CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Laurel
Laurel woke with both hands curved around her abdomen.
For several seconds, she waited for Samuel to answer the pressure of her palms. He usually moved in the mornings, turning beneath her ribs while she decided whether she was awake enough to leave the bed.
Nothing moved.
The hospital room returned in pieces. The monitor beside her. The ache across her lower body. The intravenous line taped to her hand. Samuel's name card lying on the table near the window, and then memory followed.
Laurel turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes.
A nurse entered soon afterward and checked the monitors without attempting cheerful conversation. She adjusted Laurel's medication, helped her drink water, and asked whether she wanted Dr. Kessler.
“Yes.”
Dr. Kessler arrived carrying no chart. She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat where Laurel could see her without moving.
“I remember you explaining what happened,” Laurel began. “I don't remember all of it.”
“That is normal after a major operation, blood loss, and anesthesia. I can explain it again as many times as you need.”
Laurel looked down at the blanket covering her. “The bleeding started before I fell?”
“Yes. You suffered a severe placental abruption. The placenta separated from the uterus and interrupted Samuel's oxygen supply while causing significant bleeding.”
“Did the fall kill him?”
“No.”
“You said it made things worse.”
“It added trauma while you were already hemorrhaging, but the emergency began in the bedroom. You did not cause the abruption.”
“I left the bed.”
“You were trying to help the paramedics reach you.”
“The dispatcher told me to stay.”
Dr. Kessler's expression remained gentle without becoming vague. “You were frightened, losing blood, and alone. You made the decision you believed would bring help faster.”
“If I had stayed in bed, would he be alive?”
“I cannot promise that. Samuel was already in distress before you attempted the stairs.”
Laurel pressed her fingers into the blanket. “Everyone keeps refusing to tell me what would have saved him.”
“Because we do not know.”
The honesty hurt more than reassurance, but Laurel trusted it.
“What happened when I arrived?”
“We performed an emergency Caesarean. Samuel had a very weak heartbeat before delivery. The neonatal team began resuscitation immediately, but they could not restore effective circulation.”
“Was he in pain?”
Dr. Kessler paused.
“I cannot know exactly what Samuel experienced. He was severely deprived of oxygen and likely had a reduced level of awareness. The neonatal team kept him warm, handled him carefully, and stayed with him throughout.”
“He wasn't alone?”
“No. He was never left alone.”
Laurel turned toward the window. Rain marked the glass in narrow trails, blurring the buildings beyond it.
“And my uterus?”
“After the delivery, we could not control your bleeding. The abruption had affected your clotting, and your uterus was not responding to medication or surgical repair. We performed the hysterectomy after the other measures failed.”
“So even if Samuel had survived, I could never give him a brother or sister.”
“You will not be able to carry another pregnancy.”
Laurel knew the words already. Hearing them again did not make them more believable.
She had spent years allowing Graham to treat her body like a locked room withholding something from him. Now the room was gone, and the child they finally made had died before she could hear him cry.
“Can I see him?”
“You can. The bereavement nurse took photographs and prepared keepsakes. You may also spend time with Samuel if you choose. There is no correct decision.”
“What do mothers usually do?”
“Different things. Some want every photograph and every minute available. Others cannot look immediately. Neither response measures how much they love their child.”
Laurel stared at Samuel's name card.
“I don't know what I can bear.”
“You do not have to decide everything at once.”
Dr. Kessler stayed until Laurel had no more questions she could form. Before leaving, she asked permission to contact the bereavement nurse.
The woman arrived carrying a white box tied with a narrow blue ribbon. She introduced herself as Maribel and placed the box on the table without opening it.
“I will tell you what is inside before I show you anything.”
Laurel nodded.
“There are photographs of Samuel, prints of his hands and feet, his hospital bracelet, the blanket used after delivery, and a lock of hair. Nothing will be removed if you are not ready today.”
Laurel looked at the ribbon.
“Was he very small?”
“He weighed four pounds and nine ounces.”
“Who took the photographs?”
“I did.”
“Did you touch him?”
“I washed him and wrapped him. Your mother in law chose the blue blanket.”
Evelyn had not told her. She had spent most of the previous days in the hospital, sleeping in a chair and answering questions Laurel could not tolerate. That morning, Laurel had asked her to go home and rest.
Maribel loosened the ribbon.
Laurel's pulse increased.
“Stop.”
Maribel's hands became still. “All right.”
“I can't see them.”
“I will leave the box here.”
“Take it away.”
Maribel retied the ribbon without disappointment. “I can store it securely. If you ask for it in an hour, a year, or ten years, it will still belong to you.”
She lifted the box.
“Wait.”
Laurel stared at the closed lid. “Leave it on the table.”
Maribel returned it to its place.
After she left, Laurel watched the box until medication drew her into an unsettled sleep.
When she woke, afternoon light had replaced the rain. A woman stood near the window with her back turned.
The posture was familiar. Straight shoulders, arms folded, weight balanced slightly toward the left because of an ankle broken during childhood.
“Dana?”
Her sister turned.
Dana's hair was shorter than Laurel remembered. She wore black trousers and a gray sweater creased from travel. A paper coffee cup rested on the windowsill beside her.
“Evelyn called me.”
Laurel did not know whether to apologize or thank her.
Dana brought the chair closer but left space between it and the bed. She picked up the coffee and began peeling the paper sleeve into thin strips.
She had done the same thing as a child whenever their grandmother questioned them about a broken dish or unfinished homework. Dana could dismantle a paper label without tearing the cup beneath it.
“How long have you been here?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Why didn't you wake me?”
“You looked like you needed sleep more than an audience.”
Laurel studied her sister's face. Two years of silence occupied the distance between them.
“I should have called you.”
“Yes.”
Dana did not soften the answer.
“Graham didn't want you interfering.”
“I know.”
“I thought you hated him because he became successful.”
“I hated what success allowed him to stop hiding.”
Laurel looked toward Samuel's box. “You were right about him.”
Dana dropped another strip of paper into her palm.
“I did not come here to be right.”
“I should have listened.”
“Being right did not protect you. It did not protect Samuel. If I take satisfaction from it now, then I am no better than the people outside treating your life like a headline.”
Laurel's composure gave way without warning. She turned her face aside, but Dana had already seen.
“I defended him to you,” Laurel whispered. “I stopped answering because every conversation made me feel ashamed.”
“You chose him.”
“I know.”
“And I stopped calling because I was tired of begging my sister to care whether she survived her marriage.”
The truth hurt. It also sounded like Dana, unpolished and unwilling to manufacture forgiveness because Laurel was injured.
“I don't know how to fix this.”
“You cannot fix two years this afternoon.”
Laurel reached toward the table. Her hand stopped before Samuel's box.
“Will you help me open it?”
Dana set the ruined coffee sleeve aside. She moved to the bed and lifted the box carefully onto Laurel's lap.
Laurel touched the ribbon but could not pull it free.
“Stay with me.”
Dana removed her coat, folded it over the back of the chair, and placed her hand beside Laurel's on the lid.