40
Penny
Oh, man. That hurts .
I grimace as I try to open my eyes, the anaesthetic doing its job far too well and making my eyelids heavy. Pain radiates through my body, and I groan, just as someone’s cool hand brushes the hair back from my face.
“Penelope, you’re okay,” a soft, feminine voice says. “You’re in the recovery ward. Your surgery went well. Perfectly, even.” I wince and groan again. “Your son is safe. He’s beautiful, and he’s with Beckett. They’re both fine.” Her words have me sighing in relief and relaxing back into the pillow cradling my head.
Instinctively, I place my hand on my stomach, only to find it deflated and squishy. Panic has me opening my eyes, fighting against the drugs. They strain against the fluorescent lighting of the room, and I squint, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling, until eventually, everything becomes clear.
“Hey,” the voice says, as I glance down at where my giant, pregnant belly used to be and run my hand over the blue hospital gown. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
I look up to find Melanie standing at my bedside, a soft, sweet smile on her face. Slowly, my brain processes her earlier statement, and I relax again.
My baby is safe.
He’s with Beckett.
I exhale harshly and sink further into the bed as Melanie fuses with the cords attached to the machines beside me. “Now that you’re awake, it won’t be long before I can take you to your room, okay? They’re waiting for you.”
They’re waiting for me…
Relief floods my system, and a content smile pulls at my lips.
I did it.
They’re okay…
After giving me some anti-nausea medication and monitoring me for the required amount of time, we leave the recovery ward. I hold my breath as my bed is wheeled down the corridor of the maternity wing, and into my room.
The first thing I see is Beckett sitting in a spotted burgundy armchair far too small for his large frame, with a dark-haired baby, wrapped in a pink, blue and white blanket, cradled against his chest.
“Beck,” I croak, my throat still a little dry and scratchy.
“Pen,” he mouths as his red-rimmed eyes meet mine.
“Hi.” I try to smile, as he sits there, frozen in place, but as his bottom lip begins to tremble, mine does the same, and my vision turns blurry, obstructing my view of them both.
Suddenly, he snaps into action, and in two large strides, he’s at my side, pushing past the nurses to cup my cheek with one large hand as he holds our son to his body with the other. He runs his fingers along every curve and line of my face, as if searching for signs of injury. “You’re okay,” he says, reassuring himself of the fact before sliding his hand behind my head and weaving his fingers through my hair. “You’re okay,” he repeats, his voice raw and rough. He leans down, places a soft kiss on my lips, and waits for the nurses to leave the room before whispering, “God, you did so good. I’m so fucking proud of you. So proud…”
I grin at him as he pulls back a little and his green eyes meet mine, feeling giddy from his praise and the look on his face.
If ‘love’ could be conveyed by a facial expression…
“Look what we made,” he says before straightening and shifting the baby around so that one of his hands is cradling the back of his head, and the other is supporting the rest of his tiny body. He holds him between us, and whispers, “Look what you did, baby…”
And just like that, the world stops spinning. I look down at a face that is so like mine, but not. At a tiny little person that I made entirely from scratch.
At my sleeping son…
“He’s beautiful,” I whisper, my entire body trembling. “Wow…”
“Isn’t he? He looks just like you.”
I nod, because he does, although he has Becketts nose and colouring, he’s got my eye shape, my brow bone, my hair.
Ignoring the pang of pain that comes with the movement, I use both hands to push myself into a better sitting position and take our son into my arms. The weight of his body against mine instantly relaxes me.
“How’re you feeling?” Beckett asks, as he runs his hand over the back of our son’s head, and I stare down at him in awe, committing every facial feature to memory.
I shrug as I run my fingertips along one chubby cheek. “I’m okay.”
And I am.
I may be sore, and tired, and in desperate need of a shower, but sitting here, with my son in my arms? I don’t know if I’ll ever feel any better than I do right now.
“If you’re in pain, I’ll get the nurse to come-”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head as I look up at him. “I just… I just want to sit here for a minute.”
Beckett nods in understanding and reaches for me. As his palm rests against my cheek, I lean into his touch and we both look down at our son and grin at the little frown on his face.
“Hi, Grayson,” I whisper, running my finger between his furrowed brows. “Hi, baby. I’m your mumma…”