36
GAbrIELA DUARTE
The bleeding began before I made it to my hotel room.
I got out of the car in my wet dress, the envelope gripped between my fingers. Cris was still on the line. I asked him to wait while the driver unloaded my suitcase; a receptionist came to help me.
I’d taken three steps through the lobby when an employee looked at my dress and went pale.
“Signora, are you hurt?”
I followed her gaze. A dark stain spread across the pale fabric around my thighs. The world tilted.
“I’m pregnant,” I managed.
The receptionist supported me and called for help.
I managed to tell Cris I was bleeding before handing her the phone.
I heard her give the address. Then came the stretcher, the ambulance, and questions I could barely follow.
I kept saying I was almost seven weeks. My phone went back into my bag; I still clutched the envelope.
In the emergency department, they helped me out of my dress, took blood, and started an IV. The doctor listened to what I knew about the pregnancy and explained the transvaginal scan. I agreed. When she turned the monitor, I searched the gray shapes for something I recognized from the first image.
“I can’t find it,” I whispered.
“I’m still looking.”
“The first scan was through my abdomen,” I managed. “The doctor couldn’t assess everything. I had another appointment booked.”
“Breathe.”
The silence felt endless. I stared at the screen but thought of the blood on my dress. I asked her to keep looking. She pointed to an area of the image.
There was a tiny, rapid movement I hadn’t noticed.
“There’s cardiac activity,” she said.
I began to cry.
“The baby’s alive?”
“Yes. But I need to check something.”
She changed the angle, took more measurements, and indicated another area. I followed the cursor, afraid to misunderstand.
“Are there two?”
She asked for another moment. She went back over the saved images, checked the measurements, and looked at me.
“There are three embryos,” she explained. “A triplet pregnancy.”
“Three?”
“Yes. Three sacs, with cardiac activity in all three. There’s also an area of bleeding beside one of them that we’ll monitor. Right now, all three are alive.”
She showed me the images she’d recorded. I couldn’t remember the measurements or immediately tell the three apart. I asked her to point again. One, two, three. By the last image, my eyes were so full of tears I had to wipe them with my sleeve.
Until that night, I’d spoken to “the baby.” Now the doctor was pointing to three different places on the screen, and I was trying to grasp how they could all be inside me.
“They’re alive,” I whispered.
“They are.”
It was the first good news since the rain. It was also the most frightening. She turned the screen toward me and indicated each point with the cursor.
“Here are all three. We’ll follow their development and complete the assessment of the sacs and placentas at your next appointments. This kind of pregnancy needs a specialist team, particularly because of the risk of premature birth.”
I could barely think as far as the next night. She was already talking about appointments, birth, and care that had no place in the plan I’d taken to the Palazzo.
“What do I do to keep from losing them?”
“We’ll monitor the bleeding here in the hospital. Afterward, you’ll need specialist fetal-medicine care. The team will advise you on your daily routine and the next tests.”
I agreed to stay for observation. She asked whether I’d understood. I repeated that all three were alive and I needed to stay in the hospital. That was all I could hold on to just then.
“Is there someone who can be with you?”
I thought of Luca. Of him beneath the arcade, letting security take me away. Of the check, the contempt, his refusal to touch the first image of his child.
“My friend’s coming from Lisbon. And Paola, a friend here. She was going to meet me at the hotel.”
Cris had already spoken to Paola. At two, when I managed to call again, she was on her way to the hospital and he was looking for a morning flight. I told him the scan results.
“And there are three,” I added.
“Three?”
“Babies.”
Five seconds of silence.
“I’m coming.”
Paola arrived soon after with the suitcase the driver had left at the hotel. She stopped beside the bed and looked at the bracelet on my wrist.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know this would happen.”
She pulled up a chair. Only then did I tell her about the pregnancy and the three babies. She hugged me without another question. When I drew back, she held my hand over the blanket.
My phone vibrated on the bed. My badge and work email had been deactivated; my stay at the Palazzo was listed as ended. The orders I’d heard in that room were arriving in writing.
I forwarded the notice to my lawyer with the message I’d sent on leaving. Paola confirmed she’d saved the acceptance and project records and sent copies to the inspectors. I didn’t have to piece it all together in the middle of the night.
A photograph of the opening appeared in a client’s messages. Luca and Beatrice stood beside the stage. I turned the screen facedown. Paola moved the phone off the bed and helped me drink water.
At six, I tried Luca’s personal number. The call cut off at once; a second attempt did the same. I borrowed Paola’s phone and called the president’s office. The employee on duty answered.
“I need to speak to Luca Bellandi.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Gabriela Duarte.”
A pause.
“I’ve been instructed to refer all your matters to the legal department.”
“I’m in the hospital. Tell him I’m expecting triplets and I’ve had a hemorrhage.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Duarte. I can’t transfer you.”
“Just give him the message.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
I hung up without knowing whether he’d get the message. I’d said there were three; I wanted to make sure that reached him in writing too. I asked Paola for paper. She set it on a folder on my knees.
Luca,
I’m in the hospital after a hemorrhage. There are three babies, and all three are alive.
I stopped at the plural. Took a breath and went on.
The tests are consistent with the weeks we were together. My offer of a DNA test stands. I won’t argue about the photographs again while I’m recovering. I want you to read the documents and know what’s happening.
I’m not asking you to be with me again. I’m asking you not to refuse to know about your children.
Gabriela.
Paola arranged delivery with proof of receipt. I folded the letter, added a copy of the scan, and asked for the envelope to be delivered to the Palazzo. Cris arrived early that afternoon with his travel bag. Paola stood to greet him; when he saw me, he left his bag by the door.
He washed his hands and hugged me gently. Only then did he ask what the doctors had said since our last call.
I showed him the ultrasound. He followed the marks the doctor had made on the image, still stunned by the number.
“Has Luca contacted you?”
I started crying before I could answer. Cris pulled his chair close to the bed. I told him what I hadn’t been able to explain in the car: the photographs, the report, the accusations, the money. With every sentence, his body stiffened.
“I want to talk to him.”
“No.”
“He put you out in the rain, pregnant.”
“It won’t help.”
“I’ve already asked the hotel to preserve the records and confirm that an employee opened my room. I won’t let them use that against you.”
“Send everything to my lawyer. Don’t go after him now.”
He was silent for a while, his hands clenched between his knees.
“I need you here,” I said.
He looked up.
“I’ll stay.”
Paola went to get coffee. Cris looked at the images again.
“Three. You never do anything the easy way.”
“I’m terrified.”
“So am I.”
“The firm still has debts. Luca’s blocked my access, and I don’t even know when we’ll receive the final payment. How am I going to raise three babies?”
“We’ll raise them.”
“Don’t say that because you’re angry with him.”
“I’m angry, and I’ll still be here when that passes. Those are separate facts.”
“You can’t promise twenty years in one afternoon.”
“I can promise the next scan, the flight home, and tomorrow. Then I’ll promise the day after.”
“I can’t put three children on your shoulders.”
“You’re not putting them anywhere. I’m choosing.”
“Your shifts, your life . . .”
“I’ll arrange what I can. First we listen to the team, then think about travel. You don’t have to solve the next twenty years today.”
He’d still have to reschedule appointments and find cover in Lisbon. I knew that. He asked for my medical calendar, noted the follow-up appointment, and began with the first task.
“Cris . . .”
“Now tell me whether you want me to call your mother or you’d rather speak to her yourself.”
I called. My mother cried at the word triplets, then asked when she could come for me. There was no answer yet. Cris held my hand through the call, and I managed to tell her Luca wasn’t coming either.
Late that afternoon, proof of delivery arrived: the envelope had been received at the Palazzo’s reception desk. I saved it with the medical copies. No reply came.
Paola had finally reached Sofia. She asked if I wanted to speak to her. I agreed, and the voice I heard had none of its usual firmness at our dinners.
“I only found out this morning. Paola told me you’re in the hospital.”
I said the bleeding had eased and there were three babies. She fell silent before asking whether she could come.
“Not today. Cris is with me. I’m so tired.”
“I’ll speak to Luca.”
“He has my results. I need to rest, Sofia.”
She didn’t insist on visiting. She asked me to save her direct number and call if I needed anything. I thanked her but couldn’t promise I would.
The next morning, the team reassessed me. The bleeding had stopped, and I was discharged with instructions and a follow-up appointment soon. That didn’t mean I was cleared to fly. Cris put away the papers and helped organize the results for the next consultation.
Before we left, I emailed copies of the letter to Luca’s personal and work addresses. An automatic reply from his corporate account referred the matter to Legal. Nothing came from his personal one. I saved the sent messages without trying to guess whether he’d opened them.
We went back to the hotel. We’d stay in Como until the reassessment and a medical decision about travel. Cris asked where I wanted to go when I could. I looked at the lake through the window.
“Lisbon. Then Brazil.”
“Are you sure?”
I rested a hand on my still-flat belly.
“Luca made his choice. Now I need to make mine.”
On my phone, I opened the scan images. The doctor had marked three distinct areas. I traced them with my finger, as she’d done with the cursor on the monitor. I was still afraid, but I could no longer think of the three without trying to picture them.