Now
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Jackson
Going as fast as I can without running, I make my way toward it. When I pass a desk with a nurse behind it, she tries to stop me with, “Monsieur! Monsieur, c’est trop t?t pour les visites!”
I ignore her, only stopping when I reach the door.
Twenty-eight hours. It took me twenty-eight never-ending hours to get here.
First, a flight from Melbourne to Abu Dhabi, then to Brussels, and a foot-to-the-floor race from the airport to here.
The drive should have taken me an hour and a half, but I did it in one.
Ever since I heard the first panicked voice message from my mom, I’ve been a mess, frantically trying to return home to my wife. Now that I’m here, though … I can’t seem to find the courage to open the door, fingers tightly clenched around the handle.
I’m too late.
I didn’t make it in time to hold my daughter while she still breathed.
Fresh tears gather in my eyes. They’ve been on and off since I heard my mom’s voice message upon landing in Abu Dhabi. Ophelia was only a part of this world for six hours. A little less. And I didn’t get to hold her, to let her know how much I loved her.
My hand comes to my mouth, pressed on it to contain the choked sound that rips out of it.
I’m too fucking late.
My grief flows down my face as I try to gather myself. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to be a dad. To have a perfect little daughter to cherish and spoil. Not this.
When I left for Australia, I knew there was a risk of missing my baby’s birth.
I made the calculated decision to fly there regardless, thinking the worst thing that would happen would be to miss her first few days of life.
But I’d still get to come home to find my wife with our firstborn in her arms.
I never imagined this would be the outcome. That I would miss Ophelia’s only few hours.
The handle moves in my hand, but not from me. When it gets tugged away, I let go. Mom appears on the other side of it, weariness veiling her saddened face.
“Jackson?”
“Mom, I—I …”
All the sorrow that I’ve tried so hard to contain release at once. A helpless wail rips out of me as I close my eyes tightly.
“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, taking me into her arms as jerky sobs shake me uncontrollably.
I want to stay there until it stops, until I can breathe normally again. But as I look over her shoulder, I see Evie on the bed, which is adjusted to keep her half seated up.
My mom lets me go when I pull away, and I walk to my wife. Her face is twisted toward the window and the dawn slowly lighting up the sky outside. She looks so small and frail in the hospital bed, her blue gown too big for her.
“Evie, princess,” I say, the words as tight as my throat. “Evie, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
I’m in front of her now, but she doesn’t look at me. Her face is a mask of neutrality, her eyes still fixed somewhere on the window.
“Evie, my love,” I beg, bending over to kiss her forehead as I graze her hair back. “Princess, talk to me.”
She doesn’t, but at least her gaze meets mine. I take her limp hand, which has an unattached cannula in it, and kiss its cold palm.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, princess,” I say once more, pressing her lax hand against the side of my face. “I should never have left.”
Again, no response from her. She remains stoic, as if there’s nothing left of her behind her hazel eyes.
“They gave her a sedative,” Mom explains, coming closer. “She hasn’t slept since … since Ophelia passed away.”
I wipe the back of my free hand over my cheeks, trying to dry them, and sniff. “Do they know what happened?”
She nods, then looks back at the open door. “I’ll see if I can find the doctor. He’ll know how to explain it better.”
After a forced, compassionate smile, she leaves me with my unresponsive wife. I focus on my princess again, torn apart by her blank stare.
She looks so pale in the cold light of the room. And she seems so tired, as if she hasn’t slept in weeks. Under the blue cover, her stomach is still round and swollen. It’s hard to believe the life that was growing there when I left is gone.
Not trying to get her to talk or acknowledge me any longer, I kiss the inside of her hand again, still mindlessly soothing her hair back. I failed her. I failed them both. My girls. My reasons to live.
Several minutes after her departure, Mom returns, accompanied by the obstetrician who’s been following the pregnancy.
“Mr. Reyes,” he greets me solemnly. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. We did everything we could for your daughter.”
“I know. My mom explained some of it. Can you tell me what exactly happened?”
He glances toward Evie, who’s back to staring silently out the window. Understanding immediately, I press one last kiss to her hand before gently setting it down. “I’ll be right back, princess.”
We step into the hallway, and the obstetrician lowers his voice. “I believe your wife’s partial placental abruption worsened a few days before she was admitted. The detachment became large enough to compromise the baby’s oxygen supply.”
My stomach twists violently. “And nobody noticed?”
“It can be very insidious,” he carefully explains.
“It was what we call a concealed abruption. In those cases, much of the bleeding remains trapped between the placenta and the uterine wall instead of exiting the body immediately. Symptoms can be difficult to identify until the situation suddenly deteriorates.”
“And it did?”
He nods. “The night she was rushed to the OR, it developed into a complete abruption. The accumulated blood suddenly began releasing, and the increased abruption contributed to the hemorrhage, which is why she bled profusely. By the time she got here, the baby was already too far down for a C-section to be a safe option, so the team proceeded with an emergency vaginal delivery to save both the mother’s and the child’s lives.
But despite my colleagues’ best efforts, it was already too late for your daughter at that stage. ”
“Why?”
“She had suffered profound hypoxia before delivery. The lack of oxygen for a prolonged period of time damaged her brain. The neonatal team placed her on a ventilator, but she wasn’t able to sustain oxygenation.
Her organs went into failure, and she passed away about five hours and forty minutes after the birth. ”
I swallow his words, digesting the pain they cause for a moment, then ask, “And Evie? How is she doing?”
The doctor looks into the room, where Mom is sitting by her side, holding her hand.
“Physically, she will be alright. She lost a lot of blood, so we had to give her two transfusions. The recovery will take a little longer than after an uncomplicated delivery, but she will return to her former self. Her reproductive organs will, too, and she will be able to get pregnant again without an issue. Emotionally, though … A neonatal death is always a tragedy, and everyone handles grief differently. Our psychiatrist has come to see her twice, but she hasn’t been very responsive.
Now that you’re back, I’m sure things will get better. ”
It’s my turn to look at her, chest tight at the sight. “I’m not so sure. I think she blames me for leaving. She begged me to stay. She begged me to stop racing until Ophelia was born. But I didn’t listen.”
Guilt makes my skin crawl, and I fight the tremor threatening to take over.
“If I may,” the doctor softly continues, “I believe she blames herself more at the moment. For not noticing the signs. For not coming in when the light spotting returned. But I told her, and I’m telling you, there’s nothing you could have done differently.
Sometimes, these things happen. They are, sadly, one of the hard facts of life. ”
“They shouldn’t be. It doesn’t feel natural.”
“Losing a child never is, Mr. Reyes.” He seems to hesitate for a moment before carefully offering, “Would you like to hold her?”
I didn’t think of that. Didn’t realize it was an option. But of course, it is. Ophelia’s little body is here, somewhere. Alone in a dark place. Abandoned. Lifeless.
“I’m not sure,” I answer, my throat tight.
“Some parents regret saying no. Some regret saying yes. You still have time to decide, but I need to warn you she’ll be cold to the touch, which can be distressing.”
“I’ll think about it. Was she … was Ophelia as beautiful as I imagined her to be?”
My question bends his lips into a small smile.
His first since he arrived. “I think your mother got to take a few pictures of her in your wife’s arms before she was taken to the ventilator.
So, you’ll get to see for yourself. But yes, Mr. Reyes.
Your little Ophelia was a beautiful baby, with blue eyes and curly dark hair. ”
Silent grief wrecks me, but this time, I manage to keep my composure. Slow tears gather and spill over, betraying my reaction to his words.
A couple of nurses arrive, one carrying a briefcase-sized medical machine, the other a clipboard. The former offers me a small smile and a nod before entering, and the latter stops by us.
“Ah, this is an unfortunate thing we wish we didn’t have to do, but Amandine is here to talk to you about the memory box.”
“The memory box?”
“First of all, let me offer you my deepest condolences, Mr. Reyes,” the nurse says.
“And a memory box is a service we offer to grieving parents. We can prepare a few items to remember your baby by. Like mementos. If you’re interested, I need to go over the items with you and ensure you’re fine with all of them. ”
“I’ll let you two sort it out,” the obstetrician says, bowing his head before leaving us.
The nurse comes in front of me and continues with, “I’m also in charge of discussing your preferences regarding what should be done with your baby’s remains.”
I don’t fucking know … Cremating her doesn’t feel right. But burying her here, in Belgium, when we haven’t truly been happy since we moved, feels even worse. Ophelia doesn’t belong here, in a place we’ll never return to once we leave. She belongs with us, in Italy.