Chapter 12
Tilly
Every time I’ve been given general sedation — too many times because I’ve done a lot of dumb stuff and then the cancer — I wake with this feeling of dread.
I don’t know if it’s from the sedatives or if my body just doesn’t understand that I’m already on the other side.
It could be something everyone experiences and no one ever talks about it.
I’ve been in a lot of survivors’ groups, and I always leave because I can’t take the weight of the conversations with them.
I can’t handle admitting that I’ve had the same thoughts as the other survivors.
I don’t want to know other people wake up thinking they died and the brain just didn’t get it.
I feel that now, although mixed in with that and the feeling like my brain doesn’t fit my skull and my body doesn’t fit, well, my body, I also feel this profound loss.
My pregnancy is over. I survived it. There was always a risk that I wouldn’t, a higher risk than most people have. I did plan for that in my own way. I asked Joss if she’d take care of my baby if anything happened to me, and she said, “Of course.”
She said it in a way that made it clear she didn’t think it was an actual concern, though. She thought I was being silly or paranoid. Just covering bases. Being responsible for once in my life, I don’t know.
But I lived. My baby did too. The doctors were all clear that he was never at risk.
It was my fever and blood pressure that had the nurses scared, and then the fact that I’ve already had so much surgery in that area put them on high alert.
So I’m sure he’s near me somewhere, but he’s not here.
It’s an absence unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, not even when my mother left or when my dad stopped recognizing me.
I wasn’t here to greet my son. I had that same vision that every expectant mom has of the baby being born and then patted dry and handed over. The skin-to-skin. The critical bonding time. Yet again, I ruined everything. I’m all he has. He needs to know I’m here for him.
I can’t move. I know this. I don’t even try. But I’ve been here before; I know a good place to start is just clenching and relaxing my fists. I don’t have a breathing tube this time, so I move my jaw, small motions that don’t actually open my mouth, just unlock it so I can swallow.
It feels like sandpaper.
I feel like the worst mom in the world over the fact that it’s the need for water and not the need to see my child that has me opening my eyes, but I need it. I need to see where I am, I need to understand what’s happened. I need to get my bearings and get my body under control for my son.
The room is dim, a huge relief. It’s quiet, and there’s a faint glow from the windows, like it’s nighttime but the shades are open. I’m just struggling to focus.
There’s a humming sound, though. A low one. Someone butchering whatever tune they’re attempting. I blink to clear the fog in my eyes, and my head is turned to a perfect angle that I see in front of me, across the room and near that window, Blaise Sinclair in a rocking chair.
Since he’s not looking at me and I’m not sure I can speak yet, I have nothing to do but study him.
The moonlight is hitting him just right to highlight his solid, proud profile, giving him an ethereal look.
It doesn’t help that he’s shirtless. That might be something fairly normal for him, but it’s an odd sight.
Like a god or an alien suddenly forming on Earth in a complete form in the middle of a hospital.
He’s not supernatural, though. He’s just an incredibly handsome man who has a baby lying flat on his chest.
My son.
It’s a powerful, poignant, devastating sight. The way Blaise looks down on him, with the softest smile and eyes glittering like tears have welled in them, it’s oh, so easy to pretend that this is the future. That he’s holding his son.
He’s got his hand on the baby’s diapered bottom, and he’s patting it gently, giving him bounces, but the tiniest of bounces.
Joss really likes Blaise, and she’s generally a good judge of character, which makes me feel like somehow I’m the villain and he’s the victim, even though I have no idea why.
Seeing him like this confirms it in a weirdly satisfactory way.
This isn’t his baby. He didn’t outright say he’s the father, but he didn’t go against anyone who implied that he was while they were prepping me for surgery, which saved me from feeling awkward about having no one here with me.
He stepped in big time, and he didn’t need to do that.
He doesn’t need to be soothing my baby right now, doing all those things that they say you should do for babies. He didn’t need to stay.
And that’s making me feel things that I’m probably feeling because I’m exceptionally vulnerable right now, but I’m still feeling them.
I clear my throat as best as I can, unsure if I can do anything else.
Blaise looks up, and for a single blink of his eyes, I see seething hatred in them. But it clears up immediately, and he whispers, “I’ll go get a nurse.”
He hops up, already crossing past me — carrying my baby with him as though he’s forgotten you’re not supposed to walk around with other people’s babies — but I shake my head as best as I can. I know what happens when the nurses arrive.
I’ve never had any really terrible experiences with anyone in the hospital.
Yeah, some people are seriously overworked and can be a bit rushed, but I don’t think my care ever suffered for it.
But this was a major surgery. Things are going to get busy in here, and I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to exist yet.
“Stop,” I cough out.
He finally halts and raises an eyebrow like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.
“Just . . . wait. Water.”
I kind of hate how easy he makes it look as he navigates around the room, grabbing a gigantic cup with a straw and a lid, dumping some ice in it from a small bucket, and filling it halfway from a tap, all with my baby dozing on his chest. He brings it to me, and I’m thankful he sits on the edge of my hospital bed and holds the cup for me.
I don’t know if I have the strength for it.
I sip from it carefully, testing it in my stomach. Some anesthesia makes me sick, and I don’t know what they gave me. I don’t know how long I was out or how devastating the surgery was on my body. So I don’t overload myself too much, just wetting my throat before resting my head back down.
“That’s all you want?” he asks.
“For now. I’ll want more in another minute. For now, can I see Orin?”
“An RN? Is that any nurse? Do you need an RN specifically?”
I try to laugh, but the sound is desiccated. “No, Orin. My baby.”
“Orange?”
“Orin!” I huff, half-expecting some alarm to start beeping to echo my irritation. “My baby. That’s his name. He’s a boy, right?”
Blaise scowls at me. “Of course he is. But his name is Donovan.”
“No, it’s Orin.”
“Like the popcorn guy?”
I swear I don’t have the brain function for this conversation, although honestly, it could be Blaise who’s suffering in that department. “That’s Orville. He’s Orin. It’s my dad’s name.”
“Okay, well, it’s not his name. His name is Donovan. Isn’t that right, buddy?” he asks the baby, so audacious he leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead. “Just like my hero. My man, McNabb.”
“You can’t name other people’s babies, Blaise!”
“His name’s Donovan.” He shrugs. “I’ve already filled out the paperwork, so it’s too late.” And then he has the audacity to roll the baby down into his arm to cradle him and rub his little chin. “Isn’t that right, Donovan? You know that’s your name.”
“Blaise—”
“I’ve been thinking about nicknames. I don’t really like Donnie. And he could grow into Don, I guess, but I think we could have a lot fun playing with Van. Van-Van? Vinnie Vennie Van? Vantastic?” He tips his head to a coy, playful angle and drawls out, “Nova? That’s pretty cool, right?”
I’m tired. Anesthesia is exhausting. Surgery is exhausting. I’m actually thankful that the baby has had someone taking care of him instead of a nurse. Nurses are great, but it’s not the same.
So, fine. Donovan, it is. It’ll be a crazy story for him when he’s older, something light and funny. Happy.
I take some breaths, making myself feel my body again, playing with my fingers to get the circulation going in them. They tingle a lot, not so unfamiliar for me, but it saddens me now.
Blaise raises a concerned eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Can I see him?” I ask.
That makes his eyes widen. “You want to hold him.” Not a question, just a statement. He even shifts his hold on Donovan to hand him to me.
“I can’t. The anesthesia? I can’t really lift my arms.”
“Okay, yeah.” He tucks Donovan back into his arm, as natural as if he’s been holding babies forever. Then again, how many times did I see it referred to as a football hold? Of course it’s natural. It’s his career.
He pushes the blanket down. I had a bag right by the front door of my apartment all set to go.
It was something I put together while I was on the phone with Joss, or else I’d probably never have done it.
It has a couple cute maternity dresses that I could have been wearing right now if I’d just thought to grab it instead of fighting with Blaise, but I’m in a hospital gown.
God, no wonder he hates me. Was I a bitch that night when I took the tequila from Merrick in the hot tub? Probably. I’ve definitely had my fair share of irrational moments in this pregnancy. It was probably me.
He unties the top bow but only pushes it apart to expose my upper chest, then settles Donovan on me, keeping a protective hand on him so he can’t slip off, although he feels secure here.
He feels warm and soft and heavy, but the best kind of heavy.
He’s little, lacking the chunky monkey baby fat, but he’s a month early.
Really, I’m just happy that he’s doing so well that he’s not stuck in an incubator.
There’s one in the room, and it’s clearly been used, but I don’t think Blaise would have been holding him if he wasn’t allowed to.
No, Donovan is perfect.
Okay, yeah. Maybe he is a Donovan.
“I’ve fed him already. Dr. Murray said we’d be able to tell when he’s hungry again, he’ll tell us in his own way, but he’s been super chill. We can give him another bottle or you can breastfeed, Dr. Murray said, whichever we want, but we’re supposed to call a nurse either way.”
His eyes never stray from Donovan as he relays that to me.
That protective hand doesn’t just hold him; it spins a small, slow circle, calming him.
I went out with the football wives a couple days ago, and I caught a peek at the men as their kiddos were passed off so the moms could get a much deserved break.
Evan and Dom, their kids are a bit older, but Lin and Wren’s is only a few months old.
The way Lin looks at Isaiah, with wonder and love and just a hint of fear, like it’s so much to take care of him, such an enormous responsibility, is the same way that Blaise looks at Donovan.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Just the doctor’s words. And I’m supposed to call a nurse when you wake up, but—”
“No, I mean thank you for dragging me to the hospital. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t. And thank you for staying.”
He’s silent, leaving the words heavy in the air for too long for it to be comfortable. He’s not obligated to acknowledge it or make me feel better about being so stubborn, but I can’t say I wouldn’t really appreciate it right now.
Only once I’ve convinced myself that I’ve said something horribly offensive does he say, “Someone has to look out for him, right?”
He cares about Donovan. Perhaps loves. I don’t know what that means for us.
I don’t know how fleeting his love might be.
It’s breathtaking the way that Blaise looks at Donovan, but I have to think every father looks at his newborn child that way.
They’re miracles, every one of them. It’s impossible a father would think otherwise, right?
But the world is cruel, and for some fathers — mothers, too — the miracle seems to be a new car sheen that wears off.
If that’s Blaise, it would make the most sense.
No judgment on him, but Donovan isn’t even his son.
He’s just the guy who gave me a ride to the hospital and got all tied up in this.
I tell myself to be thankful for whatever kindness I get from him, even if it ends once he gets the nurses.
But I want more.
“I’ll go get that nurse now.”