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“Did she not love you enough? Did she cheat on your father? Did she die?”
I walked out of the room, because I felt it climbing to the surface. I felt my anger getting too big, too much, too overbearing. I tried my best to escape from her, but she followed me through the house.
“Okay, you don’t want to talk about your mom. How about we talk about your dad? Tell me why you despise your father so much. What did he do? Did it bother you that he was busy working all the time?”
“You don’t want to do this,” I warned once more, but she was too far gone. She wanted to play nasty, but she was playing with the wrong person.
“Did he take away your favorite toy? Did he not let you get a pet as a child? Did he forget your birthday?”
My eyes grew heavy, and she noticed it as my stare met hers. “Oh,” she whispered. “He missed a lot of birthdays.”
“I kissed her!” I finally snapped, turning to face my wife, whose jaw was hanging open. “Is that what you want? Is that the lie you want me to tell?!” I hissed. “I swear you’re acting like an idiot.”
She slammed her hands against me.
Hard.
Each time she hit me, another emotion started coming to the surface. Each time she slammed, a feeling hit my gut.
This time, it was regret.
“I’m sorry,” I said on an exhale. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t kiss her?” she asked as her voice shook.
“Of course not.”
“It’s been a long day and—ow,” she whispered as she bent over in pain. “Ouch!”
“What is it?” When my eyes met hers, my chest caved in. Her hands clutched her stomach, and her legs were soaking wet and shaking as she stood in my stretched-out T-shirt. “Jane?” I whispered, nervous and confused. “What just happened?”
“I think my water broke.”
“It’s too early, it’s too early, it’s too early,” Jane kept whispering to herself as I drove her to the hospital. Her hands rested on her stomach as the contractions kept coming.
“You’re fine, everything’s okay,” I reassured her out loud, but in my mind, I was terrified. It’s too early, it’s too early, it’s too early…
Once we made it to the hospital, we were rushed into a room where we were surrounded by nurses and doctors asking questions as they tried to figure out what had happened. Whenever I asked a question, they’d smile and tell me I’d have to wait to speak with the attending neonatologist. Time passed slowly, and each minute felt like an hour. I knew it was too early for the child—she was only at thirty-one weeks. When the neonatologist finally made his way to our room, he had Jane’s chart in his grip and a small smile on his face as he pulled up a chair to the side of her bed.
“Hey there, I’m Doctor Lawrence, and I’ll be the one you get sick of soon enough.” He started flipping through his folder and brushed one of his hands against his hairy chin. “It looks to me like your baby’s giving you quite the fight right now, Jane. Being that it’s still so early in the pregnancy, we are concerned about the safety of performing a delivery with there still being a good twelve weeks left until you’re due.”
“Nine,” I corrected. “There are only nine weeks left.”
Dr. Lawrence’s bushy eyebrows lowered as he went flipping through his paperwork. “No, definitely twelve, which brings about some pretty complex issues. I know you’ve probably been going over all of these questions with the nurses already, but it’s important to know what’s going on with you and the child. So first, have you been under any kind of stress lately?”
“I’m a lawyer, so that’s the definition of my life,” she replied.
“Any kind of alcohol or drugs?”
“No and no.”
“Smoking?”
She hesitated.
I raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Jane. Seriously?”