears fell down her face.

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  “Great. I’m going to go notify the OR, and we’ll be back shortly,” Dr. Truman said before quickly leaving the room.

  The quiet settled around us as Lailah looked out the window. The only sounds were the whir of the machines, Meara’s fetal heart monitor, and Lailah’s soft sobs leftover from earlier.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I encouraged, grasping her chin in my palm.

  I tugged her attention back to me, and her crystal-blue eyes found mine. Doubt, worry, and distress weighed heavily in her soul.

  “How do you know?” she asked softly.

  “Honestly”—I exhaled, my eyes falling to the floor—“I don’t. I don’t know, Lailah. But I can’t see any other option. Because this,” I said, pulling her hand closer to my heart, “us, I can’t lose this. So, it has to be okay. Right?”

  I met her gaze again just as her arms fell around me.

  “Right,” she cried.

  We held each other, seeking the solid tethered feeling each of us felt when wrapped around each other. I’d always feel whole when she was in my arms.

  Suddenly, just as the world was righting itself in her arms and I was beginning to feel like we might be able to conquer whatever might lie ahead that night, alarms sounded, and nurses rushed in, breaking us apart. I stood, stunned and terrified. I stared down at my wife as they began moving cords and IVs, adjusting the bed for transport.

  “What’s going on?” I shouted.

  Lailah eyes rounded in fear.

  “The fetus is under distress. We have to get her into the OR now.”

  She turned to me. Sheer utter terror was written across her face as the room flooded with people. I shook my head, knowing what she was going to say before the words even left her mouth.

  “Meara comes first, Jude,” she cried out before an oxygen mask went over her head. “Meara comes first!”

  I shook my head, unwilling to process what she’d said.

  “Her blood pressure is climbing!” someone yelled.

  No, no, no. No!

  None of this was happening.

  They flew down the hall as I ran alongside her. Her eyes never left mine as she silently waited for me to answer her. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. No one, not even her, could make me choose between the two of them.

  Lailah would always come first.

  Always.

  But a single word brought me to my knees.

  “Please,” she said through the mask, tears streaming down her face.

  I couldn’t form words. It hurt too much. Was I actually going to agree to put the life of our child above hers?

  As I nodded, hoping I’d never have to make the choice, I saw her visibly relax. Her hand reached out for mine, but I never got the opportunity to take it.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. This is as far as you can go,” a nurse said, blocking my way.

  Lailah disappeared from my view. I watched the bed roll around a corner, wondering if that would be the last time I saw her . . . alive.


  Anger burned through my veins.

  “What do you mean?” I spit.

  “You’re not allowed in the operating room,” he simply said.

  “I’m her husband, the father. Why am I not allowed to be there during the birth?” I demanded.

  “Normally, you would be,” he answered, speaking calmly, as if he were talking to a petulant child. “But in emergency deliveries like this, no one is allowed back there since general anesthesia will be administered.”

  “You’re knocking her out?”

  “It’s the quickest way,” he explained, his expression dark and guarded.

  The quickest way to ensure the survival—of both of them.

  Lailah would never have any memory of those precious first minutes—the first cry, the cutting of the umbilical cord. Neither of us would.

  As I slid down the wall and waited next to the entrance of the OR for news, I prayed, prayed to whoever would listen.

  Because I needed a miracle, and I needed it fast.

  “I DIDN’T GET to say good-bye!” I shouted, stretching my head around, as I tried to will Jude back into existence.

  But he was gone, lost behind the double doors that now separated us.

  “There’s no time, sweetheart,” the nurse answered.

  I lay there, watching in panic, as they scrambled around me.

  Dr. Truman appeared above me, a sympathetic smile on her face. “We’re going to administer your anesthesia now, okay?”

  “I don’t get to be awake?” I cried as I felt a rush of gas flood through the mask over my head.

  “I’m sorry, hon. This will all be over soon,” a nurse said, appearing by my side. “Do you know what you’re having?” She gently smoothed back my hair.

  “A girl,” I answered, my eyes already drooping.

  The background began to fade as the lights dimmed.

  “And what is her name?”

  “Meara,” I answered softly.

  “Good. Dream of Meara. And when you awake, this will all be over, and you’ll be a mother,” she said gently right before my eyes sealed shut, and the world disappeared.

  Beep, beep, beep.

  My ear registered the familiar sound before my eyelids cracked open. After years of waking up to that particular noise, I knew where I was without having to see it.

  “She’s awake,” my mother said.

  The hospital room came into focus.

  Stark white walls surrounded me while the buzz of medical equipment whirred around me.

  I was back in the hospital, back in the world I’d left behind.

  Memories rushed through my mind as pain began to flood every nerve ending in my body.

  I remembered rushing to the hospital, alarms, crying as I’d begged Jude to put our baby before me, and then nothing.

  “Where is she?” I asked, my voice cracking, the words feeling dry and coarse against my throat.

  Marcus and my mother came toward me, warm tender looks of love in their expressions.

  Their silence sent icy shivers down my spine.

  “No,” I responded, shaking my head. “No . . .” I said again.

  “She’s in the NICU,” Marcus finally said.

  I froze. “She’s alive?”

  My mother nodded, a tear escaping down her cheek. “Yes, but it’s still touch and go, Lailah. Her lungs . . . well, she’s not breathing on her own.”

  “But”—my lip quivered—“the doctor said it was our only option. She said—” I couldn’t finish, my voice trailing off.

  She squeezed my hand as Marcus rubbed my shoulder.

  “They never know what to expect when delivering a baby early,” Marcus interjected. “She was blue when they pulled her out, which means she went without oxygen, and because of her size and age, her lungs aren’t fully developed. Right now, we just need to be thankful she’s alive.”

  I tried to adjust in the bed, and I felt a sharp pain shoot through me.

  “We’re lucky to have you both,” he added.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Have you heard of the pregnancy complication called the HELLP syndrome?”

  I shook my head, feeling dizzy from the wave of information being thrown at me.

  “Well, when you came in, Dr. Truman thought you were showing signs of preeclampsia, which is why she moved to do the C-section right away. But when Meara went into fetal distress and your blood pressure kept rising, she knew it was much more serious.” He looked down at me, his eyes misting. “You could have died, Lailah.”

  “But I’m still here,” I replied, carefully taking his hand in mine.

  He broke down, curling into me, as he cried. My mom joined him, holding her husband, as her arm softly touched my hair.

  “I’m right here,” I said, knowing they needed to hear it as much as they needed to touch the hair on my head and feel the tears falling down my face.

  These two people had nearly watched me die a dozen times over the last twenty-six years. It never got easier, and the fear and worry would never dissipate.

  “I’m okay,” I reminded them. “But Meara needs us, all of us.”

  I looked up at the exact moment the door opened. It was as if I’d summoned him from thin air. His hair was a disheveled mess, tousled in every direction, much like his clothes. But none of that mattered as his gaze met mine, and I realized I was still here.

  And so was he.

  Now, there was only one missing piece of our new little puzzle.

  “I’m going to go check for updates in the NICU,” Marcus said, adjusting himself.

  My mom quickly followed behind. Her hand briefly touched Jude’s shoulder before they left, and soon, it was just the two of us.

  “I wanted to be here when you woke up,” he said.

  “You’re here now.”

  Stepping forward, he raised his hand and placed a single cup of pudding on the metal tray beside my bed. “I was running a very important errand.”

  That single gesture opened the floodgates, and I broke. Every emotion I’d hidden, every fear, every damn scenario I’d envisioned that didn’t include me in it suddenly came rushing to the surface, like a hundred-year-old dam breaking in a deadly hurricane.

  I just couldn’t hold any of it in any longer.

  I was in his arms immediately as the tears flowed, and the overwhelming feeling of everything crashing down around me fell to the floor, one tiny drop at a time. When I felt his wet cheek touch mine, I knew he’d been holding back as well.

  We’d become experts at our own game. We’d been skating around the icy fear and haunting reality of what might come that neither of us had even realized the true depth our silence had cost us. I’d thought I’d come clean, vowing to live every moment in the present, but really, I had just shoved more and more doubt further down until I was nearly choking on the very idea of what might come.

  Now that it was nearly over, now that I was still here, still breathing and clinging to the man I loved, there were no words.

  No words but one.

  “Meara,” I said.

  His eyes met mine, red-rimmed and swollen around the edges from the lack of sleep. “She’s beautiful,” he said softly. “Beautiful, Lailah.”

  An entirely new set of tears fell from my eyes, but these were happy, thankful tears. “You’ve seen her?”

  He nodded. “Only briefly. She’s tiny, just around three pounds. But she’s perfect . . . and she’s ours.”

  “I want to see her,” I said.

  “You will. As soon as the nurse clears you to do so, I promise.”

  His hand tenderly went to my arm as my eyes traveled to the single cup of pudding he’d set on the tray.

  “Do I need to be cleared for that?” I asked.

  A small smile tugged at the corner of his lip. “Not if you plan on sharing it.” He pulled out two spoons from his pocket and handed me one.

  “Deal,” I agreed as I watched him peel back the lid of the cup.

  S
ome things never changed.

  We’d washed and scrubbed our hands, and as I took a solid deep breath, the nurse wheeled me into the room.

  I was meeting my daughter—for the very first time.

  It didn’t matter that I’d missed out on her first wailing cry as the doctor pulled her from my womb. It didn’t matter that circumstances had separated us until this moment.

  I was here now.

  The room was quiet, and a sense of calm met me as soon as we crossed the threshold. I’d seen NICUs in movies and TV shows but never up close. Nurses and other parents greeted me with a nod, welcoming me into the small club I now belonged to. It was a sudden kinship I never knew I’d have.

  A mother sat in a wooden glider, tightly holding a tiny baby against her chest. She lovingly looked down at her son, touching the smooth skin of his face, as she softly sang. In comparison to those in the incubators, he was huge, yet he still looked so fragile.

  There were others, too—babies and families that humbled me beyond words. I didn’t know what we were going to face, but I knew it would be nothing compared to some of the things I witnessed as I passed by the incubators in that NICU. My heart silently reached out for them as we made our way forward. Jude walked behind my wheelchair as the nurse pushed me forward, his arm firmly linked to my shoulder, as we were escorted to the corner where Meara was.

  The first thing I noticed were the wires.

  There were so many wires and tubes—in her arms and legs, wrapped around her nose, and taped to her feet. It was horrifying at first. Yet I knew from experience that, sometimes, the road to recovery wasn’t pretty, and without it, I also knew she wouldn’t be here.

  And neither would I.

  The second thing I noticed was her face, her little cherub face.

  Jude was wrong. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was breathtaking—the perfect blending of each of us. As my eyes welled up with tears, I reached toward her, my hands touching the plastic separating us.

  Ten tiny toes. Ten perfect fingers.

  Somehow, we’d managed to do the impossible.

  “Would you like to touch her?” a nurse came over to greet us, her voice calm and soft.

  “Can I?” I asked, my eyes never leaving Meara’s side.