Page 3 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

Jackie ~ June 2013

Twenty-eight weeks.

I’ve made it to twenty-eight weeks, which means I’m officially two months into bedrest and about one hard breath away from completely losing my mind.

I spend all day in this bed, propped up with pillows, under strict orders to stay horizontal unless I’m going to the bathroom or getting weighed like a prize cow. I can’t do laundry. I can’t cook. I can’t even stand long enough to microwave my own damn oatmeal.

My mom comes over almost every day now. So do my siblings. They’ve been doing the grocery runs, wiping down the counters, making me dinner, acting like everything’s totally fine while trying not to look too hard at me lying like roadkill in the middle of it all.

They think Kyle’s working late to prepare for paternity leave. Maybe he is. Or maybe he’s just avoiding me.

He’s been around, sure. But, we haven’t talked, not really, since that car ride. The one where the doctor mentioned selective reduction and Kyle looked at me like I’d already committed murder.

I didn’t want to kill my babies.

God, no.

But the truth, the ugly, terrifying truth, was that I could’ve lost all of them. And myself.

And Kyle didn’t see that. Didn’t want to.

He shut it down so fast, I wasn’t even allowed to be scared. I was supposed to smile, nod, trust nature, trust fate, trust Kyle.

And then the second trimester hit. Hard.

Morning sickness showed up like a late guest with a grudge. I was throwing up everything, toast, crackers, even water some days. My back screamed constantly. My skin stretched. I couldn’t sleep more than an hour without waking up either to pee or cry.

But according to Dr. Wonderful, the new OB Kyle insisted on, most of this is "psychosomatic."

Translation: I made it up.

Because of course, it’s all in my head.

The kicker? Kyle told him I had no symptoms before the last doctor warned us about the risks. Now I get "helpful" advice like maybe if you did more yoga, your nausea would ease up.

Right. Let me get right on the downward dog while carrying four human beings in my uterus and praying I don’t puke on the mat.

But I haven’t told my mom. Or my siblings. Or anyone. Because they’d be pissed. Pissed at Kyle. Pissed at the doctor. Pissed at me for not standing up for myself.

And I don’t want them to know I even considered it. I did. I was scared. I’m still scared.

But they’re real now. Kicking me awake at 2 a.m., dancing on my bladder during every ultrasound.

They’re mine. I’ve already fallen for them, so hard it hurts to breathe sometimes. I’ve already named them, though I haven’t told Kyle yet.

Two girls. Two boys.

Jemma. Iris. Duke. Finn.

It’s like someone handed me the future all at once. A full, wild, messy family in one swoop.

And I just keep lying here in this bed, loving them harder every day, hoping my body holds on long enough to get them here.

Hoping Kyle remembers who we were. Who we’re supposed to be. Because I can’t do this alone. Even though right now, it sure feels like I am.

My mom leaves around seven, after fussing over my dinner like usual. She only leaves once I’ve eaten more than a spoonful, which takes some effort. The food sits heavy in my stomach, but I keep it down. Small win.

I fall asleep waiting for Kyle. Still waiting. What feels like minutes later I jolt awake to a sharp pressure deep in my pelvis, low and urgent, like something’s bearing down. Then I feel it. A sudden pop. A rush of warmth between my legs. I don’t have to look. I know.

My water just broke.

My heart stutters as I reach across the bed, arm shaking, trying to wake Kyle. Only to find cold sheets. His side’s empty.

Fumbling for my phone on the nightstand, I start crying. Hot tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them. I’m shaking, weak, bleeding somewhere inside, and all I can think is, I’m alone.

He left me. Not just tonight. Not just now. But for this entire pregnancy. Through the nausea, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion. Through every moment I needed him to show up, he didn’t.

I blink through the blur on my screen, the lock screen lighting up. A single text.

‘Gonna be an all-nighter. Don’t wait up.’

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I call him immediately. It rings then goes to voicemail. I call again. And again. Nothing.

Panic crashes over me in waves, but I manage to call 911. I give them my address, try to breathe through the contractions that have already started. The dispatcher tells me to stay calm, which is just… Hilarious.

Hanging up I call my mom. She picks up on the second ring.

“Mom,” I sob, “they’re coming. I think, I think they’re coming.”

“Call 911, We’re on our way,” she says, voice sharp. I can hear the door slam and my dad’s voice saying he’ll drive.

I try Kyle again, over and over, until the sound of sirens drowns out the ringing in my ears.

The paramedics are quick. Calm. Efficient. They load me onto a stretcher, strapping me in while I’m bent sideways, clutching my stomach.

“I can feel them,” I whisper, grabbing one of their arms as the pain rips through me again. “I can feel them-”

Everything spins.

Then black.

I come to in a hospital room. The lights are soft. Machines beep steadily. My throat feels dry as sandpaper.

“Mom?” I croak.

She jolts awake in the chair beside me, eyes red, tissue clutched in one hand.

“Oh, honey,” she breathes, standing and smoothing my hair back like I’m five years old again.

“The babies?” I ask.

Her chin trembles, but she nods. “They’re in the NICU. They made it. They’re fighters.”

I close my eyes in relief, the tears spilling out without warning. “Water,” I manage.

She helps me take a few sips from a straw. I can barely lift my arms. My whole body feels heavy, pinned down. Like someone poured cement over my chest and stomach.

There’s a deep, dull ache low in my belly. I reach down, fingertips brushing stiff gauze and surgical tape. C-section. Guess that’s how they got the babies out after I passed out.

I don’t know how women just bounce back from this. I can’t even sit up straight. Every breath pulls at the stitches. Even blinking feels like a full-body effort.

The door flies open.

Kyle bursts in, looking wrecked, shirt wrinkled, coat missing, tie shoved in a pocket. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair’s a mess. He stops short when he sees me, and for a second, something almost like guilt flickers in his face.

I glance toward the window. It’s bright outside. I remember the time on the phone when I called 911, it was 2:03 a.m.

“What happened?” he rushes over to the bed, breath catching.

“My water broke,” I say flatly.

His hand finds mine, but I pull away. I’m too tired. Too raw.

“What were you doing?” he asks.

“Sleeping,” I snap. “What were you doing?”

He looks away. “We had a big case. I fell asleep at the office. I’m so sorry, Jackie, I-”

I shake my head. No. I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when I had to go through all of this alone.

The door creaks open again. Dr. Stevens walks in, clipboard in hand.

His face is calm, but something in his eyes makes me sit up straighter, well, try to. My body protests instantly, tugging at something deep and sharp near my incision.

“You’re stable now,” he says, stepping to the foot of the bed. “Vitals are good. Bleeding’s under control. But there’s something we need to discuss before we talk about the babies.”

The machines around me hum. I hear them clearer than his voice.

“You had a significant amount of internal bleeding when you came in,” he says. “We did everything we could to manage it conservatively, but your uterus wasn’t contracting the way we needed it to. You went into haemorrhagic shock.”

I stare at him, trying to follow the words. My mom touches my shoulder beside me.

“We had to perform an emergency hysterectomy,” he continues gently. “It was the only way to stop the bleeding and save your life.”

My breath catches. “You mean… you took out my…?”

He nods slowly. “We had no choice. You had a condition called uterine atony, your uterus stopped contracting entirely after delivery. The bleeding was severe, and you were losing blood too fast.”

I feel like I’ve been hit in the chest. My hands go to my stomach, still swollen. I shouldn’t care; I already have four babies. But I do, I want to cry, scream, deny it but nothing comes out. Just air.

“We saved your ovaries,” he adds, like it might help. “If you ever want more children down the road, surrogacy is a possibility.”

I nod, but I can’t hear anymore, “My babies?”

“Your daughters are doing well,” he says. “At 28 weeks, their lungs are underdeveloped, but they’re responding to ventilation. We’ve started both on CPAP, continuous positive airway pressure to help them breathe, and we’re giving them surfactant to improve lung function. They’ll be in the NICU for a while, but they’re stable.”

I nod, tears sliding down my cheeks.

“The boys,” he continues, slower now, “were smaller. Less weight, shorter gestation response.”

I clutch the blanket.

“Your son Baby C,” he says, “has a condition called persistent pulmonary hypertension of the newborn, PPHN. One of his blood vessels hasn’t transitioned properly after birth. We’ve started him on oxygen and nitric oxide therapy to help oxygenate his blood. He’s critical but stable.”

I open my mouth to ask, but I feel like I already know. Kyle asks, “And the other?”

Dr. Stevens glances at him. Then back at me.

“Baby D was born in the ambulance,” he says gently. “They didn’t have the neonatal equipment onboard to intubate a baby his size. The paramedics did everything they could… but by the time they got here…”

He swallows. “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

It’s like the floor vanishes. Like someone pulled the plug on the whole world and left me suspended in the quiet that comes after disaster. My body forgets how to breathe. My chest tightens, and then, I sob.

One sound. One long, shattering cry that comes from somewhere I didn’t know existed. Deep and jagged and animal. Like my heart just ripped in half.

I don’t see Kyle fall apart. I don’t see my mother move. I don’t feel the IV in my arm or the pain in my gut or the nurse checking the monitors.

All I feel is absence. A vast, endless ache where he should’ve been. My son.

I never held him. I never kissed his face or counted his fingers or told him I loved him. But he was mine. I felt him move inside me. I don’t even know which one he is, Duke or Finn. I dreamed of them together, my boys. I planned their whole life in my head.

And now, he’s just gone.

I think my mother’s arms are around me. I think she’s holding me tight, crying too, whispering something I can’t make out. Her hands shake. I feel the pressure of her hug, but not the warmth.

I don’t move. I can’t.

I can’t reach for Kyle. I can’t speak. I can’t even cry anymore.

I just lay there, hollowed out, staring past everything.

Because nothing will ever be the same again.

And I don’t know how to live in a world where my son doesn’t exist.