Allie
Bright fluorescent lights burn through my eyelids before I can even open them.
Then comes the stinging smell of antiseptic, so strong it nearly singes my nostrils.
And finally, the unmistakable rhythmic beeping of machines beside me.
I stay frozen, my body sinking deeper into the plastic mattress like it’s trying to swallow me whole.
I’ve been here before.
The cold, metallic taste of blood on my tongue.
Death so close it practically kissed my cheek.
Nora’s desperate screams somewhere in the distance.
It all slams into me at once.
My fingers dig into the mattress. The beeping beside me goes frantic. I try to call for help, but nothing comes out—just a strangled breath caught in my throat.
“Al?” Jax says from beside me, but I can’t move to look at him.
His hand finds my shoulder, and as much as I want to say it grounds me, it doesn’t. Not fully, anyway.
Hot tears slip down my temples as the mattress shifts beside me. Then Jax is there, leaning over me, smoothing the hair from my face while he shushes me so softly I can barely hear it.
“You’re alright, love,” he murmurs in my ear. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
“W-what happened?” I stammer, eyes darting around the room.
He tilts his head, but before he can answer, there’s a soft knock at the door, and in walks one of my favorite people.
Dr. Lavoie.
The same woman who delivered both of my girls. Arguably the best OB/GYN in the state of New Hampshire—
But why is she here?
She pulls the chair up beside the bed and sinks into it, her head tilted slightly as she studies me for a moment.
Her eyes swim with something I swear is remorse before she says softly, “Oh, Allie.”
And that’s it. That’s all it takes.
Every tear my body can hold rushes out, full force, without warning.
Jax’s hand keeps tracing slow little circles on my arm. “It’s alright, Al. The baby’s okay,” he says gently.
The moment the words leave his lips, my head starts to swim.
“What do you mean?” I whisper, eyes locked on his, searching for any hint of a lie.
He nods toward Dr. Lavoie. “Just listen to her, love.”
She offers a tight-lipped smile and reaches across the space between us to gently pat my knee.
“I’m so sorry, Allie. Those probably weren’t the best words to start with,” she says with a soft laugh. “I just feel so bad. You’ve really been through the wringer lately, huh? First the accident, then Trevor’s crap, and now this?”
I blink, unsure how she somehow knows everything. Sure, she’s my OB, but it’s not like we work together. She’s up at the hospital while I’m just down the road at the family medicine office—
Then it dawns on me.
I crack a tiny smile and nod. “Let me guess—”
“Small town,” we say in unison.
We laugh for a second, and I hold onto it, because deep down, I know there’s something no one’s saying. I can feel it in the way her eyes keep flicking between me and Jax, and how he hasn’t taken his hands off me for more than a second.
I blow out a slow breath and close my eyes. “Tell me,” I say quietly. “Whatever it is… just tell me.”
At first, no one says anything. No one even moves.
Finally, Dr. Lavoie breaks the silence. “So, first things first, you need to eat,” she says.
“You were hypoglycemic with your blood sugar at 55 when you came in. And your iron isn’t in great shape either, hemoglobin’s down to 8.
You’ll need supplements and to eat more. That explains why you passed out.”
My eyes open, and I shake my head slightly. “Okay, so a pill and eating more. But why am I bleeding? I saw it before I dropped.”
Dr. Lavoie turns to face me more fully. I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to Jax briefly before landing back on me.
And my stomach drops.
“Allie,” she says softly, “we ran an ultrasound as soon as you came in to rule out ectopic pregnancy. Thankfully, the fetus is where it’s supposed to be.” She pauses, just long enough that the silence starts to buzz. “But we did find a large subchorionic hematoma near the gestational sack.”
Nausea rips through me, settling low at the base of my throat.
Large. Near the gestational sac.
“Wait,” Jax says, sounding completely lost, “what is that?”
I turn to him almost robotically, like I’m not in my own body. “It’s a fancy word for a blood clot,” I explain, then turn back to Dr. Lavoie. “They can resolve on their own, but—”
My throat tightens, and I can feel Jax tightening his grip gently on my arm, letting me know he’s still here. I place my hand over his, needing to feel him before I ask my next question.
“Was… was there a heartbeat?” My voice already cracks halfway through.
Dr. Lavoie glances down at the clipboard, presses her lips into a thin line, then hugs the board to her chest before meeting my eyes again.
“The baby’s measuring around eight weeks, and we did see a heartbeat, which is a good sign,” she says gently. “But it’s slower than we’d like. Right now, it’s steady at about 96 beats per minute, but we typically hope to see closer to 120 at this stage.”
I stare at her, unmoving, as a hot tear slides down my cheek.
“Is there anything we can do?” Jax asks, his voice already sounding so broken.
And it’s all my fault.
Dr. Lavoie exhales slowly, then pulls her chair a little closer to the bed.
“For now, we just have to wait,” she says softly.
“You’ll need to rest. No lifting, no sex.
And I know it sounds impossible with everything going on, but try to keep the stress low.
I’m starting you on iron supplements and a prenatal with folic acid today. Make sure to take them every day.”
She rises from the chair, but pauses with her hand on the door handle, turning to face us again.
“We’re not out of the woods, Allie. The size and placement of the hematoma, along with the slower heart rate…
it puts the pregnancy at very high risk for miscarriage.
The truth is, many pregnancies in this situation don’t make it.
But with that said, I’ve also seen pregnancies pull through against the odds.
It’s not hopeless, but you have to let your body rest—give it every chance it has. ”
Jax’s hand runs slowly down my arm before he looks up at her. “Thanks, Dr. Lavoie.”
She offers a small smile. “You’re welcome, Jaxon. It was nice meeting you. Allie—I’ll see you in a week to follow up.”
The second the door clicks shut, and it’s just Jax and me sitting alone in the sterile, too-bright room, everything feels cold. It feels like someone opened a window, letting the bitter December air touch everything—my skin, my bones, even my spine.
I’m numb.
That’s what the feeling is. I’m just numb to everything. Jax’s hand tightens on my shoulder, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t put a dent in anything. I’m so far away from everything that I don’t even know how to feel anymore.
He whispers something in my ear, but all I hear is the pounding in my chest, in my head, all over my body.
I want my girls. I want to be alone. I want my bed.
All I know is I don’t want to be here.