Chapter 16
Cody
I drive slower than I ever have.
Karissa’s in the back seat with Emma, holding a pillow tight to her stomach like it’s the only thing keeping her together. She hasn’t said much, and I don’t expect her to. She’s still in a lot of pain. Better than yesterday, but it still takes her a little while to get to where she’s going.
Earlier, Mom asked if she’d be up for visitors once we got home.
Karissa looked surprised, almost like she didn’t expect anyone to ask such a thing.
Like the idea of people wanting to meet the baby hadn’t crossed her mind.
And when she realized they did, she looked happy. Caught off guard in a good way.
I park close to the door of the guest lodge and kill the engine.
“You ready?” I ask, looking back.
Karissa nods, so I offer my hand. She takes it without hesitation. She’s too sore to pretend she doesn’t need help.
Getting her out of the truck takes about the same amount of time as it did to get her in it. Once she’s on the ground, I grab the car seat and walk them both slowly to the door.
The smell of Mom’s cooking hits first. Something with chicken. Maybe pot pie or soup. Whatever it is, I know it’s warm, homemade, and delicious.
Fresh flowers are on the kitchen table, and a few pink balloons are tied to a gift on the table. You would never guess it was a hunting lodge, that’s for sure.
My mom’s the first one to appear. “There they are,” she says, eyes already watering. She crosses the room slowly, like she doesn’t want to overwhelm Karissa.
“Here we are,” I say, pressing a hand to Karissa’s back and guiding her gently forward so I can shut the door.
I set the car seat on the ground, giving everyone their first look at the baby.
“Oh my.” Mom covers her mouth. “How perfect and tiny is she!” she whispers, looking at Karissa, who smiles, tears in her eyes.
I glance into the living room. Jesse and Ella are standing side by side, and Addison’s perched on the arm of the couch, hands clasped like she’s been waiting all day for this moment. Even Dad and Mason are settled on the couch, eyes on us.
My mom steps in and touches her arm gently. “How are you? I want to give you a hug, but I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Probably best.” I laugh because I already know she’s right.
“Yeah, I’m sore,” Karissa admits with a small laugh, though her eyes still well up.
The nurse warned me about her hormones, that they change a lot with having a baby.
Plus, she’s in a lot of pain. Medicine can only do so much.
She still needs my help to get around and go to the bathroom and everything.
Which I’ve helped with twice so far. It was awkward at first, but really no big deal.
Karissa gets to the couch with Ella’s help, and I pull Emma from the car seat for her and hand her over. Everyone’s quiet, watching, taking it all in, I think.
While they visit and talk, I go back out to the truck to grab her bags. I don’t have a bag, didn’t take one. I used the hospital’s soap and wore the same clothes I went in. I could’ve gone home to change, I suppose, but I didn’t want to leave them that long.
Karissa’s room is clean and smells good. There are vacuum lines on the carpet and the comforter is laid over the bed perfectly. Not a wrinkle in sight. Mom was definitely here, no doubt about that.
I go back out to see Karissa sitting stiff in the recliner, that little pillow still tucked under one arm, smiling, but I can tell she’s trying not to cry. She’s been doing a lot of that.
Mom’s holding Emma, everyone else sitting around watching her like it’s Christmas morning and Emma’s the gift.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” I hear Karissa say, and I go to help her out of the chair, but she starts to do it herself, not looking for help, so I stop.
I watch her, her face tightening as she tries to lift herself up, knowing the shift from sitting to standing, or standing to sitting, is harder than the walking itself. At least, that’s what she told me.
“You got it?” I ask after I see her wince.
“Yeah,” she says on a shaky breath.
She’s doesn’t.
She hasn’t gone anywhere without help since the surgery—not once—so I step beside her anyway, because the last thing she’s going to do is think she has to act tough in front of everyone.
“Here.” I hold my arm out for her. She doesn’t argue, just swallows and uses it for support like she has been.
Once she’s up and walking, her grip loosens and I guide her into her room and to the connecting bathroom.
She mumbles a soft “thanks” and shuts the door.
I wait a minute, then another minute, before I knock once, gently. “Karissa.”
No answer.
“Hey.” I knock again. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says flatly, like she’s lying to everyone, including herself.
I don’t wait. I push the door open slowly, just enough to see her.
She’s just standing there, looking at herself in the mirror, tears streaming down her face.
“What’s wrong?” I mutter, stepping all the way inside.
I used to hate tears, used to run, getting as far away as possible if anyone was crying…but lately, I’ve found myself not only needing to do the opposite, but wanting to stay. I want to comfort her; I want to make her smile or laugh instead.
She sniffles. “I didn’t want to cry in front of them. I just needed a second.”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “You didn’t have to say yes to company, you know.”
“I know. But I wanted to, and I’m glad I did, it’s just that—” She chokes on a sob and I wait.
“They’re not even my family, Cody.” Her voice cracks. “And they decorated the house. They bought baby stuff. They treat me like…like I’m one of them, and that I matter. And I don’t. I’m not one of you guys, I’m not—”
“You do matter,” I cut her off, tightly. “Don’t say that again. Blood means nothing in this family.” I’m not mean, just firm.
She looks up at me, eyes red and glassy, and all I wanna do is hug her, but I know it hurts her too much.
“You want me to ask them to leave?”
“No,” she mumbles and wipes her face.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I don’t say anything, just wait for her to collect herself.
* * *
My family left about forty-five minutes ago.
We had dinner, and now we’re heading into our first night at home with a newborn.
I’m not really sure what to expect. In the hospital, we had the nurses to lean on…
and now it’s just us. Mostly me, if I’m honest. Karissa can barely move, and I want her to rest, to heal without pushing herself.
So tonight, I’m preparing to handle everything except feeding the baby. That part’s still up to her.
I hear her before I see her.
A soft gasp, followed by a muttered “Crap” from down the hall.
I stop making my temporary bed on the couch and move toward the bathroom. The sound of her deep breathing makes my stomach twist. I’ve been trailing her like a shadow since we got home, but I gave her a minute alone to shower while Emma was hanging out with me.
I knock gently. “Karissa?”
A beat of silence, then, “Don’t come in.”
But it’s too late. I’m already pushing the door open.
She’s standing there in nothing but a sports bra, damp hair clinging to her shoulders, eyes red and wet.
Her incision is still taped, but what stops me cold is the bright red blood trailing on the floor.
She’s holding a black towel in one hand and her other against the edge of the vanity like it’s the only thing stabilizing her.
“I’m trying to wrap my hair up,” she chokes out, “but I can’t. And I can’t reach down to get dressed and—”
“Hey,” I cut in gently, stepping toward her. “That’s what I’m here for.”
She shakes her head, like this is the most humiliating thing she’s ever been a part of. “I don’t feel human,” she whispers.
I take the towel from her hand before she can argue and use it to wipe her clean, then the floor. After that, I help her finish getting dressed slowly, carefully, like if I rush I might hurt her.
When she’s dressed, I step behind her and tell her to look down. I drape the towel over her head like I’ve seen Addison do, then gently gather all her damp hair inside it. I twist it, bring it back toward me, and let it lay.
She lifts her head, eyes flicking to the mirror. I’m expecting at least a hint of a smile when she sees I didn’t completely butcher the job, but her reflection stays somber, and I can’t shake the way it hits me, that even something this small can’t pull her out of whatever she’s feeling.
“I feel disgusting.”
“You’re not.” I shake my head.
She looks down, ashamed, like if she could disappear, she would.
“I hate that you have to see me like this.”
“Tough,” I murmur, brushing a damp curl back from her forehead that I must’ve missed.
“I didn’t know the extent of what it’s like after birth. I didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t—”
“I didn’t either,” I interject. “But it is what it is.” I shrug. “It’s not going to be like this forever; you will heal.”