Chapter 10
10
Wil
I grip the edge of the nurses’ station, a wave of dizziness washing over me so suddenly that the computer screen before me blurs into meaningless shapes. The fluorescent lights overhead seem to pulse, intensifying the nausea crawling up my throat.
“Wil? You okay?” Sharon, one of the senior nurses, places a concerned hand on my shoulder. “You just went white as a sheet.”
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically, swallowing hard against the rising bile. “Just stood up too quickly.”
Sharon’s experienced eyes narrow with professional assessment. “Bull. You’ve been off all shift. This is the third time I’ve seen you nearly keel over.” She lowers her voice, keeping our conversation private from passing doctors and anxious parents. “When’s the last time you ate something?”
The thought of food sends another wave of nausea crashing through me. “Breakfast. Toast.” Even that had been a struggle, barely staying down during my commute.
“Go home, Wil. Whatever you’ve got, we don’t need it spreading through the NICU.” Her tone shifts from concerned colleague to authoritative charge nurse. “I’ll cover your patients for the rest of shift.”
“I can’t just leave.” I gesture toward the row of incubators, where tiny lives depend on constant monitoring. “Emma’s feeding tube needs adjustment, and the Ramirez twins…”
“Will be just fine under my watchful eye,” Sharon says firmly. “You’re no good to these babies if you’re sick. Go home, rest, and come back when you’re well.”
Despite my protests, she’s right. My professional ethics won’t allow me to risk these vulnerable infants’ health because of stubborn pride. Twenty minutes later, I’m changed into street clothes and heading toward the subway, each step requiring conscious effort as the world occasionally tilts around me.
The subway ride is torture with the swaying motion, the stale air, and the press of bodies radiating heat in the crowded car. I close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and count the stops until I can escape to fresh air and the relative quiet of my neighborhood.
In my apartment, blessed silence greets me. Gisele is working a double shift at the bar, leaving me alone with my misery. I collapse onto the couch, too exhausted to make it to the bedroom. The nausea recedes slightly in the stillness, though a persistent headache throbs behind my eyes.
A virus, probably. Something picked up from the hospital despite rigorous handwashing and precautions. I should drink fluids, take Tylenol, and sleep it off—all the standard advice I’d give a patient.
Something nags at the edges of my consciousness, a possibility I’ve been deliberately avoiding for days. With reluctant precision, I count backward. It’s more than a month since my last period. Six weeks, actually. I’m never late, my cycle running with clockwork regularity even during the most stressful rotations and sleepless stretches.
“No,” I whisper to the empty apartment. “It’s just stress. Or a virus.”
The nurse in me, the practical, science-driven professional, knows better. The timing aligns too perfectly with that night with Maxim. We used protection, but nothing is one hundred percent effective. The symptoms fit too neatly—morning sickness that isn’t limited to mornings, fatigue and dizziness, and the strange metallic taste in my mouth I’ve been attributing to hospital coffee.
I force myself up from the couch, moving to the bathroom on unsteady legs. The drugstore on the corner sells pregnancy tests. I could know for certain and replace anxiety with fact, one way or another.
Fifteen minutes later, I sit on the closed toilet lid, staring at the plastic indicator in my hand as if it might change its verdict through sheer will. Two pink lines. Unmistakable. According to the test’s packaging, over ninety-nine percent accurate.
I’m pregnant.
The room spins again, though this time not from physical symptoms but from the seismic shift in my reality. A baby. Maxim’s baby. A child conceived during a one-night encounter with a man whose last name I only learned from a hotel employee, who disappeared before dawn, leaving nothing but a rose and arranged transportation. I think of the rosebush in my kitchen and stifle a harsh laugh. I guess it’s not the only living thing he gave me after all.
I take a second test, needing confirmation despite the first test’s clarity. The result appears faster this time, equally definitive. My hands shake as I set it beside the first, creating a small, plastic panel of judges that have just sentenced me to life-changing consequences.
My mind races through options with clinical detachment like a defense mechanism against the emotional tidal wave building behind careful compartmentalization. I could terminate. It’s early enough that the procedure would be relatively simple. Probably just some pills and a follow-up visit to make sure it all passes safely. My medical benefits would cover it, and no one would need to know.
Even as I consider this path, my hand moves unconsciously to my still-flat abdomen. In my work, I fight daily for lives that begin against towering odds, pouring every ounce of skill and compassion into giving them a chance. Could I choose differently for my own child?
My child. The phrase echoes in my mind, foreign yet increasingly real with each passing moment. The sound of keys in the door jolts me from my spiral. I hastily wrap the tests in toilet paper, burying them in the bathroom trash before splashing cold water on my face.
“Wil? You home early?” Gisele’s voice carries from the entryway, followed by the thud of her purse hitting the counter. “The bar was dead so they let me… Holy shit, you look terrible.”
She stands in the bathroom doorway, concern replacing her usual animated expression. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
The question breaks something in me. Tears I’ve been holding back spill over, crumbling my careful composure under the weight of reality and the unexpected relief of not facing it alone.
“Oh, god, what is it?” Gisele rushes forward, arms wrapping around me as sobs wrack my body. “What happened?”
“I’m pregnant,” I manage between gasping breaths. “The test—two tests—positive.”
Her body stiffens momentarily in surprise before her arms tighten around me again. “Oh, Wil. Are you sure?”
I nod against her shoulder, unable to form more words as careful control dissolves into messy, undignified crying.
“It’s the mystery Russian, isn’t it? Maxim?” When I nod again, she guides me gently to my bedroom, sitting beside me on the edge of the mattress. “Okay. Okay. We can figure this out.”
Her calm practicality anchors me, slowly stemming the flood of tears. I wipe my face with trembling hands. “I don’t know what to do, Gisele.”
“First, you breathe.” She demonstrates exaggeratedly, coaxing a watery smile from me despite everything. “Second, we make a doctor’s appointment to confirm. Those drugstore tests are good, but you need proper prenatal care regardless of what you decide.”
The simple logic of these next steps helps restore some equilibrium. “You’re right.”
“Of course, I am.” She squeezes my hand. “And third, you know I’m with you no matter what you choose, right? Whatever you decide, I’m in your corner.”
Fresh tears threaten at her support. “I don’t even know how to reach him. He didn’t leave any contact information.”
Gisele’s expression hardens slightly. “We could try to find him. Jake knows people who go to Eclipse regularly. Maybe someone recognizes the name. Or maybe the florist would have a record of him ordering the rosebush?”
I shake my head. “Maxim might not even be his real name, and what would I say? ‘Remember our one-night stand? Surprise!’”
“If he helped create this situation, he should help deal with it,” she insists, protective anger flashing in her eyes.
“I told him I wanted just one night, no strings attached.” The irony of my own words isn’t lost on me. “He was respecting my boundaries.”
She sighs, her righteous indignation deflating somewhat. “Well, things have changed. You might feel differently once the shock wears off, and that’s okay.”
We sit in silence for several moments, the enormity of the situation sinking in. Eventually, she stands, practical as always. “I’m making you tea and toast, then we’re calling for the earliest possible doctor’s appointment.”
Left alone, I reach for my phone, opening the calendar app to count more precisely. Based on my last period and that single night with Maxim, I’d be approximately eight weeks pregnant. Still very early, so still time for all options and all decisions.
The bedroom door opens as Gisele returns with tea and dry toast on a tray. “Eat. Doctor first, decisions after.”
I manage a few bites, the simple food settling my stomach surprisingly well. “Thank you for everything.”
“That’s what family does,” she says simply, the word striking deep. Since losing my mother, Gisele has been the closest thing to family I have. Now, potentially, there will be someone else. A blood relation, a child of my own. The thought simultaneously terrifies and awes me.
* * *
Two days later, I sit in an examination room at a women’s clinic across town, deliberately choosing a facility unaffiliated with my workplace to maintain privacy. Gisele waits in the reception area, having insisted on accompanying me despite my protests that I could manage alone, but I told her to wait outside. I wanted her here, but I also felt like I had to do this alone. So many contradictory thoughts fill my head right now.
The doctor, a kind-eyed woman in her fifties named Dr. Garson, reviews my intake forms. “So you took two home pregnancy tests, both positive?”
I nod, hands clasped tightly in my lap. “Yes. It’s been six weeks since my last period…so I’d be eight weeks by LMP.”
She makes notes on her tablet. “And you’re a NICU nurse? So you understand the general process already.”
“In theory,” I confirm. “Different when it’s your own body though.”
Dr. Garson smiles warmly. “That’s always true. Let’s start with bloodwork to confirm the pregnancy and check some baseline levels, then do a transvaginal ultrasound to get a more accurate dating.”
I submit to the blood draw with professional detachment, watching my own crimson life filling small vials labeled with codes I recognize from my medical training. The nurse promises results within the hour, leaving me to change into a paper gown for the ultrasound.
Lying on the examination table, feet in stirrups, I stare at the ceiling tiles and try to quiet my racing thoughts. Dr. Garson returns with an ultrasound technician, explaining each step as they prepare the equipment. “This will feel a bit uncomfortable,” she warns as she positions the wand.
I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing through the strange pressure. A rhythmic whooshing sound fills the room as she activates the audio.
“That’s unusual,” murmurs the technician, adjusting something on the machine.
My eyelids snap open, professional alarm bells ringing. “What’s unusual?”
Dr. Garson studies the screen with intense focus, moving the wand slightly. “I’m detecting multiple heartbeats.”
“Multiple?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “As in twins?”
She shakes her head slowly, eyes still fixed on the monitor. “I’m counting...five distinct heartbeats.”
“Five?” The word emerges as barely a whisper. “That’s not possible.”
“Extremely rare, but not impossible.” She turns the screen so I can see the grainy black and white image. “See these areas here? Each one contains a gestational sac with cardiac activity.”
I stare at the screen, my medical training warring with disbelief. Quintuplets occur in approximately one in sixty million pregnancies naturally. The statistical improbability is staggering.
“There must be a mistake,” I say weakly, though I can clearly see what she’s indicating. Five distinct sacs, flickering with pulses of life, where I’d hoped for zero and had prepared for one.
“No mistake,” she says gently. “You’re carrying quintuplets, Ms. Lamb. This will be considered an extremely high-risk pregnancy requiring specialized care.”
The room seems to contract around me, and the available air is suddenly insufficient. Five babies. Not one surprise to adapt to, but five. The physical, emotional, and financial implications cascade through my mind in overwhelming waves.
“I understand this is shocking news,” continues Dr. Garson, her voice gentle but professional. “There are specialists we should consult immediately. Multiple gestations of this order present significant risks to both you and the fetuses.”
I nod automatically, nurse mode engaging as a defense against emotional overload. “Increased risk of preterm labor, growth restriction, preeclampsia, and gestational diabetes...” The list continues in my head, each complication more serious than the last.
“Yes, exactly. You’ll need frequent monitoring and possibly hospitalization in later trimesters.” She removes the ultrasound wand, allowing me to sit up. “I’d like to discuss your options comprehensively, including selective reduction.”
The clinical term registers through my shock. Reducing the number of fetuses to improve chances for the remaining ones and decrease maternal risks. A practical medical intervention with profound ethical implications, especially for someone who spends her days fighting for the tiniest lives. “I need time,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel, “To process this.”
“Of course.” Dr. Garson hands me printouts of the ultrasound. “These are for you. I’ll give you privacy to dress, then we should discuss next steps regardless of what you decide.”
Alone again, I stare at the grainy images in my hand. Five tiny beings, each smaller than a raspberry, yet already with beating fetal poles that will later become fully functioning hearts if I don’t stop the process. Five lives I never planned for, conceived in a single night of unexpected connection.
I place my hand on my abdomen, still flat despite the improbable crowd already gathering within. How will I manage? Financially, logistically, and emotionally? A single mother to quintuplets, with no family support beyond Gisele, and no partner to share the overwhelming responsibility. It’s impossible.
Maxim’s face flashes in my memory. Would he want to know? Does he have a right to know? The questions pile up, unanswerable in this moment of raw shock.
I dress slowly, movements mechanical as my mind races ahead to impossible futures. When I emerge from the examination room, Gisele jumps up from her waiting room chair, eager for news. Her expression falls as she takes in my shell-shocked appearance. “Wil? What is it? What’s wrong?”
I hand her the ultrasound printouts wordlessly, watching her confusion transform to disbelief as she counts.
“A, B, C, D, and E?” She looks up, eyes wide with shock. “As in...five babies?”
“Quintuplets.” The word still feels foreign on my tongue.
“Holy shit.” She drops heavily into the nearest chair. “How is that even possible?”
“Extremely rare but not impossible.” I cling to medical facts as a lifeline amid emotional turbulence. “Approximately one in sixty million natural pregnancies.”
“Leave it to you to beat the odds in the most dramatic way possible.” Gisele’s attempt at humor falls flat, concern overwhelming her usual flippancy. “What happens now?”
The practical question centers me somewhat. “I meet with Dr. Garson to discuss options and specialized care. Then...” I trail off, the future suddenly too vast and uncertain to contemplate.
“Then we figure it out,” she says firmly, standing to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Whatever ‘it’ turns out to be.”
I lean into her support, momentarily overwhelmed by gratitude for her presence. “Five babies, Gisele. How could I possibly...?”
“One step at a time,” she interrupts, surprising me with her uncharacteristic practicality. “Right now, the step is talking to the doctor. Tomorrow’s problems are for tomorrow.”
I nod. The enormity of five simultaneous lives growing inside me is too overwhelming to process all at once. I need to break this down into manageable pieces and approach it with the same methodical care I give my tiny patients.
Somehow, against astronomical odds, a single night with Maxim has resulted in not one new life, but five. Whatever connection sparked between us that night has multiplied beyond all statistical probability, binding us together in ways neither of us could have possibly anticipated.
Five babies. My babies. His babies. Our babies.
The reality settles over me like a weight and a wonder simultaneously as I prepare to face the first of countless decisions that lie ahead.