It’s not a dream
This is real
It’s not a dream
My girls, my life,
My daughter, my wife,
You own my heart
You are my world
You are my girls
My girls
Tiny hands, tiny toes
Your mother’s eyes and button nose
I reach out, touch your skin.
It’s not a dream
This is real
It’s not a dream
My girls, my life,
My daughter, my wife,
You own my heart
You are my world
You are my girls
My girls
His voice was the sweetest lullaby, but like I did with every song he wrote, I edited it … because I could.
“How do you know she has my eyes and button nose?”
“I just do.”
“She might have your nose.”
“Nope. She’ll have yours.”
Shaking my head, I combined my fingers through his hair. “She loved it, and so did I.”
Connor tilted his head to look up at me, his teeth big and white. “Then my work here is done.”
He looked so handsome, so happy and content and I didn’t know how that could be possible. I mean, yes, he just married his childhood sweetheart and has a baby on the way, but he was also only twenty-four years of age with a dream career he’d put on hold because of me, not to mention his new bride was too exhausted to even consider consummating their marriage. It was all far from perfect and, yet, there he was, perfect and seemingly perfectly happy.
Guilt pained my chest, and I swallowed, heavily. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Promise me that no matter what happens after Christina is born you’ll get Jackson to set up another album tour.”
“Where’s this coming from?”
“Just promise me.”
He tried not to roll his eyes but failed. “Let’s just wait and see, okay?”
“Connor.” My voice was stern and not to be argued with.
“Fine. But you and our daughter will be coming with me.”
I scoffed but grinned.
“I’m serious,” he added. “I’ll need my muses.”
“If it means you’ll finally live out your dream, then, yes, we’ll come with you.”
Connor shuffled back up the bed until his head was sharing my pillow, his nose to my nose, his lips brushing mine. “Baby, you are my dream. Always have been, always will be.”
A tear escaped my eye and fell to the cotton pillowcase. “I know. But—”
“No buts. You, Max, Christina … I don’t need anything else.”
“But you do,” I pleaded. “You need your music. You’ve always needed your music and you always will. It’s so important to who you are, Connor. Please don’t let it go because of us.”
“I haven’t let it go.”
“It needs to be a priority. It needs to be a focus.”
“Right now, you’re my focus and priority.”
“I know that, but … down the track, I won’t be, and you’re gonna need something to—”
“Ellie, can we please not talk about this now.”
“But we need to.”
“Not now we don’t.” His lips were pursed, his brow drawn. I’d upset him.
“Okay. You’re right, we don’t. I’m sorry.” More tears fell so I quickly wiped them away. “It’s our wedding night and I’m—”
“Hey! No more tears. No more guilt. No more worrying about tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. Let’s just enjoy now.”
I nodded and snuggled back into his chest, holding him tight and never wanting to let go.
Connor reached for the TV remote and flicked it on just as Forrest Gump ran across the screen, Jenny screaming, “Run, Forrest. RUN!”
“Our favourite movie on our wedding night,” he said, resting his head against mine. “Does it get any better than this?”
I shook my head. “No.”
Because it didn’t.
The clang of the breakfast cart woke me the next morning, and I opened my eyes to find Connor opening his, his arms and legs outstretched before he stood from the sofa chair beside my bed. He was still clothed in his suit pants and shirt.
Glancing down, I noticed I was in my nightie, makeup removed, hair no longer covered in hairpins.
I yawned and sat up. “What? How?”
The last thing I remembered was Jenny and Forrest reuniting at his mother’s house. I remembered smiling because that was when their miracle little boy was conceived, and after Jenny died, that little boy would be the part of her that Forrest could forever keep.
“How did I get in my nightie? I don’t remember changing.”
“That’s because you were asleep.”
“You dressed me?”
“Of course.” Connor stretched again, and I could see the discomfort in his face.
“You got hardly any sleep, didn’t you?” I reached my hand out to him. “Go home. Get some rest.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, taking my hand in his. “I wasn’t leaving my wife on our wedding night.”
“It’s not our wedding night anymore, so go home and get some rest.” I rubbed my other hand over my belly. “We’ll be fine.” And as if on cue, my stomach made a god-awful rumble. “Right after I’ve fed us, we will.”
Connor pushed my food table closer to the bed and lifted the plastic cloche, revealing soggy bacon, shrivelled mushrooms, and a splotch of scrambled eggs that looked as appetising as a dish sponge.
I shuddered. “Yummy!”
“Do you want me to bring you back some hotcakes from McDonald’s?”
“And a hash brown.” I prodded the mushrooms with my fork. “Make that two.”
“No hash browns,” Dr Webb said, as he entered the room.
I grumbled. “Spoilsport.”
“Hearts don’t like hash browns, Ellie.”
“But stomachs do. And so do unborn babies with impressive roundhouse kicks.”
He raised his don’t-argue-with-the-professional eyebrow, so I gave in.
“How are you feeling today?” He checked over my chart.
“Exhausted, but okay.”
“Well, after yesterday’s excitement, that’s to be expected.” Dr Webb marked something down on my chart and then placed it on the bed. “Your BP was low last night. I’d like to take it again now that you’re awake and haven’t yet eaten.”
I stuck out my arm, my expression stoic.
“Has Dr Goodman been in to see you yet?”
“No. Why?”
Dr Webb wrapped the pressure cuff around my arm, pressed the button, and waited for the BP machine to take my reading. The cuff tightened but I didn’t flinch. I was used to it as much as I was used to brushing my teeth.
“Hm,” he murmured and unstrapped the cuff.
“Still low?” Connor asked.
“Yes.”
Connor handed me my cup of water, his way of saying ‘drink’. “What does that mean?”
“It means we might need to bring your Caesarean forward.”
“How much forward?”
“This week.”
“But that would mean she’s only thirty-one weeks gestation. That’s too soon.”
“Ellie…” He dragged a seat next to my bed and sat down. “I need you to understand that your heart can, and will, arrest if your BP isn’t stable. As your baby grows in these final weeks, so, too, does the pressure on your heart to pump more blood throughout your body. It’s just too risky for you and your baby to allow that to happen.”
“I want to speak to Dr Goodman.”
“Of course you do.” Dr Webb stood up but rested his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done so well, Ellie. You really have. But your heart is tiring, and if you let it tire too much, we can’t fix it, and then all that’s left is to get a new one. Hearts aren’t readily
available. They take time when, more often than not, there is no time.”
“Christina is my priority, Dr Webb. If Dr Goodman says it’s safe, we’ll bring forward the Caesarean. If not, we’re waiting.”
He shot Connor a look I wish he hadn’t before leaving the room.
“Right,” I said, slowly rolling out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower. You should go home and rest and shower yourself—”
“Ellie.”
“And don’t forget those hotcakes.”
“ELLIE!”
I paused and turned to face him. “Yes?”
We both stared at each other, my hands on my hips, his jacket slung over his arm. He still looked as deliciously handsome as he had yesterday, even more so now that his hair was awry and slept on. He also looked partly broken and fragile, and it broke my already broken heart.
Sighing, I surrendered. I didn’t want to fight. I also contemplated requesting his help in the shower, but not to wash the parts of my body I could no longer reach. “Come here, husband.”
Connor laid the jacket on the bed and wrapped his arms around my waist.
“I will speak to Dr Goodman when she makes her rounds and then set a date for the Caesarean, okay?”
“Good.”
“In the meantime, go home and take a nap, because you’re gonna need your energy for when you get back here.”
A devilish expression delivered me his dimples. “Oh I am, am I?”
“Yes.” I stretched onto my tippy toes and gently ran my tongue over his bottom lip before kissing him. “I’m not as tired as I was last night.”
Connor groaned and deepened the kiss. “One hour,” he said, pulling away. “That’s all I’m taking.”
“Two,” I countered. “And I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Deal.” He took my hands in his, clicked his neck, let go of one hand, and picked up his jacket. “See you soon, wife.”
I held on to his hand until they slipped apart, our arms dropping by our sides, and then he was gone.
Roughly an hour later, Dr Goodman entered my room, her eyes wide as she took in the surroundings. “Wow! It looks like a florist in here.”
“I know!” I stepped away from the window, reached into one of many bouquets, and sniffed a rose. “Maybe someone got married or something.”
“Congratulations, once again.”
“Thank you.”
She picked up my chart and took a seat on the edge of my bed.
“Sooo,” she drawled, tapping her pen on the clipboard. “I think it’s best we schedule a Caesarean for as soon as possible.”
“Best for me, or best for Christina?”
“Best for you, keeping in mind Christina is currently an extension of you.”
“You’re mincing words, Dr Goodman.”
“Look. Ideally, the longer the baby can stay within the womb to reach full gestation, the better. That said, born at thirty-one to thirty-two weeks, Christina will be classed as a moderate preterm and will require many weeks in NICU.”
“Nope. Uh ah. I’m not risking it then.”
“Ellie, most thirty-one and thirty-two weekers quickly catch up to their peers and have few long-term effects of prematurity.”
“What if we wait till thirty-three weeks, or even thirty-four?”
“If you were a healthy mother, yes, that would be better. But you’re not, Ellie.”
“I feel fine.”
“That may be the case now, tomorrow, or the next day, but if you take a turn for the worse, so, too, does your baby. Are you willing to risk that?”
Taking a seat on the couch Connor had tried to sleep on, I dropped my head to my hands and closed my eyes. “What would you do if you were in my position?”
“I can’t answer that. Your situation is different from most expectant mothers. But your wellbeing is just as important as your daughter’s. The longer you stay pregnant, the greater your risk of heart failure. And if your heart fails, so can your daughter’s.”
I looked up. “So you’re saying I’ve now become a ticking time bomb?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And it’s best to give birth prematurely before I blow?”
She nodded.
Sucking in a deep breath, I blinked back my tears just as Connor walked through the door, holding a brown paper McDonald’s bag. “Okay. Schedule the C-Section then.”
Dr Goodman stood up. “Good choice.”
I sniffed. “I hope so.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Connor
I held up a tiny pink onesie. “Tomorrow, we get to meet our princess.”
Ellie tried to smile but burst into tears instead. “It’s too soon, Connor. She’s gonna need help breathing and feeding.”
The smile I’d forced onto my face broke as well. “I know, baby.”
“I just … I don’t know if this is the right decision.”
Ellie’s stress levels had climbed ever since she’d agreed to an early C-section. As had mine, because it was imperative that we keep her calm—a next to impossible task.
Sitting by her bedside, watching her sob, wring her hands together, caress her belly, sob some more, and take deep breaths was destroying every bit of me. I wanted to scream, shout, or break something, but, mostly, I wanted nothing more than to ease her mind, help her relax and breathe, and to conserve her strength for what was to come in mere hours. But I knew there was nothing I could do or say to alleviate her dread and kill her fear of the unknown. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try though.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” I asked, reaching for the remote.
“No thanks.”
“How ‘bout read a book?” I pulled open her bedside drawer.
“No. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough.”
“You need to try and focus on something other than the Caesarean, Ellie. Anything.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“I know, but—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know how to ignore that your decision to prevent something life threatening will inevitably threaten the life of your unborn child. You don’t know the pain that causes me.”
“No, I don’t. But I do know the pain it causes me. And although it’s not the same, it’s still there.”
Ellie didn’t answer. She just turned her head away from me and gazed out of the window.
“You’re both gonna be okay, baby.”
“You don’t know that. I could die tomorrow. Christina could die tomorrow, or she could get sick and suffer.” She turned back to face me, her eyes red and angered. “No, she will suffer not ‘could’. Connor, she’s gonna suffer.”
“Shh, come here.” I climbed onto the bed and pulled her into my arms. “You need to calm down.”
“I can’t. I’m so scared. I’ve never been this terrified in all my life.”
“I know. I’m terrified too.” I held her tighter but not too tight. “We’re allowed to be scared. Even the bravest person gets scared.”
“I’m not brave. I’m a broken mess.”
I scoffed. “I know all about being a broken mess. Seems I’ve been there a few times already. But you know what, if I’ve learned anything from it, it’s that a part of being brave is to completely drop your shield and fall to your knees, because only then can you pick yourself up again and discover what true bravery is. You’ve got to be weak to be strong, and you’ve got to break to know you can be put back together again. To be brave is to be broken, Ellie.” I kissed her head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Breathe. You’ve got this.”
“I can’t lose her, Connor.”
“We won’t. She’s strong, like her mother.”
Ellie choked back a sob. “And stubborn like her father.”
Rubbing her shoulders, I waited several minutes for her crying to ease and her body to relax. “I bet she comes out wearing a bow.”
Ellie let out a small giggle and it filled me with warmth.
“Or dancing like Madonna.”
“Stop it.” She sniffled and laughed some more.
“What? I’m serious.”
“I bet her first word will be pizza.”
“It will. I have plans.”
Ellie yawned, her eyes slowly lowering.
“You want to have a nap?”
“No, not really. But, I am tired …”
“You feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I think so. It’s hard to tell nowadays.”
She stopped talking, and I found myself holding my breath, waiting and watching for her chest to rise and fall. It did, so I exhaled and carefully eased off the bed. I needed to get some air … and maybe, quietly, punch a wall or two.
When I got back to Ellie’s room, she was awake and writing in her notebook. It was the one she’d been writing in for the past few months. At first, I thought it was one of those pregnancy diaries, where women wrote about all the weird shit they craved eating and what parts of their body ached, and how much they vomited. But I was no longer convinced of that, because Ellie hadn’t experienced morning sickness, and she’d often put the pink fluffy notebook away when I entered the room. If it were a pregnancy diary, surely she wouldn’t be so secretive over it.
“There you are,” she said, laying it on the bed next to her thigh. “I was wondering where you went.”
“Coffee.” I held up two takeaway cups. “Decaf with three sugars, for you. And double shot with two sugars, for me.”
“Thanks.” She wrinkled her nose but accepted it.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just don’t feel the best. My tummy is a little queasy.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Just that piece of toast at breakfast.”
“You hardly even ate that.”
“I don’t feel hungry.”
“How about a juice? Do you want a juice?”
“Maybe.”
I shot out of the room toward kitchenette to pour her an apple juice, and by the time I returned, she was pale and rubbing her chest. Something was wrong.
“Ellie—”
Unspoken Words Page 34