7. Heidi
HEIDI
Dash opens the labor-room door only after I say yes. My mother takes the chair near the window.
Beau stops at the threshold.
He looks at our daughter as if the sight has struck him. For one dangerous second, I want to tell him her name and watch his face change. I make myself ask the questions first.
My body responds to him before my anger does. Relief loosens something in my chest because he is alive, because he came back, because for four years the sight of him has meant I do not have to carry everything alone.
Then I see the visitor sticker from Saint Catherine's still attached to his shirt.
The relief turns hot.
“Close the door,” I tell Dash.
Beau flinches as if I have told him to leave already.
“When did April arrive?”
“Four thirty-one.”
“Did she tell you to come back?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Dash calling?”
His gaze drops to the floor. “Yes.”
“Why didn't you answer?”
“Celeste was being assessed. She couldn't settle down.”
“Her sister was there.”
“Yes.”
“Hospital staff were there.”
“Yes.”
“Her doula?”
“On the way.”
“The baby's father?”
“April had reached him.”
There is no emergency left for him to hide inside.
“What time did you start back?” I ask.
“Just after five.”
“You stayed another half hour after April reached her.”
“Celeste was contracting. They hadn't confirmed whether it was labor.”
“Was she alone?”
“No.”
“Did anyone ask you to remain?”
His eyes lift to mine. “Celeste did.”
“And I asked you to stay here.”
He takes a breath.
“I thought I could get back.”
“You saw Dash calling.”
“Yes.”
“You knew that meant something had changed.”
“Yes.”
“You chose not to know what.”
His face folds around the truth of it.
I turn my phone so he can see the corridor photograph and Celeste's comment.
“She didn't take the picture,” he says.
“Did she share it?”
He closes his eyes. “Yes.”
“How long have you been talking to her?”
“You know she called after her mother's surgery.”
“How long?”
He comes two steps into the room. Dash shifts closer to my bed.
“We started talking eight months ago,” Beau says.
“Before we knew I was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
The room tilts without moving.
Eight months means the first fertility appointment. The negative test I took in the clinic bathroom because I could not bear to take another one at home. The night Beau held me on the kitchen floor while I said I was tired of wanting something my body would not give us.
Somewhere inside those months, Celeste began calling.
“Did you speak to her the night we found out about Ivy?”
He looks away.
“Beau.”
“She called later. I told her you were pregnant.”
I look at the baby against my chest. He gave Celeste the news while it was still new enough that I was afraid to say it aloud.
“What did she say?”
“Congratulations.”
“And then she kept calling.”
“Yes.”
Ivy's weight settles hot and real against me. For eight months, he gave Celeste a place inside the time I thought belonged to us.
“How often?”
“It varied.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No. Never.”
“Did you tell her things about us?”
He hesitates.
“Private things about our marriage?” I ask.
“Sometimes she asked how you were.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you were tired. That the first trimester was hard.”
“Did you tell her I was bleeding at nine weeks?”
He does not answer.
“You did.”
“I was scared.”
“So was I. That was my body. My blood. You gave it to her.”
Ivy makes a soft sound. I lower my voice, but the anger remains.
“Did you tell her the names?”
His gaze moves to the open hospital bag.
“Not both.”
“Which one?”
“Ivy.”
My daughter's name has belonged to her for less than an hour. Celeste knew it before she did.
I pull the blanket higher around Ivy and turn enough that Beau can no longer see her whole face.
“That wasn't yours to tell.”
“I never told her I wanted to leave you. I never said I loved her.”
Ivy stirs against my chest. I put one finger into her palm. Her hand closes.
“I won't come home while you live there,” I say.
“Heidi, please.”
“You will leave the house. I will decide later when you can visit Ivy. I cannot decide whether you can hold her while I am still bleeding from giving birth without you.”
He goes white.
My mother stands. “You heard her.”
“I need to know her name,” he says.
The plea nearly breaks me.
For months, I pictured saying the name to him while he held her. I pictured him trying it once, carefully, then smiling when she moved.
I have already lost that moment. Refusing him the word will not restore it.
It will only make me somebody I do not want to be on the first day of my daughter's life.
“Ivy.”
He repeats it softly.
His mouth trembles around the name.
“Can I hold her?”
Every part of me answers differently. My arms tighten. My heart wants to see him take our daughter. My body remembers the empty place beside the bed.
“Not tonight.”
He nods, but the grief on his face makes anger rush through me.
“Do not make me feel cruel for needing one night before I put her in the arms that left us.”
“I'm not.” His voice breaks. “I understand.”
“You don't. You are standing here asking what you may have. I am still trying to understand what happened to me.”
He lowers his gaze.
“You're right.”
I am too tired for the answer to help.
Dash opens the door. Beau takes one step backward, still looking at Ivy.
“Go,” I say.
He looks at Ivy once more and leaves.