Chapter 11
Cody
I’m woken by the sound of footsteps, followed by my bedroom door creaking open, then the lights being turned on, blinding me. This happened two nights ago too. Karissa said she heard a noise, but it just ended up being one of the dogs being restless.
“Cody,” she calls out.
I hang my arm over my closed eyelids. “Turn the light off?” I grumble.
“Sorry,” she says, and then I’m able to look over at her, backlit in the doorway. She’s still a little fuzzy as my eyes adjust.
She’s standing just past the doorframe, wearing sweatpants and a white tank top; her round stomach is staring me down.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I think something’s wrong.”
That gets me up. “What’s wrong?” My voice is dry but full of concern; my heart skips a second before it thumps quicker.
“I didn’t feel her much today, and I’ve been trying to get her to move since I went to bed…but she won’t.”
For some reason, I’m relieved it’s not any of those preeclampsia signs.
“So, maybe she’s sleeping?”
“They told me I should be counting her kicks, and she always moves when I drink ice water but this time she didn’t.”
“Okay.” I look at the clock. It’s eleven thirty at night. “What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to take me to the hospital,” she says, and my heart starts pounding again.
As I get out of bed, a hint of annoyance hits because I was asleep and I’m tired, but I give myself a reality check.
What right do I have to be annoyed with getting up and having to do this for her?
She’s the one who’s scared, dealing with the weight of having this baby alone, surrounded by us, people she doesn’t really know.
She doesn’t want to be taking a trip to the hospital either but doesn’t have a choice.
What’s she supposed to do? Ignore her motherly instinct?
I want her to trust her gut, and if I have to take her to the hospital just to be sent home because of a false alarm, so be it.
I grab my phone, throw on some clothes, grab the bags she’s had packed for nearly a week now, and out the door we go.
I help her up into my truck, and just before I shut the door, I see her face. It’s that same look she had the first time I met her—absolutely terrified.
I don’t mention it, just close the door gently and walk around to my side.
I throw the truck in gear and start down the driveway. Karissa’s silent, one hand curled protectively around her belly like she’s trying to hold the baby still.
“You feel her yet?”
She shakes her head before she answers. “No.”
My jaw clenches, my body too, but I try to relax. “We’ll get there quick. I have a lead foot.”
“I know,” she says, but doesn’t follow it with a laugh like I do.
I glance toward Jesse and Ella’s place on the way out. There’s not a single light on and Jesse’s truck is the only vehicle in the driveway.
“Ella’s on shift,” I say.
“Good.”
We don’t say much else.
But five minutes later, I hear a quiet cry.
Without thinking, I reach over and take her hand. It’s a little awkward at first, like I’m not sure if I’m allowed, but I don’t let go. I push past it, hoping she knows it’s not about me. It’s about letting her know she’s not alone right now.
“God, please keep this baby safe. Steady Karissa’s heart and quiet her fears. Fill her with Your peace. And if this is a false alarm, make that clear to her. Let her know she’s okay…that they’re both okay. Amen.”
She sniffles, choking on her own breath. I smooth my thumb over her hand once.
“Deep breaths. You can’t get yourself all worked up, especially if this is nothing. It’s not good for her.”
“Her name is Emma,” she mutters.
I test it out. “Emma… I like that. That’s a good name.”
“Thanks.” She sniffles with another wipe to her cheeks, her other hand not leaving mine.
Forty minutes later I’m pulling under the bright lights of the emergency entrance, throwing the truck in park, and hopping out. I jog around to her side and open the door, helping her down gently.
She’s shaking. I can see it in her hands, the way her knees almost buckle when her feet hit the pavement.
“Easy,” I say, keeping a hand on her back. “I got you.”
We walk through the sliding doors, and they get her in a wheelchair. She gives her name, symptoms, how far along she is. The nurse continues to ask questions.
I lean in close. “I’m gonna find Ella.”
Karissa nods, eyes big and scared but focused.
I break off down the hallway toward the ER staff desk, scanning for her. A familiar voice hits my ears before I even see her.
“Cody?”
I turn.
Ella’s walking toward me fast. She’s in navy scrubs, her hair’s pulled up, and her eyes are sharp.
“What’s going on?”
“She hasn’t felt the baby,” I say quickly.
Her face changes and I follow her back to where I left Karissa.
* * *
Everything happened so fast.
One minute we were sitting in triage, Karissa’s voice shaky as she told them she hadn’t felt the baby move.
The nurse couldn’t find the heartbeat right away with the Doppler.
They said it was probably just the position, that sometimes it takes a minute, but I could see it in their faces.
They didn’t believe their own words. They were just trying to keep her calm.
They rushed her for an ultrasound. That’s when the tone changed.
Minimal movement. Heart rate decelerating. And other words I didn’t know the meaning of. I’ve never hated medical terms so much in my life.
They didn’t wait around to let things get worse. The doctor was calling for an emergency C-section. Said that if we waited, we could lose the baby, or Karissa…or both.
Now I’m here—blue surgical suit, paper mask shoved under my chin—in a cold, sterile room. Sitting beside Karissa while a curtain hangs just above her chest as a barrier between us and what’s happening on the other side.
Her arms are stretched out. Her fingers twitch. She’s trying to stay calm, but I can see the tremble in her body as I reach to rub her shoulder.
I wasn’t planning on being here for this. I didn’t think she’d want me—or anyone—in the room, no matter how this baby was going to come out.
“I’m right here,” I say, keeping my voice low. “They got you.”
She nods, eyes staring straight up, and a tear escapes the corner of her eye and slides down her face.
I don’t know what’s happening beyond that curtain, but I hear metal instruments. Voices speaking quickly. Someone says “pressure” and then “almost there.”
Karissa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second.
“Just pressure,” I murmur, leaning in close. “You’re doing so good.”
I wipe away a few more of her stray tears, and then, suddenly, there’s a sharp cry echoing through the room.
They lift the baby above the curtain for us to see. She’s red-faced, screaming, pissed at the world. But Karissa’s sobbing now with a smile, her hands still bound, chest heaving.
Something cracks in me. A breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding rushes out all at once. My throat tightens. My eyes burn.
They bring her around the curtain then, wrapped in a white blanket, red-faced, white stuff sticking on her skin and still screaming.
“Here she is, Mama,” one of the nurses says, lowering her down close to Karissa’s face. Their cheeks touching.
Karissa’s tears don’t let up, “H-hi, baby,” she whispers, her voice thin, almost broken.
Emma just screams louder, her tiny jaw trembling with each cry. The tickle behind my eyes comes fast, and I blink hard, pushing it away.
Something about watching this baby appear in the world, hearing her, seeing how small she is, is undoing me in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“Well, her lungs sound good,” the nurse says with a light laugh, adjusting Emma’s blanket.
I laugh once, still staring at her. But Karissa doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile. She’s still got tears in her eyes, but her breaths are getting weird—shorter, shallow.
“Hey,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “You okay?”
Her eyes flutter.
“Karissa?”
Her mouth falls slack. Her head tips slightly. And then everything starts beeping. Sharp, high-pitched alarms. One, then two. Fast. Urgent.
“Pressure’s dropping,” someone says, and it’s suddenly chaos.
The nurse holding Emma disappears from view. A second later, someone else is shouting for a crash cart. I’m shoved to the side, barely catching myself as bodies flood the space around her.
“What’s happening?” I bark. “What’s going on?”
A doctor grabs something off the tray. “Possible hemorrhage. Hang another unit, now.”
I can’t see her anymore. The curtain’s still drawn, but now even her face is out of sight.
I walk over to where they took Emma and stand there, frozen, fists clenched, heart pounding so loud it drowns everything else out.
“Please,” I whisper, too quiet for anyone to hear. I stare at Emma who’s finally stopped screaming. “Please, God. Don’t take her.”