Chapter 5 Georgie
Georgie
Before James can answer, a nurse walks in, the door to my hospital room swinging shut behind her.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, Georgie.” She walks over to the end of my bed and grabs the chart, flipping it open and making some notes as she scrutinizes the numbers and lines flashing across the monitors beside my bed.
Glancing at James, the nurse inquires, “How long has she been awake this time?”
This time?
“Five minutes, give or take.”
“And she’s coherent?”
“Yeah, mostly.”
Maybe I’m not. Maybe my concussed brain is playing tricks on me. That seems far more likely than this attractive stranger offering to be my fake husband.
Shifting her gaze from James to me, the nurse nods and smiles, explaining, “With a concussion and the after-effects of anesthesia, it can take a while to wake up, but it sounds like you’re fully coming out of it this time, which is good.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever experienced, how’s your pain level?”
“Not bad. Maybe a three.”
“Okay, great,” she murmurs, snapping the chart closed. “I’ll send the doctor in to check you out, and if you’re not feeling too loopy afterward, we can take you to the NICU so you can see your baby.”
I lick my dry lips, nodding eagerly. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
Just as the nurse promised, a doctor strolls into my hospital room a few minutes later.
He explains that because I was drifting in and out of consciousness and experiencing vaginal bleeding when I arrived, they were concerned I might have a placental abruption.
Because of the risks associated, the best course of action was to perform an emergency C-section.
The doctor scans the nurse’s notes and asks me a series of questions. After he declares me fit enough to visit the NICU, the nurse returns to my room with a wheelchair.
She gets me transferred from the hospital bed to the wheelchair.
While she loops all my tubes and wires around the IV pole, so they won’t get tangled, James sweeps my hair away from my face.
His fingertips pause as he brushes against the wound on my temple, almost like he’s caressing it.
When I glance at him, there’s worry in his eyes.
I’m really not sure what to make of James.
Before I can read too much into his apparent concern, the three of us set off toward the NICU.
At first, I’m taken aback that James is coming with us, but then I realize that since he’s my “husband,” the hospital staff would find it odd if he didn’t accompany me.
When we get off the elevator on the fifth floor, I’m wheeled into a secure section of the hospital.
The nurse scans her badge, allowing us access.
She leads us to a wall of several sinks and has us wash our hands.
After we’ve washed up, she escorts us into a large room, explaining that the NICU is divided into seven of these rooms, each called a bay.
The bays are separated by the level of care the babies require, from the most critical in bay one to the babies who are getting ready to go home in bay seven.
I take it as a good sign that my son is in bay five.
But when I first set eyes on him, my breath hitches. He’s so small, nothing like the round and chubby babies you see on television. He looks so… fragile.
Lying on his stomach, with his head to the side, he’s in this clear, futuristic, climate-controlled incubator. The nurse tells us it’s called an isolette. He has a nasal cannula taped to his face and wires and sensors all over his tiny body.
Failure washes over me for the second time today. I’ve only been a mother for a few hours, and I’ve already failed my son. My body couldn’t even keep him protected and growing in my womb, and now, medical science is the only thing keeping him safe.
James rubs my back, and I lean into his touch. Although I don’t know him, I’m grateful to have someone by my side.
Next to my son’s isolette is a pair of dusty pink pleather recliners.
They’re wide and far more comfortable than the wheelchair, so the nurse helps me move to one of the recliners as she explains the benefits of kangaroo care.
Kangaroo care is a method of holding the baby on a caregiver’s bare chest. The skin-to-skin contact is supposed to mimic the warmth and safety of the womb and promote bonding.
It also helps regulate the baby’s body temperature, heart rate, and breathing.
The nurse pulls a curtain around our little area for privacy before helping me untie my hospital gown, baring my chest. Under normal circumstances, I’d be embarrassed about a stranger, especially one as attractive as James, seeing me half-naked, but at this moment, as I’m about to hold my son for the first time, I couldn’t care less.
Plus, James averts his eyes.
The nurse places my sleeping son in my arms, and a feeling, so strong that it’s almost visceral, surges through me. Love.
I’ve loved other people before—my grandmother, my mother at one time, some boyfriends in the past—but the love I felt for them is nothing compared to the all-encompassing, all-consuming love I feel for my son.
Cherubic cheeks, a squishy nose, and a smattering of dark brown hair. With a gentle touch, I stroke my son’s cheek. His skin is so smooth, softer than any fabric I’ve ever felt.
“He has blue eyes,” James offers since my son is sleeping, and I can’t see them for myself. “Just a few shades darker than yours, Georgie.”
My hands cradle my son to my chest as the nurse wraps blankets around us to keep him warm.
Earlier today, I had hoped for a miracle. While this wasn’t the one I was expecting, this feels like the best one ever.
“How’s he doing?” I whisper to the nurse. Despite what James told me earlier, seeing all the medical devices surrounding my son has me seeking reassurance from a medical professional. I need the nurse’s confirmation that my son will be okay.
Seated in the recliner next to me, James gives my shoulder a squeeze. If I’m not careful, I could get used to his quiet, steady support.
“He’s doing well. When he was first born, we were a little concerned about his oxygen saturation levels. They were lower than we’d like. While that’s not unusual for his gestational age, we need to treat it, which is why he’s on a bit of oxygen and a low dose of caffeine to stimulate his lungs.”
“What are all these other things for?” I ask, motioning to the computer screens and the sensors taped to his little body.
“They’re to monitor his breathing, heart rate, and body temperature.
He’s been holding his temperature steady on his own, so he’ll probably be moved from the isolette into a bassinet within the next few days.
So far, he’s a tough little champ,” the nurse smiles.
Motioning toward James and me, she asks, “Would you like me to take a photo? Your first family photo of three.”
“Oh, no. That’s—” I start, awkwardness setting in as I am reminded that James and I are playing pretend. There is no family of three.
“That’d be great,” James says, fishing his phone out of his pocket and handing it to the nurse. “Thanks.”
Flustered, I comb my tangled hair with my fingers. I must look terrible. I haven’t had a proper shower in days. I was in a car crash. I had surgery. I probably look like Shrek at this point.
Coming to stand beside my chair, James kneels, brushing my hair over my shoulder, murmuring, “You look gorgeous, Georgie.”
James doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to say something he doesn’t mean. And when I glance up at him, those brown eyes capture mine, forcing my gaze to stay on his. Unbidden, my lips curve into a smile.
The nurse practically swoons. “Oh, be still, my heart. The two of you are so sweet together,” she gushes, and then she hands James back the phone. Too focused on James, I didn’t even realize she’d taken a photo.
“Georgie, do you plan on breastfeeding?”
“Yes,” I nod, pulling my gaze away from James. When I found out how expensive formula was, I realized breastfeeding was my only option.
“Okay, I’ll ask a lactation consultant to come visit you. Dad’s already fed the little guy a bottle, but we can try breastfeeding when he wakes up. I’m going to go pop in on some of the other babies, but I’ll check on y’all in a bit.”
When the nurse leaves the NICU bay, I look at James, confused.
“Since you were still knocked out from anesthesia, they had me feed him a bottle.”
“Oh.” It stings a little that this man, this stranger, has experienced more with my son than I have, but I have too much to be thankful for to allow that bitterness to linger.
“What’s your number? I’ll text you all the photos from today.”
“All the photos?”
“Yeah, since you were sedated, I took a ton of videos and photos. Figured you’d want them since you wouldn’t have any firsthand memories.”
A mortifying thought occurs to me. “Umm, were you… were you in the operating room during the C-section?”
“No,” he shakes his head, looking serious. “Since it was an emergency C-section, I wasn’t allowed to be there, but afterward, the nurses let me take a bunch of photos of the baby.”
“Oh, thank you,” I whisper. “Can you email the photos to me? My phone doesn’t have photo and video capabilities.”
The absurdity of the situation hits me anew. A stranger has photos of my newborn. A stranger has already fed my baby. He knows the color of my son’s eyes. He’s pretending to be my husband.
And he wants us to move in with him.
But I’m a stranger to him too, and he stayed. James chose to stay with me. He could have left. Most people would have left, but he didn’t.
Which brings me back to our earlier conversation that was interrupted by the nurse’s arrival. The question of his motive for continuing the subterfuge, so I ask James about it again.
James stretches his long legs out, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.
“Honestly, it was twofold, Georgie. I can’t just walk out those doors and leave you alone.
Not when your baby is in the NICU and you’re healing from a car accident and surgery.
Especially now that I know you don’t have a husband or a place to stay, and… ” he trails off, looking uncomfortable.
“And my mom hasn’t returned your call,” I guess with accuracy.
“Yeah. You don’t seem to have a safety net, but I have the resources to become your safety net.” He pauses, scratching his chin, as I watch him closely for any signs of deception. “If it makes you feel better, we can come up with some sort of arrangement.”
I knew it was too good to be true. I knew an offer like James’ wouldn’t come without a lot of strings attached.
“Arrangement?” I hiss. “Like, I have to screw you a certain number of times each week or else you’ll throw me out on the streets?”
James looks surprised—and upset—by my abrasive comment. “Jesus, no.” He wipes his hand down his face. “I meant, like once you get a job, you could pay me a small amount for rent, or you could help with chores around the house. Fuck! I did not mean that you’d become my personal bang maid.”
“Bang maid?”
“It’s like a… situation where the woman lives with the man and she cooks and cleans and has sex with him and he pays all the bills.
” I didn’t think it was possible, but he looks even more flustered now than he did a minute ago.
“Forget it. It’s a term that gets thrown around a lot on Reddit, and I forgot most people don’t use it. ”
“You’re on Reddit?”
“Yeah. I like poking around on Reddit because I can be anonymous.”
“Anonymity is important to you?”
“Once you lose it, you can’t get it back. So, yeah, anonymity is important, but I feel like we got off topic here.”
“We did, but that’s okay.” I squint, wondering aloud, “Who are you, James Harper? Why do I know your name?”
“I’m the drummer for a band.” He pauses and then adds, “Outlaw.”
My eyes widen, and my head pops up like a Jack-in-the-box. “Outlaw? The country band?”
“That’s the one.”
“And you’re offering us a place to stay in return for doing some chores?”
“Yep.”
I look down at the little sleeping angel on my chest. Only a few minutes ago, I made a vow to myself to do whatever it took to provide for him and keep him safe.
My gut is screaming that James is safe… but my intuition has steered me wrong in the past.
Unfortunately, I don’t have any better options.
Being fake married has to be safer than a relationship based on real feelings. My ex-boyfriend stomped on my heart one too many times for me to want anything to do with love again, so maybe this unexpected turn of events is the break I need.
I straighten my shoulders and blow out a breath to steady myself. “Okay, but on one condition.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Three months. We only stay three months.”
I need a timeline because I can’t let myself get too comfortable staying with James. No matter how safe he seems, I can’t let down my guard. My ex was nice in the beginning, too. Well, nice-ish.
James looks apprehensive. “Three months isn’t that long to heal and adjust to having a baby, Georgie. Let’s say four months, which will have you leaving after the new year, but we can revisit the issue later if you need more time.”
He’s likely right that three months won’t give me enough time to get back to work and save up enough money to move out. Plus, starting fresh after the new year seems like a fitting way to begin anew, so I nod, agreeing to James’ terms.
“Four months.”