Nate
The drive to the hospital is a blur.
The whole way there, my mind keeps replaying the last time Rory was in the emergency room. It was after a car accident, and I was the most terrified I’d ever been.
The sight of her slumped over the steering wheel still haunts me. Her pale skin, blood dripping down her face. The image isn’t one I’ll ever erase from my mind.
I thought it was the most terrified I’d ever be in my life.
But it turns out that as hard as it was to see her like that, at least I could see her once I got to her. Could hold her hand, watch her breathing.
This time, I don’t even have that.
When I was a kid, my mom had a magnet on our fridge stating Ignorance is bliss. Back then, I didn’t really understand what that meant, and later, it kind of made sense to me.
Now, I’m calling bullshit. Ignorance is the opposite of bliss.
Ignorance leads to my imagination working overtime, filling in the blanks of how Rory is doing with every worst-case scenario.
She has to be okay.
My knee bounces as Will turns into the hospital parking lot. I press my hand to my thigh, trying to calm my nerves, but my body has a mind of its own.
I’m used to being the calm one. The voice of reason. That’s part of being a first responder, after all. In my role as a cop, I’ve seen any number of emergency situations and kept my cool through every one of them.
I never imagined that having someone you love involved could make everything about those scenarios different, but it does.
As we pull into the hospital parking lot, I point to the large EMERGENCY sign. “Up there.”
“It says ambulances only,” Will says, sounding confused.
But then he glances over his shoulder, and he must take in the look on my face, the one that says I’m not fucking around. “Got it, boss.”
He pulls up to the ambulance bay as I keep on praying and hoping that I’m not too late. That she got here in time. That she’s going to be okay.
She has to be okay.
My chest tightens at the prospect of losing Rory, and I push the thought away. I can’t even consider that possibility.
The car is still slowing to a stop when I fling open the door and jump out.
This door is for first responders—paramedics or police or fire who bring a patient to the hospital. It’s even locked with a key code to prevent visitors from using the entrance.
I punch in the code to open the door. If someone has a problem with me using this entrance while I’m not on duty, they can take it up with me later.
All that matters in this instance is Rory.
The doors slide open, and I rush inside, looking around wildly.
A woman in maroon scrubs does a double take. We’ve worked together for years, but I’ve always been in uniform when I’ve been here.
After a few seconds, she seems to place me.
“Officer Patterson?” she says, tilting her head in question. “What can I do for you?”
I should explain, should apologize for using the ambulance bay when I’m here as a visitor, let her know I’m not bringing in a patient but instead here to see someone.
But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is one word. “Rory.”
The nurse—Dorothy; that’s her name—stares at me, brows pulling together in confusion until I find enough words to actually communicate.
“Rory Kelley. My…girlfriend.” The word doesn’t do justice to what she is to me. “She came in earlier. Where is she?”
Dorothy’s eyes soften as understanding takes over. “Come on. I’ll get her doctor for you.”
“Where is she?” I ask again.
Dorothy sets her hands on her hips. “You know the doctors are supposed to be the ones to share medical information, Nate. If you want to get technical, no one should tell you anything at all, since last I heard, you kids aren’t married. And you’re lucky I’m ignoring your entrance back there.”
I swallow hard. Dorothy is right, and fighting won’t get me anywhere.
“Yes, ma’am. I just…”
The stern lines in her face ease with understanding. “I know. I’ll find someone who knows what’s going on with your girlfriend.”
Rory and I may not be married yet, but as soon as she recovers from whatever’s going on, our first order of business is a marriage license.
“Is she…” I can’t finish the sentence as a lump rises in my throat.
She has to be okay.
Dorothy sighs. “Nate, please understand that I could get fired for giving you private medical information and especially for bringing you to see Rory. Don’t push it. Just wait for the doctor. I’ll get her right now if you follow me.”
Even in my fragile emotional state, I recognize when to accept the situation. I swallow hard and nod, hanging on Dorothy’s words.
Bringing you to see Rory.
“Come on, then,” Dorothy says.
She leads me through a mostly empty emergency room. A few spaces have the curtains closed, but most are open, the beds awaiting new patients.
I strain to hear Rory’s voice, to catch a glimpse of her in one of the ER bays, but there’s no sign of her as we follow the arrows toward the waiting room.
Dorothy detours to the left just before the door that leads to the waiting room, though, leading me into a hallway.
I’ve never been back this way. It’s familiar, though, in the way all hospitals are: the white walls, linoleum flooring, and fluorescent lighting that seem to be interchangeable, with the same sharp medical smell in every facility.
The same sense of illness, of loss and grief.
Finally, Dorothy pauses in front of a small room. A sign by the entrance reads SURGICAL FAMILY WAITING ROOM.
“You can wait here. I’ll let the doctor know you want an update.” Dorothy gestures with her hand, indicating that I’m to step inside.
My gaze doesn’t move from the sign.
Surgical.
“Is Rory in surgery?”
“Have a seat,” Dorothy says, pointing again.
The woman has the patience of a saint and balls of steel.
I take a step into the room. It’s cozy, with warm lighting illuminating soft blue chairs and sofas that line the edges of the space. Framed paintings of flowers and landscapes dot the sunshine-yellow walls.
It’s clear that it’s meant to be a calming environment, to ease the anxiety of those whose loved ones are in the operating room.
If you ask me, it feels more like a prison.
“Thank you,” I manage.
The absolute agony of not knowing, of feeling powerless, isn’t Dorothy’s fault, not really, and I appreciate what she’s done for me.
Dorothy’s gaze softens as she sets a hand on my forearm. “I know it’s hard to not know what’s going on, and I’m sorry I don’t have information I can share with you. Rory’s doctor will update you soon. Can I do anything for you in the meantime?”
Just tell me she’s going to be okay.
I shake my head, then pause as something occurs to me. “Actually, do you know if anyone contacted Rory’s family? Her dad or her brother?”
I recognize that this situation has turned me into a selfish asshole, if I wasn’t one before. This moment is the first time I’ve even thought about anyone besides Rory and myself. But then, I can’t bring myself to feel bad about it, not until I know that she’s going to be okay.
Dorothy shakes her head. “When Rory was brought in, she asked us not to call her family just yet. She just wanted to see you. So while I suppose you’re within your rights to call them, you may want to wait to see what Rory says, just in case.”
My breath comes out in a rush of relief. Not because Jim and Dylan don’t know what’s going on, or because I’m the one she asked for.
It’s because Rory told them not to call her family.
She told them.
That means she was conscious. Breathing. Talking.
“Okay,” I say, grasping onto this small crumb of hope. “Okay.”
I pace the length of the small room. It’s gone from feeling like a prison to seeming like solitary confinement. It’s been hours and still no update.
I check my watch, which indicates that it’s been a solid four minutes since Dorothy left me here to wait. It felt like hours, at least.
I pause to rub my palms against my jeans, then turn and pace the other direction.
Eleven steps.
Turn.
Eleven steps.
I’ve counted, over and over, trying to focus on anything other than the possibilities.
No matter how hard I try, though, that list keeps growing longer and longer, every scenario bringing new fears.
Is it her heart? Her lungs?
Maybe a blood clot in her brain. Do they do surgery for that?
Or appendicitis. That’s a surgery.
Or…something.
I ran out of diagnoses quickly, given my limited medical knowledge, and just started to think through the different organs that could be causing her harm.
What if it’s her kidneys? Does she need a transplant? I’d give her one of mine, no questions asked.
Hell, I’ll give her two kidneys. Three, if that’s what she needs.
Do I have three kidneys? I’m not really sure on that one.
“Nate?”
I pause in the center of the room and turn to see a woman silhouetted in the doorway. Her auburn hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and a clean white coat covers her teal scrubs.
As she steps into the room, I get a better view of her face. She’s not wearing much makeup, if any. I’d guess that she’s young, probably in her late thirties, but she has an air of confidence about her that suggests she’s not new to the profession.
“Is Rory okay?” I blurt out. “Does she need my kidneys? I’ll give her as many as she needs.”
The woman smiles reassuringly. “No, Rory doesn’t need a kidney. That’s very kind, though. I’m Doctor Graham. Would you like to sit?”
I can’t get my body to move. Not until I know. “Is she…is she okay?”
Dr. Graham nods. “Yes, I expect her to be okay.”
Thank goodness.
I sink into a chair and bury my face in my hands.
She’s going to be okay.
Rory’s going to be okay.
Dr. Graham takes a seat across from me, waiting patiently until I look up.
“Thank you,” I manage. “Rory’s everything to me.”
She nods. “I know. She said the same thing.”
A shred of warmth heats in my chest. And now that I know Rory’s going to be okay, I can focus on the details. Figure out what Rory needs.
“She had surgery?” I ask. “It’s not her kidney, though, you said. Brain? Liver?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s…”
The rest of her words fade into the background as I notice the lettering on her white coat.
Aleah Graham, MD.
Obstetrics and Gynecology.
Obstetrics is babies, isn’t it? Why would she be taking care of Rory?
None of this makes any sense.
“Nate?” Dr. Graham asks. “Did you know?”
I blink, realizing I’ve missed whatever she was saying.
“You’re a gynecologist,” I say, still trying to sort out the situation.
Dr. Graham folds her hands in her lap. “That’s right. I take care of women’s health, including pregnancy and issues that come up with their reproductive organs.”
But what does that have to do with Rory and her liver or heart or appendix?
“But Rory…”
I’m not even sure what I’m trying to ask.
“Nate,” Dr. Graham says. Her voice is patient, but I sense she may be repeating herself. “Did you know that Rory was pregnant?”
Her face blurs, then spins along with the walls around me.
My fingers tingle, and the sound of rushing waves fills my ears.
I can’t get in any air.
Spots of black appear in my peripheral vision as the world tilts on its axis.
I hear someone call my name, but they’re too far away for me to understand what they’re saying over the waves and the words that keep echoing in my head, over and over.
Pregnant.
Rory.
Pregnant.