Chapter 43
Tracy
There’s a pressure on my hand, as though it’s being squeezed. And there’s this feeling in my soul—a heaviness, like an overwhelming sense of despair—as though the course of my life has just changed, and not for the better.
The baby is gone. I can feel it in my very being, an emptiness I can’t even begin to describe.
Even if that post didn’t hit my reproductive organs, there was too much blood loss, too much trauma on my body.
I don’t need a doctor to tell me that. I don’t need a test or an ultrasound or whatever the fuck they do to confirm what my heart already knows.
Blake’s child was lost before it even had a chance, before he even knew.
The pain in my abdomen only confirms it—that rusted, jagged metal taking the life of my unborn child, and altering the course of my life forever.
Flashes of the car accident filter through my mind, hitting me like a ton of bricks and sucking the air right out of my lungs. The headlights blinding us, flying through the air, the metal post through my stomach, and Whitney…
My eyes fly open, and I find the source of the pressure on my hand. Blake is in a chair next to my bed, hunched over with his forehead in his palm, as he grips my hand tight in his free one.
The beige walls of the hospital room close in on me, the room too small for all the pain lingering in the air.
The lights are off, but sunlight pours in around the closed window blinds, casting everything in a dim light.
The door to my room is closed, and I see my parents in the hallway through the window, talking to a man in scrubs.
My tongue darts out, licking my lips, and a strangled sound comes from my dry throat.
Blake’s head darts up, and my heart stops.
He looks so tired, so beaten up, with dark smudges under his eyes—those beautiful green eyes now bloodshot and haggard looking.
“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice like gravel as he rises from his seat and kisses my forehead.
“Whitney,” I say, my voice cracking. “Where is she? I need to see her.”
I need to know she’s okay. I need to ask her what to do. I need her to help me through this. She’s the only one who knows, and I need her to tell me everything will be alright.
Blake drops back into his chair, grabbing my hand in both of his. Tears steam from his eyes, and he clears his throat before looking away, his jaw working as he tries to compose himself.
And I know. I know before he even says a word.
“Whitney—” His voice cracks. “She… goddamn it.” He wipes the tears from his face with one hand, the other still squeezing my own tightly, like it’s a lifeline. “She didn’t make it, sweetheart.”
My heart stops. Pain grips my chest, like it’s been splayed open and my heart shredded and left in tatters.
Whitney is dead.