Chapter 22 The Statistics
THE STATISTICS
EMERY
My eyelids flutter, heavy with grogginess, as I slowly drift back into consciousness.
The room swims into focus—it's large, filled with the clinical scent of antiseptic yet strangely warmer, less sterile than the rooms I've been in before. Pain pulses in my chest, and then I remember. Toni. The gun. The bullet. The bullets. The memory hits me so damn hard, and I can’t stifle the pained moan that tumbles past my lips.
Two blurry figures rush to my bedside, their faces gradually coming into focus as they draw nearer. Damon and Quin hover above me, their expressions a mix of relief and worry, but it’s exhaustion that stands out the most.
Damon reaches for my hand, his grip tight with emotion. "You're awake. Oh thank God, you're awake."
Quin leans down, pressing a soft, careful kiss on my temple. "I'm so sorry, darling. I'm so sorry that—"
I interrupt, my voice hoarse and strained. "Is she dead?"
Damon and Quin exchange a glance, their features hardening with the truth I so desperately don’t want to hear. I clench my jaw, steeling myself for the answer.
"Tell me. Is she...?”
Quin swallows, then shakes his head. “No, she’s not. Barry shot her in the shoulder before she could…” His lip twitches. “The FBI have her. She’ll…she’ll likely plead insanity. But she’s going away, Emery. She’s—”
Not dead.
Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.
But she would’ve been. A second later and…
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. How could I have been so stupid?
So arrogant? I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the signs.
She didn’t need the truth. She didn’t want it.
She’s pleading insanity. But is she? Maybe…
maybe not. But she’s alive. God, at least she’s still alive.
Pain flares through my body and soul as I push back the muddled regret and relief. She’s alive. She’s caught. And that’s all that matters.
Wincing, I glance around the hospital room, taking in the various machines and monitors surrounding me. I’m also alive. I’m… My gaze lands on a second heart monitor and my brows knit together.
"What..." I whip my head back to Quin and Damon, my pulse racing with a sudden dread.
"Why is there—” A sweet, almost magical smile spreads across Damon's face as he places a gentle hand on my stomach, over the thin blanket covering me.
Why is he… “No... I'm not…” I trail off, reality dawning on me as I catch the fear in Quin's eyes, his gaze darting away from mine.
"You're pregnant, Emery," Damon says softly, his thumb caressing the fabric over my abdomen.
My breath catches in my throat. Pregnant. A tidal wave of emotions crashes over me—shock, disbelief, fear, but also a glimmer of something else, something I can't quite name.
"I'm...pregnant?" The words feel foreign on my tongue. They’re words I never thought I’d speak. Or live. Panic bursts through me, and I remember my parents’ warning. I can’t get Dr. Yang’s voice out of my head. We were safe. I thought we were safe. We never talked about it. I never thought we’d…
Oh God.
The room feels too small, too suffocating, as I try to process the news. My heart races, not just from the surgery or the pain, but from the realization that I'm carrying a life inside me, a life that wasn't planned, a life that could potentially end mine.
Damon's hand on my stomach is both comforting and…and unsettling. I glance at Quin, silently pleading for some reassurance, but his avoidance only deepens my anxiety.
"I need to speak with Dr. Yang.” My voice is barely above a whisper. There could be complications. So many complications. “Can you call her? Can you… Can you fly her out here?”
Damon frowns, the light in his eyes dimming. "Of course, Emery. We'll make sure everything is okay. You’ll have the best medical team in the world. I promise.”
Quin finally meets my gaze, his posture hardened and unflinching. "Maybe she doesn’t want a medical team.”
I swallow. He’s a doctor. He must know the risks. Or he’s done the research. “I…” In my peripheral, I see Damon’s shoulders sag, and I can’t bear to look at him. “I’m not… I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay, Emery.” Damon’s voice is hurried, almost shaky. “Dr. Yang will be here soon, and we’ll—”
Quin interrupts him, tone low and clinical. “According to data from the TPRI, about two thirds of pregnancies in heart transplant recipients result in live births.”
Live births. As in they come out alive. Crying. Screaming. Breathing. Alive.
"But," Quin pauses, his expression grave. "There are significant risks to consider, particularly regarding immunosuppressive medications and their effects on both you Emery, and the baby."
Damon squeezes my hand tighter.
"Medications like mycophenolic acid, which you are taking, are associated with an increased risk of teratogenicity and miscarriage.”
Miscarriage. The word sends a chill down my spine.
Quin continues. "Complications such as preeclampsia and infections are also more common in transplant recipients during pregnancy.” His gaze is unwavering as he stares down at me, jaw tense.
“Rejection was reported during 9 percent of pregnancies. Thirty participants in the study died an average of 9.4—plus or minus 6.2—years after pregnancy.”
I swallow hard, bones frozen by the statistics.
“Stop it!” Damon abruptly stands up, seething. “What are you doing? Can’t you see that you’re scaring her!”
“Scaring her?!” Quin glares at him. “I’m telling her what she already knows, Damon.
With her condition, a pregnancy…” The color drains from his face.
“A pregnancy can be fatal.” He glances down at me, eyes glossy.
“Darling, please. You need to consider the facts. I…” His lip trembles. “I can’t lose you.”
“We won’t lose her,” Damon seethes, fists clenched. His expression softens as he looks down at me. “Don’t let him scare you, Emery. We…” His lip twitches. “The three of us will figure it out.”
It’s too much. I can’t give them answers.
I can’t even wrap my head around the situation.
I feel like I’m drowning. In fear. In hope.
In the possibility of a child. A child? A child needs a mother.
Am I a mother? Do I have that gene? Dread washes over me.
A child also needs a father. Oh God. A father. The father.
“How far along am I?”
Damon smiles. “Seven weeks.”
“I see.” With a deep breath, I close my eyes. They could both be the father. I’m carrying one of their children. A part of their DNA is inside of me. The pressure is too much. I can’t. “I’d like to sleep now. You can both leave.”
“Emery—”
I cut Damon off. “I said leave.”
And they do.
For three whole days.
I sit in the hospital bed, my body aching and sore as Dr. Yang walks into the room. Her presence brings me a sense of normalcy, and I offer her a small smile of gratitude.
"Thank you for flying all the way from New York, Dr. Yang.”
Dr. Yang returns the smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. Not at all. "I wish I could say it was entirely my choice, Miss Jones."
A frown creases my brows. "What do you mean?"
She sighs, pulling up a chair next to the bed. "The hospital was offered a significant donation in exchange for my being here.” She pauses, brow lifted. “You are not my only patient, Miss Jones. I hope you remember that the next time you use cash to summon me.”
I inwardly cringe. "I’m sorry. I—”
She waves me off. “No need. Let’s focus on your recovery and your pregnancy. How are you feeling?"
I take a deep breath, trying to push past the pain and embarrassment. "Physically, I'm sore, but mentally... I'm-I’m struggling.”
Dr. Yang nods in acknowledgment. "That’s understandable. You have a big decision to make.” She slides on a pair of sterile gloves. “Let me look at your stitches."
I wince slightly as Dr. Yang carefully examines the area, checking for any signs of infection or complications. I’ll have to stay at this hospital for two more weeks, then I can recover at home. That annoys me the most. I just came back to work, and now I’m limited in activity. All activity.
Once satisfied with her examination, Dr. Yang shifts the conversation to my pregnancy. "As a heart transplant recipient, your pregnancy comes with some unique considerations."
I listen intently as she reiterates the risks and challenges, her voice steady and reassuring. We discuss the importance of regular check-ups, monitoring for signs of rejection, and the possibility of adjustments to my medication.
“I know it all sounds very overwhelming,” she says.
“But with recent advancements in neonatal medicine and proper care, I believe you could safely carry this baby to term. That being said, if you wish to terminate the pregnancy, I would recommend performing the procedure as soon as possible to avoid any complications.”
I nod, absorbing her words like a sponge.
Options. She’s giving me options. I have options.
I can risk it. I can risk complications, the possibility of a miscarriage and the probability of a shorter life, to have a child.
Or I can choose to say no. I can choose to recover from this injury and continue living life as I was.
A year ago, the answer would be easy. I wouldn’t think twice.
Tom wanted kids. I didn’t. I told him that.
I told him I wouldn’t risk it. That I couldn’t risk it.
But that was Tom. I didn’t want to have a baby with Tom.
I didn't want to be locked in for life, or however long I’d have on this earth, with Tom.
But this baby? This baby isn’t Tom’s. It’s Quin’s.
Or Damon’s. Either way, it’s ours. This baby would belong to the three of us.
A year ago, I didn’t know I was capable of love.
Of affection. But now I know. They’ve taught me that I can love.
They’ve shown that I can care for somebody other than myself.
I place a hand over my stomach. Seven weeks. It’s tiny right now. Only half an inch long. Its features are starting to look more defined—eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Its legs and arms are growing. It’s becoming a little person. It’s half of me, and half of him. Whoever he is, I love him.
The survival rate statistics for a heart transplant flood my mind. Five years: 64 percent . 10 years: 53 percent. 15 years: 40 percent. 20 years: 26 percent.
Quinton said 9 percent of pregnancies ended with rejection. With one third of the individuals studied dead within three to fifteen years. Mathematically speaking, my odds aren’t great either way. Rejection is possible without a pregnancy. I could die either way, baby or no baby.
But if I kept it. If I kept the little bean, maybe a part of me would never die. Maybe a part of me would stay with them. Laugh with them. Hold them and love them when I’m no longer here. I think they’d like that. I think Damon would love that.
I settle into the bed, relaxing against the plush pillows. “Thank you, Dr. Yang.”
“Of course, Miss Jones.” She gathers her belongings. “I’m to stay in town while you recover here, so please, call me when you’ve made your decision.”
Dr. Yang exits the room. Damon and Quin hover by the door, their anxiety palpable. I sigh. I haven't been fair to them these past few days. I haven't let them in. I needed time. I needed space to think. But now I know. I know what I want.
"Come in.”
Neither of them speaks as they sheepishly enter the hospital room.
I meet their gaze, my tone firm and resolute.
"I'm keeping the baby.” Quin opens his mouth to protest, but I lift a finger in the air.
“And I don’t want a paternity test. This is our baby.
Ours. I don't want lines drawn in the sand. Is that clear?"
Damon beams with joy. "We're having a baby."
Quin's jaw ticks. "As you wish, my darling."
They sit on either side of the bed, and I reach for their hands. Damon's touch is warm and soft. I can feel the blood in his veins. But Quinton's hand is cold, almost frigid. Hard as ice. And he can't relax.
I glance up at him, our eyes meeting. He doesn’t need to say it. I can feel it. If the time comes to save one of us, he’ll choose me.
He will always choose me.