Chapter 15
Beth’s hospital room had settled into a quiet hum of activity.
Nurses came and went, checking vitals, adjusting monitors, offering Beth ice chips and words of encouragement.
The twins had been taken briefly to the nursery for their initial examinations, and Beth lay against the pillows, exhausted beyond anything she had ever experienced, waiting for them to return.
Her body felt like it belonged to someone else.
The epidural had worn off hours ago, and now she was acutely aware of every ache, every twinge, every reminder of what she had just put herself through.
Delivering one baby naturally was an athletic feat.
Delivering two, back to back, with only a few minutes between them, was something else entirely.
She had torn during Charlotte's delivery.
The doctor had stitched her up while she held Alexander on her chest, the strange tugging sensation barely registering through the fog of hormones and exhaustion.
Now the stitches throbbed with a dull, persistent pain that the nurses assured her was normal but that made every movement uncomfortable.
Her legs still trembled when she tried to shift position. Her arms ached from gripping the bed rails during the pushing. Her throat was raw from the sounds she had made, sounds she hadn't known she was capable of producing, primal and animal and completely beyond her control.
Gabriel sat beside her, his hand wrapped around hers, his eyes fixed on the door. He had not stopped touching her since the delivery, as if he needed the physical connection to convince himself that this was real, that they had actually done it, that their children were actually here.
“You should eat something,” Maggie said from her chair by the window. She had been there for hours, a steady presence through the chaos, and now she looked nearly as tired as Beth felt. “They brought a tray. There's Jello.”
“I'm not hungry.” The thought of food made Beth's stomach turn. She was running on adrenaline and emotion, her body still processing the enormity of what it had just accomplished. “Maybe later.”
“You need to keep your strength up. The babies will be back soon, and they're going to want to eat again later.”
The lactation consultant had visited briefly after the delivery, helping her get Charlotte latched for the first time. It had been awkward and painful, nothing like the serene images she had seen in books and magazines. Her nipples were already sore, and she had only nursed each baby once.
“How did you do this five times?” Beth asked her mother. “How did you go through this and then decide to do it again?”
Maggie smiled, a knowing expression that spoke of shared experience.
“You forget. Not completely, but enough. The body has a way of softening the memory, of letting you remember the joy without the full weight of the pain.” She paused.
“And the truth is, it was different every time. Michael was the hardest. Twenty-two hours of labor, and he was almost ten pounds. By the time you came along, my body knew what to do.”
“Twenty-two hours.” Beth shuddered. “I don't know how you survived.”
“You survived too. You did something incredible today, sweetheart. Two babies, both healthy, both perfect. Your body did exactly what it was designed to do.”
Beth looked down at herself, at the deflated belly that still looked six months pregnant, at the mesh underwear and the ice pack and the various tubes and monitors attached to her. She didn't feel incredible. She felt like she had been hit by a truck and then asked to run a marathon.
But she had done it, and she felt proud of herself in that moment.
A soft knock came at the door, and Chelsea poked her head in.
“You have visitors,” she said. “Michael and Brea are asking if you're up for company.”
Beth looked at Gabriel, who raised an eyebrow in question. She knew she probably looked terrible. Her hair was matted with sweat, her face was pale, and she was wearing a hospital gown that had seen better days. But this was her brother. He had seen her at her worst plenty of times before.
“Send them in,” she said.
The door opened wider, and Michael Wheeler stepped into the room.
“Hey, little sister,” he said softly.
“Hey yourself.”
He crossed to the bed and leaned down to kiss her forehead, his hand squeezing her shoulder with gentle pressure. Behind him, Brea appeared, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face soft with emotion.
“Beth,” Brea said. “Congratulations. We're so happy for you.”
“Thank you for coming. Both of you.” Beth shifted against the pillows, wincing as the movement pulled at her stitches. “Where are the kids?”
“With my parents,” Brea said. “We didn't want to overwhelm you with the whole crew. Quinn wanted to come, but we told her she could visit tomorrow.”
“She must be excited. A new cousin to boss around.”
Michael laughed. “Two new cousins. She's already planning their education. She has opinions about everything these days.”
Brea moved closer to the bed, her eyes taking in the monitors, the IV line, the general apparatus of post-delivery recovery. “How are you feeling? Really?”
Beth considered lying, considered putting on a brave face the way she usually did. But she was too tired for pretense.
“Like I've been turned inside out,” she admitted. “Everything hurts. Things I didn't even know could hurt are hurting. The nurses keep telling me it's normal, but normal feels like a very relative term right now.”
“It is normal,” Brea said gently. “I remember after Jackson was born, I couldn't sit down properly for two weeks. And he was just one baby. I can't imagine doing it twice in a row.”
“The second one was actually easier,” Beth said. “Or maybe I was just too exhausted to notice the pain. Alexander came out so fast the doctor barely had time to get into position.”
“That happened with Cora,” Brea said. “She was in such a hurry to arrive that Michael almost delivered her in the car.”
Michael shook his head at the memory. “Worst fifteen minutes of my life. Brea was screaming, I was trying to drive and call 911 at the same time, and Quinn was in the back seat asking if the baby was going to come out right there.”
“What did you tell her?” Gabriel asked.
“I told her to close her eyes and think happy thoughts.” Michael grinned. “She still brings it up at family dinners. Says it was traumatic.”
“It was traumatic,” Brea said. “For all of us.”
The laughter felt good, a release of tension that Beth hadn't realized she was holding. She looked at her brother and sister-in-law, at these people who had been through their own trials and come out the other side and felt a surge of gratitude for their presence.
Michael pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, his movements careful, deliberate.
Beth noticed the way he favored his left side, the slight stiffness that had never fully gone away after the shooting.
Three years, and he still carried the physical reminders of that day.
The scars, the aches, the moments when his body betrayed the trauma it had endured.
But he was here. He was alive. And that was what mattered.
“Mom told us it went smoothly,” Michael said. “Relatively speaking.”
“As smoothly as pushing two humans out of your body can go.” Beth managed a tired smile.
“Dr. Griffin was amazing. I really like her. She talked me through the whole thing, told me exactly what was happening and what to expect. And Gabriel...” She looked at her husband, her eyes filling with unexpected tears.
“Gabriel was incredible. He held my hand the whole time, even when I was squeezing hard enough to break his fingers.”
“I'll recover,” Gabriel said. “The feeling is starting to come back.”
“I'm serious. I couldn't have done it without you, and Mom.”
“You could have. You're the strongest person I know.” Gabriel lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “But I'm glad I got to be there.”
Michael watched this exchange with a soft expression. “You two are going to be great parents. I can already tell.”
“How can you tell?” Beth asked. “We've been parents for about four hours. We haven't done anything yet.”
“You got through the hard part. Everything else is just logistics.”
“Logistics that involve sleep deprivation and constant crying and learning to change diapers on two babies at once.”
“Details.” Michael waved his hand dismissively. “You'll figure it out. Everyone does.”
“How are you doing?” Beth asked, lowering her voice slightly. “Really?”
He met her eyes, and she saw the flicker of something beneath his calm exterior. The shadow that never quite went away, no matter how many therapy sessions he attended, no matter how much time passed.
“I'm okay,” he said. “Better than I was. Dr. Wells says I'm making progress.”
“That's good. That's really good.”
“It helps that Brea and I are in a better place. After Christmas, after everything the family did for us...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don't know how to thank you all. For giving us that time together. For reminding us what matters.”
“You don't have to thank us. That's what family does.”
“Still.” Michael reached over and took her hand. “I'm grateful. For all of it. For you, for this family, for the fact that I get to be here, meeting my niece and nephew on the day they're born.”
Beth squeezed his hand, feeling the strength in his grip, the steadiness that had always defined her oldest brother. He had been through so much. They all had. But they were still here, still together, still showing up for each other when it mattered.
The door opened again, and a nurse appeared, pushing a small cart with two bassinets. Beth's heart leaped at the sight of them, the tiny, bundled forms that represented everything she had hoped for.