Chapter 6
NICOLE
A nother entire week slips by, and I either face the news or pretend it doesn’t exist. For the most part, I ignore it. When stress hits, I fall back on old habits: I overwork and pretend nothing’s wrong.
Unfortunately, the baby growing inside me doesn’t care about my coping mechanisms. It’s intent on wrecking my body, leaving me with all day nausea. Screw whoever called it morning sickness. One foul whiff and I’m sprinting for a basin, and a hospital supplies plenty of those whiffs.
I’ve been on a solid diet of saltines, yogurt, and applesauce for the last seven days. I can’t keep down much else. If I pretend hard enough, it feels like a simple, noncontagious stomach bug. But it isn’t just the physical symptoms that have made this week hard.
The weight of this presses against my chest every second of the day. Even when I try to ignore it, I can’t outrun the truth. Sometimes I burst into tears without warning, just thinking about what’s happening. None of this feels fair.
The nights are the absolute worst. They’re too quiet and too empty. I should be exhausted after work, especially on days I pull a double, but I just can’t shut my mind off long enough to fall asleep.
The moment my eyes close, my mind races with a thousand questions I can’t answer. Am I going to keep this baby? If I don’t keep it, can I live with that decision? If I do keep it, will I actually be a good mother? Should I bother telling Sergei about this?
I still don’t know what to do about him or if I should even do anything at all.
He has my number, but he hasn’t reached out in six weeks.
He’s obviously not thinking about me. Even after the casual way he left, some stupid part of me hoped he would want to see me again.
He doesn’t, and our time together clearly meant more to me than to him.
I groan, dropping my head into my hands as I sink into the hard plastic chair in the ER break area. I’m worn out, my entire body aching from hours on my feet. My limbs feel heavy, my eyelids gritty, but I know the second I get home I’ll be wide awake again, trapped in my own personal hell.
The chair next to me squeaks as Mia plops down, stretching her legs out in front of her with a loud, dramatic sigh.
“I swear, if one more doctor talks down to me, I’m going to lose my shit. Don’t they know we work ten times harder than they do for a fraction of the pay?”
She’s pissed, indignant. It’s a good distraction.
“Rough shift?” I ask with a weak laugh.
She huffs, tossing her ID badge onto the table between us.
“Brutal. But enough about me.” She turns to me, her sharp gaze scanning my face. “How are you doing?”
So much for the distraction. I could lie, but she’d see through it. So I give her the simple truth.
“I haven’t been sleeping.”
Mia frowns, shifting to face me fully. “Because of the nausea?”
I shake my head. “Because of everything,” I say, gesturing vaguely.
Her expression softens. “What’s been keeping you up the most?”
I let out a breath, rubbing my hands over my thighs.
“My brain won’t shut off,” I admit. “Every time I lie down, it’s like a switch flips, and suddenly I’m thinking about everything.
My job, my future, the fact that there’s this life growing inside of me.
I haven’t even decided if I’m going to keep it, but if I do, I’ll probably be the shittiest mother in the entire world. ”
Mia tilts her head, her voice gentle. “Nicole, you’d be a great mom.”
The words blindside me, and a lump rises in my throat. Before I can stop myself, my eyes burn with the threat of tears. I shake my head, blinking rapidly.
“God, I hate hormones,” I mutter.
Mia grins. “You can’t blame everything on the hormones,” she teases. “You’ve always been a big baby.”
I let out a watery laugh. “Yeah, well. Now I’m growing a human, so I have an excuse.”
She nudges my shoulder. “You don’t need an excuse,” she says kindly. “You’re dealing with a lot. I’d be worried if you weren’t freaking out a little.”
I tip my head back against the chair. “It’s more than that.
My future used to feel wide open.” I breathe out shakily.
“Now, there’s this looming deadline that I have to face immediately.
If I keep the baby, my path is set. One decision mapping out the rest of my life as a tired, overworked single mom. ”
Mia doesn’t say anything for a second and just lets me sit with the words. Then she straightens, stretching her arms over her head before giving me a pointed look. “You know what I think?”
I glance at her, not sure I actually want to know.
She smirks. “I think you need to let me help you.”
“Mia—” I start, the protest at the tip of my tongue.
“Nope,” she cuts me off, holding up a hand. “I know you. You’ll try to muscle through this alone like you did for the nursing boards. Lock yourself in a room for two weeks and hope for the best. But you’re not alone, and you don’t have to do this by yourself. You have me.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle into my chest. She’s right, of course. I was planning to handle this alone. But I don’t have to. I’ve got people to support me.
“Good.” Mia grins when she sees that I’ve thought it over. “Now, let’s start with the basics.” She starts counting on her fingers. “One, you need sleep.”
“Easier said than done,” I groan.
“Two, you need food that doesn’t make you want to hurl,” she goes on, ignoring me. “More than saltines and applesauce.”
She’s pushy and stubborn, so I know my only option is to agree.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I quip.
“And as your advisor, I know you will accept,” she says, sticking her tongue out at me.
We sit in comfortable silence, too exhausted to say more.
The emergency doors slam open. Two EMTs rush in, pushing a gurney with an elderly woman strapped down. They bark orders at the intake nurse. The woman is non-responsive and needs to be seen immediately.
And just like that, our break is over. I’m on my feet before I even realize I’ve moved, my exhaustion forgotten as instinct takes over. Mia is right beside me, both of us snapping into action as we fall into step with the gurney.
“What do we have?” I ask, my voice sharp, professional.
“Seventy-two-year-old female, found unresponsive in her home. Signs of a stroke. BP is 190 over 110. Pupils unequal. She was unconscious when we arrived, but started responding to pain stimuli on the way here,” one of the EMTs says as we wheel her into the nearest open bay.
Time is everything when it comes to strokes.
We have to get her stabilized quickly or we risk losing her.
I grab the nearest blood pressure cuff, securing it around the woman’s frail arm while Mia adjusts the oxygen mask over her face.
The woman’s skin is ashen, her breathing shallow, and even though she’s blinking up at us, her gaze is glassy, unfocused.
“Ma’am, can you tell me your name?” I ask gently, pressing my fingers to her wrist to check her pulse. It’s weak.
Her lips part, but all that comes out is a slurred, unintelligible noise.
I exchange a look with Mia, who is already prepping an IV as the doctor walks into the room.
“Order a CT,” the attending physician tells Mia. She nods, handing me the IV and pulling out her tablet to code it in.
We haven’t gone far when a frantic voice rings out: “Where is she? Where the hell is my mother?”
Reflexively, I turn toward the man speaking, trusting the much larger EMTs will step in if he’s unhinged.
But when I look up, I stop breathing. It’s Sergei.
For a split second, I wonder if maybe I’m hallucinating again, as if all the stress and sleepless nights have caught up to me and it’s just another Sergei lookalike.
Before I can stop myself, I’m calling out his name.
“Sergei?”
His head snaps up, ice-blue eyes locking on mine. His expression flickers between confusion, recognition, and perhaps a little embarrassment, but it’s quickly replaced by panic.
Mia glances between us, recognizing my sudden paralysis. She takes over, finishing the IV.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, stunned.
His gaze darts past me, toward the woman they’ve just wheeled away.
“Where are they taking her?” His voice trembles, equal parts anger and fear. “Where are they taking my mother?”