Chapter 41
Elena
The overhead lights are too bright and the floor is too cold against my grippy-socked feet and nothing, nothing, feels real.
My back hits the gurney harder than I expect and suddenly, everything is a blur of shouted instructions, shoes on tile, and the sharp beep, beep, beep of a monitor keeping time with my rapidly growing heartbeat.
I can taste something metallic in the back of my throat, and I can’t tell if I’m sweating or crying or both.
“She’s only six centimeters, baby is breech—”
“Her BP is dropping.”
“Where is her OB?”
“Prep the OR, we’re taking her now—”
Everything’s too fast. I can’t see Harry anymore.
That’s the thing that sends me spiraling, the monitor beeping behind me frantically. I was holding his hand five seconds ago. Where is he? Where the fuck is he?
My voice cracks as I try to speak, to call for him, but I can’t even get the words out. I try to twist, to sit up, but hands press gently but firmly against my shoulders.
“She needs general.”
“No epidural?”
“We haven’t had time.”
“I need — I need him,” I croak, or I think I do. My lips aren’t working. Nothing is.
“Honey,” a higher voice says near my ear, calm but urgent. Mary. “He’s right behind us. He’s here, Elena. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to take you back now, alright? Just breathe for me, we need to get that heart rate lower.”
My chest caves in on itself. I don’t want to breathe. I want Harry. I want everything to be okay now.
Fingers touch my cheek on the other side, warm and soft and familiar. Harry leans into view, his grey hair pushed back, his face pale but steady, calm even though I know damn well he’s not. I can see it in his eyes. His thumb strokes my temple as he walks quickly beside my moving bed.
“I’m right here, darling,” he murmurs. His Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes going glassy. “I’m not going anywhere. They’re just taking care of you. You’re okay. You’re both going to be okay.”
It’s not enough. My breathing is too fast, the beeping too loud, and I’m terrified, reaching for his shirt, trying to breathe through the panicked, wet gasps that aren’t reaching my lungs.
My vision goes spotty at the edges. I want to tell him that I’m scared, that I don’t want him to let go, that I’m not ready for this, and neither is she, that I haven’t even finished the nursery yet, she can’t come yet, she can’t—
But the lights overhead are blurring together and someone is shouting that I’m hyperventilating, and the last thing I feel is the warmth of his hand never leaving my cheek, even as everything fades into black.
————
The first thing I feel is the dull ache of my lower abdomen, deep and throbbing, but distant. Then the softness of the sheets beneath my palms, then the linen of the hospital gown against my skin.
My eyes flutter open to somewhat low lighting, the ceiling above me a blur of warm cream. I can smell disinfectant and flowers. There’s a hum in the background — machines, maybe, or air vents. Somewhere further, I can hear voices, low and careful, but it's too quiet to make anything out.
But there’s warmth beside me, around me. A hand curled around mine, skin against my temple.
“You’re okay.”
I can’t tell if it’s said in comfort or in relief, but I know the voice like I know my own heartbeat. I blink once, then twice, the ceiling turning blurry as I turn my head and he comes into view.
Harry.
He’s sitting beside me on the bed, his face pale with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, his lips parted. His thumb strokes my temple like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, his voice hoarse and tight. His forehead falls forward onto the side of mine.
“What… what happened?” I rasp. The raw, scratching pain in my throat is suddenly very real, and I bring my hand up to it as if it’ll help.
“You had to have a C-section under general,” he explains, but I remember that, remember the frantic talk as I walked in at thirty-six weeks already in labor, remember the panic when someone had said she’s breech.
“Your… your blood pressure tanked just before they got her out. But they stabilized you. You’re okay. ”
Before they got her out. You’re okay.
It slams into me as it repeats in my head, over and over, echoing—
My breathing gets faster. “Where is she—”
“She’s okay, she’s okay,” Harry says, realizing his mistake a moment too late. “Shh, deep breaths, darling. Breathe with me.”
“Where is she?” I repeat. Fuck his deep breaths.
“They’ll bring her in,” he says, taking my face in his hands. “She’s a little small, El, but she’s perfect. Healthy. She’ll need to stay in the NICU for a week, just as a precaution, but she’s good. She’s beautiful. She came out kicking like hell.”
I choke.
“Breathe,” he rasps, softer this time. His thumbs stroke beneath my eyes, wiping tears I didn’t even realize were there. “Don’t pass out on me again.”
I try to force myself to take slower, deeper breaths, but god, it’s hard. Breathing itself hurts when my throat feels like it’s on fire, but the mention of the NICU makes me shake.
“Look,” he says softly, tilting my head carefully in the direction of the door. “Look, they’ve got her.”
Behind him, a nurse steps forward with a yellow bundle in her arms, and Harry shifts carefully. “She’s awake,” he says to her, swallowing. “Can she hold her?”
“Of course,” she grins. “She’s a little fragile, so be extra gentle.”
Harry delicately takes her into his arms, turning just enough that I can see a bit of skin beneath a pink little cap, and I choke on a sob before I’ve even seen her face.
“Ready to meet her?” he asks, his smile soft as he looks down at me. The nurse is already on me, popping the buttons at the top of my hospital gown so I have a bit of skin on show.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
He settles her gently onto the skin of my chest, her bare cheek resting against my collarbone, and I swear the whole world tilts on its axis.
Little wisps of dark hair poke out from beneath the cap. Her face is scrunched, wrinkly, but perfect, her eyes closed, the rest of her wrapped tightly and carefully to keep her warm. My hands instinctively come up, cupping the back of her head and her bum, holding her in place.
She lets out the faintest little sigh, and I sob in return. It’s like she already knows me, and I, her. Like she’s home.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice cracking right open. “Hi, Clementine.”
Harry settles back against the raised bed, one arm curled protectively around both of us, the other hand brushing back my hair from my damp forehead.
“Look what we made,” he rasps, but I catch the break in his voice. His hand comes up, his thumb gentle as he strokes her cheek. “She’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
All I can do is nod, my gaze locked on her. I don’t think I could look away if I tried.
“I love you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple, his mouth lingering before his forehead drops onto the top of my head. “I love you both.”
“I love you too,” I whisper.
Later, when Clem’s in an incubator to the side of my bed and I’m cleaner and a little more mentally stable, Mary and Dr. Frasier trail in behind Harry. But I’m still just watching her, watching as her little fist closes and opens, aching with how badly I want her back on my chest.
“Congratulations,” Mary chirps, grinning as she steps fully into my field of vision. “Dr. Frasier and I will be handling your aftercare, as I’m sure you guessed.”
I swallow, then nod, forcing myself to turn to them.
“There’s no pressure to rush recovery,” Dr. Frasier says, his tired eyes glancing at Harry before falling back on me. “Rest and hydration are the most important.”
“And bonding time,” Mary interjects.
“I’ll get you whatever you need,” Harry adds, sitting down beside me again. “We can hire in a private chef, or I can cook every meal. I’ve already taken time off, rearranged the schedule since it’s a month early. Any kind of support, we’ll figure it out.”
I barely hear them. My gaze keeps drawing back to her.
She’s so small. So perfect. And for the first time in my life, with Harry’s hand in mine, even with her a few feet away, I feel entirely full — full of something more than expectation and familial duty.
Full of love, and full of purpose.
She’s mine. He’s mine.
I look up at Harry, his strong frame curled protectively beside me, his hand resting gently over mine, and everything feels right. Somehow, after all of the screw ups and the chaos and the unplanned speed bumps, it worked out. We worked it out.
I can actually breathe.