Now
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Evangeline
Acramp drags me out of sleep so abruptly that for a second, I have no idea where I am.
I groan into the darkness, one hand instinctively moving to my stomach as the pain tightens low in my abdomen. It feels like the contractions I’ve been getting on and off for weeks now, annoying false alarms that never become anything more.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and squint at the screen through blurry eyes. 3:17 a.m.
“Seriously, Ophelia …” I mumble hoarsely, eyes closed again. “I just fell asleep.”
Clenching my teeth, I wait for the cramp to fade, like it always does after a few seconds. Sometimes a minute. But the pain doesn’t ease. It stretches longer and longer, until the muscles in my stomach feel pulled impossibly taut.
I shift onto my back with a wince and stare at the dark ceiling, waiting for relief.
It comes eventually, but not fully. The ache remains underneath, dull and deep, settled somewhere between my lower stomach and spine.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Jackson is in Melbourne for the Australian Grand Prix. And as always during race weeks, my blood pressure is way up. I’ve tried, I really have, not to be dramatic about all this, but I can’t control it.
Ophelia and I have been doing okay, though. I’m just being monitored more closely.
I’m not allowed to watch the races live, which I have no desire to, anyway.
But I still compulsively check weather forecasts and things like that, wanting to make sure everything will be fine.
And Jada, who’s been staying with us for three weeks now, lets me know as soon as the sessions are over, to tell me Jax is alright.
Another cramp rolls through me before I can finish processing the first one properly.
“Oh, crap,” I whimper. This one hurts more.
By the time the next contraction hits, I’m aware this is different. There’s a pattern. Maybe this is it.
Maybe I’m going into labor a couple of weeks early. Just when Jax is literally on the other side of the planet.
I stay still for another minute, listening to the silence of the house around me while the pain slowly fades again. My heart beats harder than it should. Something feels wrong.
The pain doesn’t completely disappear between contractions. My lower back aches constantly, and there’s a strange pressure low in my pelvis. It worsens when I force myself to sit on the side of the bed and stand up. I turn on my nightstand and walk to the bathroom, one hand braced against the wall.
Another contraction tightens through my stomach hard enough that I grip the edge of the sink until it passes.
“We promised Daddy we’d wait for him to return,” I remind Ophelia with a grunt. “He’ll be so sad to have missed your birth, baby girl.”
Then I feel it. There’s something sticky between my legs, coating the silk of my shorts. Did my water break?
I pass my hand over the soaked fabric and look at my fingers.
It’s blood. Dark and thick. And a lot of it, too.
Not just spotting. I stare at it for a few seconds, trying not to panic.
I’ve had light bleeding during most of the pregnancy.
The obstetrician told me to come in if it increased.
This is increased, right? I need to go to the hospital, active labor or not.
A wave of dizziness hits me hard enough that my knees nearly buckle. I catch myself against the counter with a gasp. Okay. Something’s definitely wrong.
My reflection startles me when I glance toward the mirror.
I look awful. Pale enough that even under the warm bathroom light, my skin seems grayish.
Another contraction tears through me, stronger this time, and I suddenly realize I’m sweating.
I wipe shaky fingers beneath my nose before turning toward the door. I need to get Jada.
It’s as though my legs can barely carry my weight, weak beneath me. The guest room is at the end of the hallway. I make it halfway there before the next contraction forces me to stop altogether, bent slightly forward with one hand pressed against my stomach.
Jesus Christ.
“Jada?” I call weakly.
No response.
So I keep going, forcing my sluggish limbs to cooperate. When I finally reach the door, I open it without knocking. “Jada?”
She wakes almost immediately, sitting up in the dark. “Evie?”
“I think …” My voice comes out ragged, distorted by weariness and worry. “I think something’s wrong with the baby.”
She’s already switching on the bedside lamp before I finish speaking. The moment the light hits me properly, the instant she sees me, her expression turns into pure concern.
She notices the blood on my hand, then between my legs, which I can now feel dribbling down my inner thighs. Immediately, she goes into action and grabs her phone from the nightstand before rushing to me. She arrives just in time to steady me as my legs buckle.
My head spins, and it becomes hard to think. Another contraction rips through me so violently that I grab the doorframe with a whimper. Jada helps me down until I’m sitting on the cold floor, leaning against the hard edge of the doorframe. But she stays right here, comforting, gentle.
“Evie, sweetie, tell me what happened,” she urges.
“I was just having contractions, and there was a little blood, so I thought—”
“A little blood? Evie, that’s a lot of blood.”
“But it’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve been resting. I’ve been doing what the doctor said. I promise.”
“Yes, I need an ambulance,” she suddenly says, her tone not as gentle. That’s when I realize she’s on the phone. “It’s my daughter-in-law. She’s pregnant, almost full term. She’s a high-risk pregnancy, and she’s bleeding. Yes, a lot.”
Jada gives them the address, puts the phone on speaker, and then sets it down on the floor.
“Can you hear me, ma’am?” the operator on the other end of the line asks.
When Jada doesn’t answer, I understand he’s talking to me. “Ye—yes. I can hear you.”
“The ambulance is five minutes away. I’m going to ask you a few questions so they know exactly what to do when they arrive. Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
“Are you feeling dizzy?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what pregnancy complications you’ve had?”
“Partial abruption. Early in the second trimester.”
“Have you been watching your blood pressure?”
Overwhelming pain hits me again, claiming my entire middle, preventing me from answering. “I think she’s having another contraction,” Jada explains when the operator insists.
As soon as I can talk again, I answer, “Yes, they gave me a monitor. It’s … it’s been high all week. This is probably just labor. She’s early, but—”
“Sweetie,” Jada gently says, “it’s more than labor.”
“Okay, ma’am?” the operator calls out. “The ambulance will be here in three minutes. Can you tell me when was the last time you felt the baby move?”
I try to think about it, but I’m not sure. It’s been a while. She’s been calm lately, but that’s because she has less and less room to move around, right? It’s normal at this stage of the pregnancy, isn’t it?
“Ma’am?”
“I don’t know.”
“She moved a few days ago. Remember? You had a rough contraction, and she began moving a lot,” Jada recalls. “You put my hand on your stomach, and we felt her move together.”
“When was that?” the operator asks.
“Three … no, four days ago.”
“Alright, two minutes out. Let’s focus on breathing until they arrive.”
I do as he says, and so does Jada, supporting me the whole time. When a contraction comes, I do my best to keep the pace and breathe through it.
“Okay, the ambulance is pulling up in your street. Number fifty-three, is that right?”
“Yes, the house with the tree up front,” Jada says before focusing on me. “Okay, sweetie, I need to open the door for them. You’ll have to stay on your own for a minute. Is that alright?”
I blink at her.
“You’re leaving?”
“Just for a minute, sweetheart. I’ll run there and back, okay?”
“Okay,” I say with a nod, struggling to swallow.
She rushes out just as another contraction hits me. They hurt more and more, and I can’t hold back a wail at the pain this one causes. The operator tries to talk me through it, but I can barely hear them, hunched over, my teeth clenched so hard I worry one might crack.
This can’t be happening. Not when Jax is so far away.
Bracing my stomach with my hands, I look down and say, “Can you move for me, Ophelia? Just a little kick to let Mommy know you’re okay.”
Dark, thick fluid catches my eye. It slowly spreads under me on the marble-like tile. I watch as it expands, a line of it going faster along the grout.
Jada was right. It’s a lot of blood. Way too much of it.
Only then do I realize how cold my hands feel.
“What’s happening to us?” I whimper, wrapping my arms around my belly, desperate to protect her.
Heavy footsteps resonate in the hallway Jada left through, and when I look, I see three paramedics running toward me, two of them carrying a stretcher. Jada is by them, running to reach me first.
Everything spins, harder than it did before. For the first time since I woke up, I’m not in pain. The tightness that lingered in my lower belly is gone. In fact, I can’t feel anything. Not even the hard smack of the floor on my temple as my lax body falls onto it.
“She’s crashing!” someone shouts. Hands tug at me, moving me around like I’m a lifeless doll.
This can’t be happening. I’ve been doing everything the doctor said. I’ve been taking care of my baby. I’m a good mom. I’ve done everything I could.
Jada calls out my name, but I can barely hear her. She must have turned around because it sounds like she’s all the way at the end of the hallway. Or maybe even downstairs.
This isn’t real. It doesn’t feel real anymore. None of this is happening. I’m imagining it.
I’m a good mom.
With my legs folded against my chest, I scroll through the content on my laptop’s screen. My back is starting to hurt, pressed against the hard edge of the couch. I’ve been sitting like this for two hours straight, unable to stop looking.