Chapter 38 Gabriel | Florence
THIRTY-EIGHT
GAbrIEL | FLORENCE
TWO WEEKS LATER
“Gabriel,” I hear Zalea call from her bed.
It’s the middle of the night and completely pitch black.
“Gabriel, I need you,” she says, her voice small and shaking.
I feel around until I find the switch for the lamp next to the bed and quickly rush over to her.
She’s sitting up, the sheets pulled off her body, and staring down at a pool of blood. The sight kicks me into overdrive and I sprint out of the room, shouting for nurses and doctors, and then run back into the room to find her sobbing.
“Baby, baby, take some deep breaths,” I say, grabbing onto her face and forcing her to look at me, but I know my words aren’t getting through. “We need help!” I shout just as five nurses and Doctor Ricci rush in.
They begin speaking in urgent Italian as the nurses begin checking the monitors.
“Zalea,” Doctor Ricci says firmly, stepping in front of her so she has no choice but to focus. “Look at me.”
Zalea’s sobs come out panicked. “The babies—”
“We’re going to take care of you,” the doctor says. “But I need you to breathe for me.”
One of the nurses presses fresh gauze between Zalea’s legs, while another is adjusting the fetal monitor strapped around her stomach, the monitors beeping loudly now.
I force myself to look at the screen and see the dropping heart rates.
“What’s happening?” I demand, my voice almost unrecognizable.
Doctor Ricci glances at the monitor and then back at me. “She’s bleeding heavily. Likely a placental abruption.”
The words echo in my head as I feel my world tilting on its axis.
“With twins,” she continues quickly, “this can compromise oxygen to the babies very fast.”
Zalea makes a broken sound. “No,” she whispers. “No, no, no—”
I grip her face again, more gently this time. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and glassy.
“They’re here,” I say, even though my own pulse is roaring in my ears. “I see their heartbeats. They’re fighting. You hear me? They’re fighting.”
Doctor Ricci turns to the nurses. “Prep the OR. Now.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
“We’re doing an emergency C-section,” she says to us. “We cannot wait.”
Zalea’s fingers clutch at my shirt. “I don’t want to lose them,” she chokes. “I can’t—Gabriel, I can’t do this again.”
“You’re not,” I say fiercely. “You’re not losing them.”
“Gabriel, you can come with us, but I need you calm. If you cannot stay calm, you will wait outside.”
“I’m coming,” I say immediately.
The nurses move fast, transferring Zalea to another bed, adjusting IV lines, adding oxygen. Someone is cutting away her hospital clothes while someone else is pushing paperwork into my hands to sign.
They wheel her out of the room at a speed that makes my head spin. The hallway lights are blinding after the darkness and all I can hear outside of my pounding heartbeat is the wheels as they rattle violently over the seams in the floor.
Zalea’s hand is in mine the entire time.
“Stay with me,” she whispers.
“I’m right here.”
Her grip tightens as another contraction, or cramp, hits her and I’m positive more blood soaks through the pads beneath her.
I’ve never been a religious man, but I find myself begging for anyone, someone, to help.
Don’t take her. Don’t take them, I repeat in my head.
We burst through the OR doors and they quickly move her onto the operating table, raising a blue curtain almost immediately between her chest and her abdomen.
A nurse I’ve never seen before hands me scrubs with urgency and my brain feels detached from my body as I rip my hoodie off, my hands fumbling as I pull everything on. When I get to Zalea’s side again, they’re placing the spinal block.
“Gabriel,” she says, tears sliding into her hairline.
I lean down so my forehead touches hers. “I’m here.”
Her breathing is uneven. “If something happens—”
“Nothing is happening,” I cut in, because I cannot let her finish that sentence. “You’re going to be okay. They’re going to be okay.”
Doctor Ricci steps into position behind the curtain.
“Time is critical,” she says to the team. “Let’s move fast.”
The room fills with the metallic sounds of instruments clinking and machines beeping. And while I can’t see what they’re doing, I can still feel the tension in the room. Zalea squeezes my hand so tightly it hurts and then suddenly one of the monitors lets out a long beep.
My heart stops as I stare at the screen.
“Fetal heart rate dropping,” a nurse says.
“Let’s keep going,” Ricci orders.
Zalea’s nails dig into my skin and seconds stretch into minutes, but it feels like hours.
Her whole body shifts side to side as they tug and pull, and it’s sickeningly surreal to watch—I can only imagine how it must feel for her.
But the sound of a loud, angry cry moments later pierces through the room and Zalea gasps.
“That’s one,” someone shouts.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until everything becomes blurry, and then there’s another few seconds of unbearable silence where I don’t dare breathe.
A second cry, just as loud, fills the room and Zalea breaks down completely, sobbing in relief.
“They’re okay,” I whisper, my voice wrecked. “They’re okay. I hear them.”
“They’re here,” she breathes.
A nurse rounds the curtain briefly so we can see our tiny, red, furious little humans being rushed to the warming station.
“A boy and a girl,” she confirms.”One of each.”
I press a trembling kiss to Zalea’s forehead, feeling so proud of my girl.
“You did it,” I tell her, but when I look up I see another nurse's eyes go wide as she stares at something behind the curtain.
“She’s hemorrhaging,” Doctor Ricci repeats, her voice urgent. “We need to control the bleeding. Now.”
Everything inside me goes cold as Zalea’s eyes search mine immediately.
“Gabriel?” she whispers.
I lean down so she can only see me. I will not let her look past my shoulder at the silent panic happening behind that blue curtain.
“You did it” I say, even though my pulse is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. “You hear those cries? Our babies are here. They’re strong. You did that.”
Another suction sound fills the room and a nurse moves quickly to Zalea’s other side, pushing medication into her IV.
“Blood pressure is dropping.”
“Start another line.”
“Uterotonics, now.”
Zalea’s fingers twitch in mine as she looks up to the ceiling. “I’m so tired,” she murmurs.
My heart slams violently against my ribs. “No. Hey. Stay with me.”
Her eyelids flutter and I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Zalea.” My voice breaks. “Look at me.”
Her eyes drag open again, glossy and unfocused.
“I need you here,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers. “You don’t get to check out on me. Not tonight.”
She holds my gaze as I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, more as a comfort to myself.
“Pressure’s not responding.”
“Estimated blood loss?”
“Too high.”
“Prepare transfusion,” Doctor Ricci says firmly.
My stomach drops as a nurse rushes past carrying a dark red bag that makes my vision swim.
What should be one of the happiest days of our lives is quickly becoming a living nightmare—and for Zalea, this isn’t the first time.
I kiss her temple over and over, like if I stop touching her she’ll slip away.
“You’re okay,” I keep repeating. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
I don’t know if I’m saying it for her or for me.
“Would you like to see your babies while we stabilize her?” A nurse asks over my shoulder.
Zalea’s grip tightens weakly. “Don’t leave,” she breathes.
“I’m not,” I answer immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The nurse nods and disappears again.
The minutes stretch and feel like hours as Doctor Ricci’s voice remains controlled, but there’s worry in it now. “Come on,” she mutters under her breath. “Contract.”
Zalea lets out a faint whimper and the sound breaks my heart. This is not at all how either of us planned for her labour to go.
“They’re giving you medicine to help your uterus clamp down,” I explain softly, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “It’s helping. It’s going to help.”
Her breathing grows shallow.
“Gabriel…” she whispers again.
“I’m here.”
“If I—”
“Stop,” I say, my voice shaking. “You are not finishing that sentence.”
Tears spill down my face and I don’t even bother to hide them.
“You aren’t leaving me alone with two newborns,” I choke out, squeezing my eyes shut as I hold her hand to my forehead. “You aren’t leaving me after I just got you back.”
A weak huff of air escapes her.
“Pressure’s improving,” a nurse says, and a surge of hope floods through me at those words. “Bleeding is slowing as the uterus responds.”
Doctor Ricci exhales for what feels like the first time in ten minutes. “Good. Keep monitoring.”
I’m so relieved that I think I might pass out, or puke, but I take deep breaths in hopes I do neither.
Zalea’s eyes flutter again. “Are they okay?” she whispers.
“They’re perfect,” I say immediately. “Loudest babies in the building.”
A nurse appears at my side again, this time holding two tightly wrapped bundles.
“Ready, Mom and Dad?”
My breath catches as she lowers the first bundle carefully onto Zalea’s chest. A tiny, red-faced boy with a furious expression and a shock of dark hair plastered to his head.
Then she lowers the second bundle, our baby girl, much calmer than her brother, with her mothers beautiful red hair. Zalea begins to laugh and cry at the same time, tears streaming down her face again as she smiles down at the babies with pure adoration.
“They’re okay,” she breathes.
“They’re strong,” the nurse confirms. “Both breathing beautifully.”
I lean down, pressing my lips to Zalea’s forehead again. “One of each,” I whisper.
Her laugh is wet and exhausted.
“Would you like your first family photo?” the nurse asks.
I nod and pull my phone out, handing it to her once she’s removed her gloves. I snuggle close to Zalea and our babies and smile for the picture.
“Such a beautiful family,” the nurse comments, handing my phone back to me. “Have you two thought of baby names?”
Zalea shakes her head. “We’re still deciding.”
Doctor Ricci finally steps around the curtain, mask lowered, sweat at her temples.
“She lost a significant amount of blood,” she says to me as she watches Zalea holding our babies. “But we’ve controlled it. She’ll need monitoring in recovery and possibly ICU for a short period, but she’s stable.”
Stable.
It’s the most beautiful word I’ve ever heard, especially after we almost lost everything tonight.
“However, because the twins were delivered before thirty-seven weeks,” she continues gently, glancing down at the twins, “they’re considered late preterm. They’re breathing on their own, which is wonderful, but they’ll need some extra support.”
My stomach tightens. “What kind of support?” I ask.
“They’ll be transferred to the NICU for monitoring,” she explains. “It’s very common at this gestational age. We need to make sure they’re regulating their temperature, maintaining blood sugar levels, feeding properly, and keeping their oxygen stable.”
“For how long?” Zalea whispers, her voice fragile as her grip tightens instinctively around the babies.
“It depends on them,” the doctor says. “Some late preterm twins only need a few days. Sometimes it’s a couple of weeks. They’ll need to prove they can maintain everything on their own before we clear them to go home.”
The room goes quiet except for the soft newborn sounds and the steady beeping of machines.
“They’re okay, though?” I press.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Right now, they’re doing well. This is precautionary. Not an emergency.”
Zalea nods slowly, though I see the fear behind her exhaustion. She lowers her head and presses a trembling kiss to the head of our son and daughter.
“They’re fighters,” she murmurs.
I step closer, brushing my fingers over the tiny feet peeking out from the blanket.
“They get that from you,” I tell her.
The doctor gives us a moment before speaking again. “We’ll let you hold them a little longer before the NICU team comes.”
Zalea looks up at me, tears pooling again because I know she doesn’t want our babies to be taken from us so soon, and neither do I. Not after everything it took to get them here.
“I hate this part,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I just got them.”
I lean down and press my forehead to hers. “It’s not goodbye,” I murmur. “They’re going to take care of them, and we’re going to be right there. Every day. Every hour if they let us.”
She nods, but the tears still come as she whispers promises only they can hear. I swallow the thickness in my throat as I watch.
A soft knock sounds at the door a few minutes later before it opens.
Two NICU nurses step in quietly with rolling bassinets.
They explain everything again and then step forward to take the babies.
Zalea’s fingers tremble as she hands them over, one at a time, and I keep a steadying hand on her shoulder even though I feel like I’m splitting open.
I watch as the bassinets roll toward the door with our babies inside them.
“We’ll call as soon as they’re settled,” one nurse assures us.
The room feels emptier than it did before they were born, and Zalea’s hand shoots out for mine. She covers her face with her other hand and sobs.
“They’re okay,” I whisper into her hair. “I promise.”
It’s not the ending I imagined for tonight. But the babies are breathing, Zalea is still alive, and for now—it’s enough.