22. Beatrice
— ? —
Beatrice
That Same Night
The drive to the hospital is a blur of streetlights and panic.
Kenneth breaks every speed limit. Runs a red light without even slowing down. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
I should tell him to slow down. I should remind him that getting into an accident won’t help anyone. But I can’t speak. Can’t do anything except press my hands to my belly and pray to every god I’ve never believed in.
Please. Please. Not after everything. Not now.
Another twinge. Sharper than the last.
I make a sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, and Kenneth’s foot presses harder on the accelerator.
“We’re almost there.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the fear underneath. “Five more minutes. Just hold on.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know. I just-” He glances at me, and the terror in his eyes mirrors everything I’m feeling. “I can’t lose you. Either of you.”
“You won’t.”
I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know anything right now except that something is wrong and my daughter is too small and too fragile and I can’t protect her from whatever’s happening inside my own body.
The hospital looms ahead, bright and sterile and promising answers I’m afraid to hear.
The emergency room moves in a strange rhythm, too slow and too fast at the same time.
They take me back immediately. The words pregnant and cramping and bleeding cut through the usual triage protocols like a knife. A wheelchair appears. A nurse with kind eyes and steady hands. Forms to sign. Questions I can barely answer.
Kenneth stays at my side through all of it, his hand wrapped around mine so tightly it hurts. Neither of us minds.
They put me in a bed. Hook up monitors. The cold gel on my stomach makes me flinch, but then there’s a sound, a rapid whooshing rhythm that fills the room.
“Baby’s heartbeat is strong,” the nurse says.
I nearly collapse.
The relief is so intense it’s almost painful, a wave that crashes over me and leaves me shaking in its wake. Kenneth makes a broken sound beside me, his forehead dropping to rest against our joined hands.
“Then what’s happening?” I manage to ask. “I felt - there was cramping, and I thought-”
“The doctor will be in shortly to examine you.” The nurse’s voice is calm, reassuring. “But baby sounds good. Nice strong heartbeat.”
She leaves us alone.
The monitor keeps beeping, that steady rhythm that means our daughter is still alive, still fighting, still here. I stare at the ceiling and try to remember how to breathe.
“I thought-” Kenneth’s voice is wrecked. “When you called my name, when I saw your face, I thought-”
“I know.”
“I can’t do this without you.” He lifts his head, and his eyes are red-rimmed, wet. “Either of you. I know I don’t have the right to say that, after everything, but-”
“You have the right.” I squeeze his hand. “You have every right.”
We sit in silence, listening to our daughter’s heartbeat, waiting for answers.
The doctor is a woman in her fifties with gray-streaked hair and an air of unflappable competence. She examines me with brisk, gentle efficiency, asking questions about when the cramping started, how intense it was, whether there was any bleeding.
“Some spotting,” I admit. “Not much. But enough to scare me.”
She nods, unsurprised. “Let’s take a look.”
More cold gel. The ultrasound wand pressing against my belly. The screen flickering to life with that grainy black-and-white image I’ve seen so many times now, the curved shape of my daughter floating in her small dark world.
“There she is.” The doctor’s voice is warm. “Moving around, heartbeat strong, looking good.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Kenneth asks. His voice is rough, demanding. “Something made her feel that way. Something-”
“Braxton Hicks,” the doctor says, cutting off his spiraling. “Practice contractions. Very common at this stage of pregnancy.”
I blink. “Practice contractions?”
“Your body is preparing for labor. These contractions can feel quite intense, especially the first time you experience them. They can also cause some light spotting, which is what you saw.”
“But the baby-”
“Is perfectly fine.” She turns the screen so we can see better, pointing out the details. “Good size. Good movement. Your cervix is closed and long, exactly where we want it. There’s no indication of preterm labor.”
The words wash over me like a benediction. Fine. Perfectly fine. No indication.
“I want you on bed rest for a few days,” the doctor continues. “Just to be safe. Stay hydrated, take it easy, and if you experience anything more intense than what you felt tonight, come back in. But I don’t anticipate any problems.”
“Whatever it takes,” Kenneth says immediately. “She’ll be on bed rest. I’ll make sure of it.”
The doctor smiles, a knowing expression that suggests she’s seen plenty of anxious fathers in her time. “Good. Any questions?”
I have a thousand. A million. Every fear I’ve ever had about this pregnancy, about my body’s ability to carry this child to term, about all the things that could go wrong between now and delivery.
But the only one that matters has already been answered.
“She’s really okay?”
“She’s perfect.” The doctor pats my hand. “Try to get some rest. Both of you.”
They keep me overnight for observation.
It’s hospital policy, they say. Just a precaution. The room is small and sterile, the bed narrow and uncomfortable, the machines beeping in a steady rhythm that should be soothing but isn’t.
Kenneth doesn’t leave.
They offer him a cot. He refuses. Instead, he pulls the visitor’s chair as close to my bed as it will go and sits there, holding my hand, his eyes never leaving my face.
“You should sleep,” I tell him.
“I can’t.”
“Kenneth-”
“Every time I close my eyes, I see you in pain.” His voice cracks. “I see you calling my name. I see that look on your face when you thought something was wrong with the baby.”
“But nothing is wrong. The doctor said-”
“I know what she said.” He squeezes my hand. “But I’m not sleeping tonight. I need to be here. I need to know you’re both okay.”
I don’t argue.
Part of me wants to. Part of me wants to point out that he’ll be useless tomorrow if he doesn’t rest, that I’m fine, that worrying won’t change anything. But a larger part, the part that spent two years reaching for a husband who was never there, that part just wants to let him stay.
So I do.
He holds my hand while I drift in and out of an uneasy sleep. Every time I wake, he’s still there, still watching, still present in a way he never was before.
At three in the morning, I whisper his name.
“I’m here.” He’s alert instantly, sitting forward, his eyes scanning my face. “What’s wrong? Do I need to get the nurse?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just…” I squeeze his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. “Thank you. For being here.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d be.”
“I know. But still.” I look at him in the dim light of the hospital room, at the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders and the way he’s holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored. “You didn’t have to stay. You could have gone home after they said she was okay.”
“I couldn’t have.” His voice cracks, raw and honest. “When you called my name, when I saw your face… I thought I was going to lose both of you. I thought-”
He can’t finish.
I shift over on the narrow bed. “Come here.”
“Bea, you need to rest-”
“I need you.” I pat the small space beside me. “Please.”
He hesitates for only a moment. Then he’s climbing carefully onto the bed, arranging himself around me so that my head is on his chest and his arms are wrapped around me and we’re pressed together in a tangle of limbs and hospital blankets.
“We’re okay,” I whisper against his shirt. “She’s okay. We’re all okay.”
He holds me tighter.
And for the first time since the dinner, since everything fell apart, I feel completely, absolutely safe.
Morning comes in slow increments.
Gray light through the window. The beep of machines. The distant sound of nurses making their rounds.
I wake to find Kenneth already awake, watching me with an expression so tender it makes my chest ache.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.” I stretch carefully, aware of the lingering soreness in my abdomen. “How long have you been staring at me?”
“I wasn’t staring. I was watching.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
I laugh, and it comes out rusty, surprised. Like my body forgot it could make that sound.
The doctor comes by at eight. More examinations. More questions. More reassurances that everything looks good, that the baby is healthy, that I can go home as long as I take it easy.
“Bed rest,” she reminds us. “A few days at least. And if anything changes-”
“We’ll be back immediately,” Kenneth says. He’s been hovering since dawn, making sure I drink water, adjusting my pillows, asking the nurses questions about warning signs and complications until one of them gently suggests he might want to write some of it down.
He has a list now. Four pages long.
I should probably find it annoying. The old Kenneth would have delegated this to an assistant, would have been on a conference call while I recovered. But this Kenneth is here, fully present, treating my comfort like it’s the most important project he’s ever managed.
It’s a little overwhelming.
It’s also exactly what I needed.
The drive home is nothing like the frantic race to the hospital.
Kenneth drives like the car is made of glass, taking turns so slowly that other drivers honk at us. He glances at me every few seconds, checking for signs of distress, ready to turn around at the slightest indication that something is wrong.
“I’m not going to break,” I tell him.
“I’m not taking any chances.”
“Kenneth-”
“I almost lost you.” He doesn’t look at me this time, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Both of you. So forgive me if I’m being careful.”
I don’t argue.
The house looks the same as it always does, but something feels different as we pull into the driveway. Like the air itself has changed, charged with the knowledge of what we almost went through.
Kenneth helps me out of the car. Supports me up the front steps even though I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own. Settles me onto the couch with a blanket, a pillow, a glass of water, and strict instructions not to move.
“I’m going to make you breakfast,” he says. “And then you’re going to rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“The doctor said bed rest, not couch rest.”
“The couch is more comfortable than the bed.”
“That’s objectively not true.”
“It’s true because I can see you from the kitchen.” He tucks the blanket around me with excessive care. “And I’m not letting you out of my sight today.”
I should protest. I should point out that I’m a grown woman, a doctor myself, perfectly capable of monitoring my own condition.
But the truth is, I don’t want to fight him on this.
The truth is, after the terror of last night, after the crushing relief of hearing our daughter’s heartbeat strong and steady, I want to be taken care of.
So I let him.
The day passes in a haze of rest and reassurance.
Kenneth makes breakfast. Oversalts the potatoes, forgets the butter, but somehow nails the tea. He reads to me from one of my trashy romance novels, doing ridiculous voices for the characters until I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
“You have to stop,” I gasp. “The doctor said no strenuous activity.”
“Laughing isn’t strenuous.”
“It is when you’re doing that thing with the Duke’s voice.”
“The Duke is a man of passion and intensity. I’m honoring his essence.”
“You sound like you’re doing a bad impression of a vampire.”
“Maybe the Duke is a vampire. We don’t know his backstory.”
He keeps reading.
The baby kicks, a gentle flutter that makes us both freeze, both hold our breath until she does it again. Alive. Active. Healthy.
“There she is,” Kenneth says softly, his hand pressed to my belly. “Our little fighter.”
“She gets it from her father.”
He looks up at me, surprised. “You think so?”
“I know so.” I cover his hand with mine. “You don’t give up. Even when you should. Even when everything is telling you to walk away.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“Maybe she gets it from both of us.”
He smiles, that real smile that transforms his whole face, and I feel something shift in my chest. Something that’s been locked away for months, protected by walls I built to survive.
The walls are crumbling now.
I’m not sure I want to stop them.
Evening comes.
The house is quiet, peaceful in a way it hasn’t been since before everything fell apart. Kenneth makes dinner, a simple meal that he only slightly overcooks, and we eat on the couch because he won’t let me move to the kitchen table.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I tell him.
“I’m being cautious.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not today there isn’t.”
After dinner, he helps me up the stairs. The bed in the master bedroom looks impossibly inviting after a night in the hospital, soft and familiar and safe.
“I’ll be in the guest room if you need anything,” Kenneth says from the doorway. “Just call. I’ll hear you.”
I’m already shaking my head.
“Kenneth.”
“Yeah?”
“Stay.” The word comes out before I can second-guess it. “In here. With me.”
He goes still. “What?”
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” I pull back the covers, make space for him. “After everything that happened, after last night… I need you here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He hesitates for one long moment, his expression caught between hope and disbelief. Then he crosses the room and climbs into bed beside me, careful not to jostle or crowd, settling onto his side so he can face me.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“This is perfect.”
I curl against his chest. Feel his arms come around me. Feel the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.
We don’t do anything more than this. We don’t need to. After the terror and the relief and the overwhelming emotion of the past twenty-four hours, this is enough. This closeness. This presence. This feeling of being held by someone who isn’t going anywhere.
“I love you,” Kenneth whispers against my hair.
I don’t say it back.
Not because I don’t feel it. I do. I’ve felt it for longer than I want to admit, buried under all the anger and hurt and self-protection.
But the words feel too big right now. Too important to say in the dark, when I’m exhausted and emotional and not entirely sure I’m thinking clearly.
Instead, I squeeze his hand.
Three times.
I. Love. You.
He squeezes back.
I. Love. You.
The old ritual, restored. The silent language we created in better times, when words weren’t enough to hold everything we felt.
It’s still not enough.
But it’s a start.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time since he moved back in, we sleep in the same bed.
Not because of passion or desperation.
Because I need him.
And he’s finally learned to be there when I do.