5. Louella
— ? —
Louella
The boutique opening was supposed to be simple.
Camille had been planning it for months, her own clothing line, finally launching after years of sketches and dreams and late-night phone calls about whether she was crazy to try.
I’d helped her pick the location, the champagne, the playlist for the opening night party.
This was her moment, and I was determined to be present for it even if my own life was falling apart.
I almost didn’t go.
My whole body felt wrong all day. A heaviness in my limbs, a persistent nausea I’d been blaming on stress. I’d called Hector that morning, trying to bridge the gap that had grown wider every day since the gala.
“I need you to be here,” I said. “Tonight. For Camille’s opening.”
“I’ll try.” His voice was distant, distracted. “Things are complicated at the office right now.”
“Things are always complicated at your office.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll do my best.”
He didn’t come.
I dressed in an outfit supportive and pretty, drove myself to the boutique, and smiled until my face ached while Camille’s dream came to life around me. The space looked beautiful. The champagne was perfect. Everyone was happy.
I just needed to get through the next few hours.
The dizziness started around nine.
At first I thought it was the champagne I’d been holding all night, though I’d barely touched it. But the room was tilting in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol, and my heart was doing this strange thing, too fast and too slow at the same time.
“Louella?” Camille turned to me, her smile fading. “You look pale. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’re not fine. You’re gray. Sit down.”
“I don’t want to make a scene…”
The floor rushed up to meet me.
***
I don’t remember hitting it. Just the way the lights seemed to streak and blur, Camille’s voice from somewhere very far away calling my name, and then nothing at all.
I woke up in a hospital bed.
The ceiling was that particular institutional white that exists only in places designed for crisis. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. My arm was connected to an IV, and Camille was sitting in the chair beside me, still in her opening night dress, mascara smudged under her eyes.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft, relieved. “You’re awake.”
“What happened?”
“You collapsed. Scared the hell out of everyone.” She reached for my hand, squeezed it. “They brought you in about an hour ago. The doctors are running tests.”
I looked around the small room. Sterile walls. Empty chairs. The steady beep of monitors.
“Where’s Hector?”
Camille’s expression tightened. “I called him and left messages. It goes straight to voicemail.”
“What do you mean he hasn’t answered? I’m in the hospital.”
“I know.” Her voice carried a quiet fury I’d never heard from her before. “Six times. The office, his cell, even that horrible assistant of his. Straight to voicemail, every time, like his phone’s just… off.”
I closed my eyes. Of course.
Of course he wasn’t here. Of course he was somewhere else, with someone else, while his wife lay in a hospital bed surrounded by strangers.
“The doctor should be back soon,” Camille said carefully. “They want to talk to you about the test results.”
“What test results?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me. But whatever it is, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The door opened. A woman in a white coat entered, clipboard in hand, expression professionally neutral.
“Mrs. Lauder. I’m Dr. Elene. How are you feeling?”
“Confused. What happened to me?”
“You experienced a vasovagal syncope, fainting, essentially. Your blood pressure dropped quite suddenly.” She glanced at her clipboard. “Have you been under unusual stress lately?”
I almost laughed. “You could say that.”
“Stress can certainly contribute to these episodes. But in your case, there’s another factor we need to discuss.” She pulled up a chair, sat down, met my eyes. “Mrs. Lauder, your blood work shows elevated hCG levels. You’re pregnant.”
The word landed in the room like a bomb.
“That’s not possible.” My voice came out strange, someone else’s voice. “I stopped the fertility treatments weeks ago. My husband and I haven’t… we’ve barely…”
I stopped and did the math.
The vineyard. The anniversary trip where Hector had blindfolded me and led me to breakfast and danced with me in the fading light. The wine cellar where we hadn’t made it back to our room for an hour.
The one moment in months where we’d been us again.
“Based on your levels, I’d estimate you’re approximately eight weeks along,” Dr. Elene said. “Early days still. We’ll want to schedule follow-up appointments, monitor your progress…”
“Eight weeks.” I heard myself say the words like they belonged to someone else. “You’re sure?”
“The blood test is quite accurate. Congratulations, Mrs. Lauder.”
She left to give me privacy. Or maybe she saw the expression on my face and wanted to escape it.
Camille was staring at me. “Louella…”
“The vineyard.” My hand moved to my stomach without conscious decision. “It was the vineyard.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“I’m pregnant.”
The words didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real. I was lying in a hospital bed, alone except for my best friend, carrying a baby conceived during the one night my husband had remembered I existed. A baby I’d wanted for years, prayed for, subjected my body to endless treatments trying to create.
And Hector wasn’t here.
He wasn’t here because he was with her. I knew it with the certainty of instinct, the bone-deep knowledge that comes from watching someone choose another person over and over until the pattern becomes its own kind of truth.
While I was collapsing at our friend’s boutique, while I was being loaded into an ambulance, while I was waking up pregnant and terrified in a hospital room, he was with Elizabeth.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said suddenly. “About the pregnancy. Not yet.”
Camille’s brow furrowed. “But Hector should know…”
“He should have been here.” The anger surprised me with its heat. “He should have answered his phone. He should have come when you called. If he can’t be bothered to show up when I’m in the hospital, he doesn’t get to know about this until I decide he does.”
She studied my face for a long moment. Then she nodded.
“Your secret. I won’t say a word.”
I lay back against the pillow, my hand still pressed to my stomach, and tried to reconcile the two impossible truths sitting inside me. A baby, finally, against all odds. And a husband who had disappeared so completely he didn’t even know I’d needed him.
The vineyard Hector. That’s who this baby belonged to. The man who danced with me in the golden light and promised to be better. The man who silenced his mother’s call and kissed me like we had all the time in the world.
Not the man who walked away on the dance floor. Not the man who emailed Elizabeth at 2 a.m. Not the man whose phone stayed dark while his wife lay unconscious.
I was pregnant, and I had never felt more alone.