Chapter 44
Ava
The book was done. I got back to the final page that read, “Time to watch the video.”
I closed it.
The man on the bench glanced over. “Was it good?”
I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t sure how to feel.
“Not good, then?”
He lifted his bottle to his mouth, realized it was empty, and flung it toward the trash can. It tipped over the edge and fell in with a clank. He arranged a dirty, torn brown blanket over his knees.
The night was getting chillier. There wasn’t anything like the man was wearing in the bag, a jacket with sleeves and a zipper in front. I could probably put on more than one shirt, though. I shifted the bag to find one.
“You got a problem, girlie,” the man said, waving his hand toward my chest.
I looked down. Two big wet circles had formed on my shirt.
I pulled the fabric away from my skin. What was that? The wetness was making me even colder.
“You got a baby, then, I reckon?” he asked.
What did he mean? My breathing sped up, like I was out of air. What was happening to me? I huffed harder and faster.
“You okay, girlie? Did your baby die or something?”
I flung the book back open. Among all the pictures was another one of me and Tucker, the very last one. I was big in that picture, my belly all swollen.
I wasn’t that big now.
I read the words below it. I’d skipped them because I knew the picture was me and Tucker.
Our last photo before the baby comes.
I let out a cry.
A baby! The blanket in my bag!
I pulled it out. It was small because it was for a baby.
It smelled different from my clothes because it was for a baby.
I was in the hospital because I’d had a baby.
I hurt between my legs because I’d had a baby.
My heart pounded. I had to go. I had to find the baby. I pressed my hand to my belly. It was soft and squishy, like something was missing from inside.
Did my baby die?
Or did I run from it?
I shoved the notebook in the bag but didn’t waste time zipping it up. I ran down the long sidewalk.
My feet hurt, and the pain came back, worse than before. My chest joined in, cold and clammy and aching as I moved.
A baby. A baby. A baby.
Eventually, the bright building became visible. As I dashed toward it, I spotted something that set off alarm bells in my head. I ignored it, but it kept happening, again and again.
I finally stopped to look.
It was me. My picture. It was on every pole, every metal box. I turned in a circle. On windows. Walls. Me, my picture, my name.
I reached for one and pulled it down.
Ava Roberts. Ava Giddings. Missing. Please call this number to contact husband Tucker Giddings or father Marcus Roberts.
Some photos were of me and the man from my bag. The one where our foreheads touch. The others were me with the gray-haired man. Some were just me. Smiling. Serious.
But they all said the same thing.
Ava Roberts. Ava Giddings. Missing.
Both of those names were me. I was Ava Roberts because my father was Marcus Roberts. I became Ava Giddings to match Tucker Giddings. I married the man from the notebook. We had a baby.
I clutched the paper as I ran hard. The pain was terrible, but I kept going.
I approached the big sliding door where I’d left.
It didn’t open.
I pressed my hands to the glass. A sign read, “Enter through Emergency.”
What did that mean? How could I enter through an emergency?
The pain was incredible. I clutched my bag to my belly, crumpling the paper. I needed inside. The lights were on. Why had they closed the doors?
Then I heard a voice. “Ava? Ava Giddings?”
I turned. A man in dark blue shone a flashlight my way.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Ava Giddings.”
He stood halfway out of an open door farther down. He looked inside the building. “I’ve got her!”
I tried to step toward him, but everything hurt too much. I leaned against the wall, hanging on to the bag.
“Bring a wheelchair!” the man called. “Hold on, Ava. We’ll get you some help.” He rushed toward me and placed an arm around my waist to hold me up. “Are you okay?”
My vision wavered from the pain, but I said, “Where is Tucker? Where is the baby?”
“Your family is here. They’re in your room.”
“They’re here?”
“Yes. We’ve been looking for you all day.”
Soon, I was surrounded by people. A woman in pink rolled out a wheelchair. The first man helped me into it, setting the bag in my lap.
Two more people in uniform came over. We squeezed through the small door to the elevator I took when I ran.
I was going back!
Lots of people in colored clothes looked at me as I passed them in the halls. They smiled and brushed their hands against my shoulder.
I wanted to go faster and, despite the pain, almost jumped out of the wheelchair to run again. But then we turned down a hall, and I saw the people from the picture.
The man who leaned his head against mine. Tucker Giddings.
The one with the graying hair. My father. Marcus Roberts.
Then a small woman with gray curls. Gram.
She held a bundle in her arms.
I didn’t care about the pain anymore. I tossed the bag to the side and launched from the wheelchair.
“Whoa, Ava!” someone behind me said, but I ignored them. I ran again, energy sparking through me.
When I reached them, I stopped. I didn’t look at the other people. They didn’t matter.
Only this one did.
He was wrapped in a white blanket with pink and blue stripes. His tiny face showed beneath a stretchy hat.
He opened his eyes. I knew those eyes. My whole body pricked with recognition. As he watched me, his mouth opened in a long, easy yawn.
I smiled, my body calming, the alarm bells no longer ringing in my ears. This was where I was supposed to be.
“Back down you go,” someone said, and I was pressed back into the wheelchair.
Tucker bent down. “You want to hold him?”
I nodded, still looking into the tiny eyes.
Then he was in my arms. I tingled everywhere. My belly. My chest. My shirt got more wet.
I knew him. I knew him with every part of my body.
They wheeled me into the room I’d run from, but I could only stare at his blue eyes. My eyes. We were the same.
Everyone seemed to be crying. My father. My husband. Gram. But not me.
And not this baby.
We could only look at each other.
There was no way I would ever not know that he was mine.