Page 35

Chapter thirty-five

Patrick

The snow’s melting into rivers of slush. Powdery drifts collapsing into thick grey sludge. The world’s creeping in, and I keep thinking she’ll leave. That she’ll wake up and run. But she hasn’t.

Despite the chaos, despite everything that’s been thrown at her, she’s still trying, still smiling, even though she’s working herself down to the bone, doing everything she can to help Alexander.

I printed out some info on embalming I found online, not that she really needs it. She already knows everything. But she said it’d help her if she could visually plan it out—something about seeing the steps and techniques laid out in front of her making her feel more in control.

She’s spent hours sitting by Alexander’s bed, notebook balanced on her knees, furiously scribbling notes ever since. Pages and pages of scrawled ideas—formulas, mixtures, things to try.

She’s even been talking to Mara too, sitting with her for hours in the back room, whispering like they’re old friends.

She agrees that my idea to borrow organs is good, but it’ll be hard.

Hard. But not impossible .

She says it won’t matter about Alexander’s blood type or tissue compatibility since, technically, his body won’t be able to reject them.

“It’s not like a live transplant,” she’d explained, tapping her pen against her notebook. “We’re not asking his body to keep them functioning, we just want it to hold them.”

Apparently, size plays a massive factor, and the organs will need to fit his internal cavity. Because if they’re too big or too small, they won’t sit right. Won’t look right. And that’ll mess everything up.

So we may have to keep going back to the funeral home—even though I really really don’t want to take her there—to see who’s in the cooler, to see if there’s someone who matches his size. She’ll need to measure them up, carefully, piece by piece, so she can figure it out properly.

She’s so fucking clever.

The way her mind works, the way she’s piecing this all together, staying calm and focused—it’s incredible.

I love her more and more every day, and not even just because she wants to save Alex, but because she’s really, honestly, come round to the idea of being a mommy again too.

I was sceptical at first, thought she was playing it up a little, but she’s so set on it now.

Her belly’s swelling, properly showing, and we think she’s around fifteen weeks. It’s not just a little curve under her naval anymore, it’s a real bump. Rounder, firmer, jutting out from the top of her ribs, just enough that she rests her hand on it all the time, like she’s soothing the baby right there under her palm.

She’s beautiful.

Well, I always knew she was beautiful, but now? God help me. She’s something else entirely. There’s this glow about her, like her skin’s holding sunlight, and she’s filling out in all the right places, her thighs have gotten a little softer, her ass a little rounder. She’s so warm and sweet.

She’s started feeling little flutters in her belly too. Tiny, delicate movements she keeps telling me about. I can’t feel a thing yet, but I’ve been talking to it every day, pressing my lips to her stomach, whispering sweet nothings to it.

“We can’t wait to meet you,” I’d murmured into her skin last night. “Your mommy’s so excited too. She’s gonna be the best. She’s already the best.”

I never thought I’d be this happy again in my life. It’s so damn perfect. She’s so damn perfect.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. No… her phone.

I pull it out and see Elliot’s name flash across the screen.

“For fuck’s sake.”

How are you, Lev?

I’m fine. I’ve told you a hundred times.

Okay. I’m just worried.

Am I ok to go back to yours this week, just to grab some stuff?

My thumb hesitates over the screen. I don’t want him in her space— again. I mean, she isn’t going back there, there’s no need for her to. I’ll go back for her stuff when the time’s right, but she’s home now. She’s right where she needs to be. As for him though, he needs to get the rest of his shit and go, so that one last connection is finally severed. And he’ll truly be gone for good.

Yes.

Thanks. Miss you, love you. Stay safe, okay?

I clench my teeth, grip tightening so hard on the phone I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack.

Miss you, love you.

Like hell he does. Self-righteous little prick.

I slip the phone back into my pocket without replying, breathing hard.

He’s still clinging on. Still hanging in the background, waiting for her to come running.

He thinks she’s his. He thinks he still has her.

No.

She’s mine.

“Patrick!” Levana’s voice cuts through my stewing.

“Yeah, baby?” I shout over my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Patrick!”

I make a move toward the stairs. She probably wants me to hold her for a bit. Or maybe she’s figured out something with Alexander.

I step into the upstairs hallway. “Where are you, baby?”

“Bathroom.”

“What, you miss me already?” I ask, a soft grin pulling at my lips as I push the door all the way open.

But the second I see her, I freeze.

She’s doubled over, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other pressed hard against her belly.

“There’s something wrong,” she says on a shallow breath. “Patrick, it hurts. Something’s not right.”

My heart stops.

“What?” I breathe. “What do you mean?”

“I think I’m in labour.”

The words rip the air from my lungs.

“No, no, baby, it’s too early,” I say, dropping to my knees, holding her bump like I can will this away. “It’s too early.”

“I know,” she chokes out. “But I can’t stop it, Patrick. I can’t stop it. I need to go to a hospital.”

My hands are shaking, thoughts a jumble of static and screaming.

The roads will still be a mess.

What if something happens on the way?

What if I can’t get her there in time?

“What do I do?” I whisper to myself. “Fuck. What do I do?”

She makes this awful, broken noise, like she’s trying to hold the pain behind her teeth.

“Okay,” I say, forcing my body into motion. “Okay. Come on.”

I get up and wrap an arm around her, guiding her out of the bathroom and down the stairs with careful urgency.

I slide her coat on, trembling fingers struggling with the zipper. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. Just hold on.”

She sways a little when I guide her feet into her boots, but I get her outside and into the car in one piece. I shut the door gently, then run around to the driver’s side, fumbling with the keys like I’ve never used them in my life.

“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine. The baby’s gonna be fine,” I tell her as I start down the narrow lane, away from our house and straight toward the possibility of a heartbreak I hope neither of us is going to have to feel.

“She’s pregnant—fifteen weeks—she’s in pain, something’s wrong,” I pant, one arm around Levana to keep her upright.

The nurse behind the desk starts typing, fingers clacking calmly over the keyboard. “Okay, just bear with me a moment.”

“We don’t have a damn moment!” I snap. “She can barely stand. Look at her!”

The nurse doesn’t look up. “Sir, I understand you’re worried, but I need you to calm down so I can do my job.”

“Calm down?” I echo. “Are you insane?”

“Sir. Go and take a seat. We’ll call you through in a moment.”

I don’t want to sit. I want someone to do something.

But my beautiful girl needs to rest, so I lower her carefully into the nearest chair and crouch in front of her, gripping her hands.

“Just breathe. We’re gonna get through this, okay?”

I say it to her, but I’m saying it to both of us, really.

The only sound in the room is the soft hum of machines and the low murmur of nurses behind glass. Everything smells like disinfectant. That sharp, sterile sting that clings to your clothes and skin long after you leave.

It worms its way through my senses, poking and prodding at the back of my mind.

Alexander’s in my arms, his little body limp and too still. Mara’s crying and screaming, hands clutching at my sleeves.

I’m shouting. I’m begging. ‘Help him, please. I don’t know what’s wrong with him—help him!’

The room’s blurring around me, nurses running, pulling us in five different directions.

Not now, Patrick.

I swallow the memory down.

I’m not here with Alexander. I’m here with Levana and our baby. This is different.

My stomach rolls. My palms are slick. Blood’s roaring through my ears.

“Levana Foster?”

Both our heads snap up. There’s a nurse standing by the doors, chart in hand, eyes scanning across the room.

“That’s us,” I say to her as I guide Levana up.

She stumbles a little, and the nurse motions to a wheelchair. “Let’s get her off her feet.”

I help her into the seat, hand never leaving hers.

“Come with me,” the nurse says, already turning.

I push the chair down the hallway, wheels squeaking slightly, the scent of antiseptic thickening as we move deeper into the building.

They take us into a small, clinical room that’s washed out in pale green walls.

Another nurse appears almost instantly, eyes flicking between us both. “Let’s get your vitals, honey.”

Blood pressure. Temperature. Oxygen levels. Heart rate. Everything’s measured and recorded, and she tells us we’re being transferred to the Maternity Assessment Unit.

I don’t wait for them to call for someone to take us. I wheel her there myself because I need to do something. Need to move. If I stay still, I’ll lose my mind.

By the time we reach the unit, I’m practically dragging the wheelchair through the corridor.

A nurse glances up from behind a desk, flipping through a chart, and I give them Levana’s name.

“Oh,” she says. “We were just about to send someone down for you. Right this way.”

I push Levana into another sterile room that’s brighter than the last. Clean bed, monitors, equipment I recognise from Mara’s pregnancies.

The nurse gets straight to it.

“Are you bleeding?”

Levana shakes her head. “No.”

“Any fluid loss?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Where’s the pain exactly?”

“Here,” she says, pressing her hand to her lower belly.

“Cramping or pressure?”

“A little of both.”

“And if you had to rate the pain, one to ten?”

“Seven. Maybe eight.”

“We’re going to check your cervix quickly, okay?”

Levana nods, but her eyes flick to the door.

Barely a second. A tiny shift. But I catch it.

Fuck.

She’s so scared. She doesn’t want this to be happening. Doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be wondering why her body’s hurting, waiting for answers that might break her.

“Baby?” I whisper, my voice cracking as I step closer, fingers brushing her arm. “You doing okay?”

She nods again, then shifts from the chair onto the bed, and lies back.

“You’re going to feel a little pressure, okay?” The nurse says as she snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. “Deep breath in.”

The room goes quiet for a few seconds, nothing but the soft rustle of fabric and my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.

“Cervix is closed. No signs of dilation. No bleeding. Everything looks fine.”

Levana doesn’t react. Doesn’t move. She’s still flat on her back, eyes blank, like she’s stuck in the fear.

“This could be a number of things. Round ligament pain is common around this stage—your body’s adjusting, making room for the baby to grow. It could also be mild Braxton Hicks, or dehydration. But it doesn’t look like miscarriage. We’re going to do a quick ultrasound, though. Just to be sure, okay?”

Levana’s eyes flick wide, panic flashing for a second, but she nods.

I grip her hand tight. “We’re going to see her, Levana. We’re going to see our baby.”

The nurse wheels the machine closer, tugs a bottle of gel from a tray, and squeezes a cold line across Levana’s lower belly.

She flinches, breath catching, so I lift our joined hands and press a kiss to her knuckles, trying to reassure her.

“Sorry,” the nurse says with a little smile. “I know it’s cold. I’m going to take a quick look, alright? Just to check baby’s heartbeat and position.”

She turns the monitor slightly away from us before she lowers the wand, and drags the probe slowly across Levana’s belly, pausing, adjusting the angle, then gliding back the other way.

Seconds stretch like hours.

Levana’s hand stays curled in mine, fingers cold, and I bow my head until my forehead rests against her fist.

Too slow. Too quiet.

Taking this long is a bad sign.

“Is the baby okay?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

No answer.

“Please,” I say, louder this time. “Tell us what’s happening.”

“Sorry,” she says, looking up at us with a small smile. “Well your dates add up. You’re around fifteen weeks, three days along. And…” she looks back at the monitor, squinting. “This baby’s fine.”

Relief floods through my system. “Oh, thank god.”

“And, so is this one. They’re both cosied up right next to each other,” she adds with a smile.

The room tilts.

“… Excuse me? They’re both ?” I manage to push out on a breath, eyes flicking between her and the screen I still can’t see.

She arches a brow. “Did you not find out at your earlier ultrasounds?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head quickly. “We haven’t been able to get out of the house. We’ve been snowed in. For weeks.”

She hums, then glances back at the screen, before turning it round to face us. “Well, there are two babies. A little set of twins. Congratulations, Mommy and Daddy.”

My stomach drops.

Shit.

The memory hits me fast—Mara’s pregnancy. The girls. The way everything was more complicated than with Alexander. More dangerous.

“What type?” I ask quickly.

“Looks like DCDA—two sacs, two placentas. That’s a safer setup. Still considered high risk, but less complicated than other twin types. But I’d suggest locking onto an obstetrician as soon as you can. You’ll need more frequent scans.”

I nod, already leaning in closer to the screen.

It’s like looking into a dream.

Two tiny babies, curled into themselves, floating in dark space. Little spines like delicate question marks, limbs twitching in small, slow movements. I can see their hearts. Both beating. Two perfect pulses, flickering steady on the monitor.

I glance at Levana.

Her eyes are wide, but she’s not looking at the screen. She’s staring at the ceiling, unmoving, like she’s somewhere far away.

“Baby,” I whisper, nudging her hand. “Look. We made two. There’s two of them.”

The nurse clicks through a few more angles, quiet for a moment, then glances over at us. “It’s a little early, but would you like to see if we can find out the genders?”

Levana still doesn’t speak, so I answer for both of us. “Yes, please.”

“Alright. I’ll need to take another look—just need the right angle on each little one.”

She presses the probe down again, shifting it slightly as the gel glides across Levana’s skin.

“Alright. This little one’s being cooperative,” she taps a key, then smiles. “Looks like we’ve got a little boy.”

She keeps going, nudging the wand a little to the left. A few minutes pass before she speaks again. “And that’s a girl. Looks like you’ve got one of each.”

A boy.

And a girl.

A son.

A daughter.

“Levana,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Baby? Levana?”

She still doesn’t move, but I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek, then her forehead, my hand cupping the side of her face like I can pull her back to me.

“We’ve got a little girl,” I murmur. “And a boy. One of each.”

The nurse pulls the probe away gently and starts wiping the machine down.

“Here,” she says, offering a handful of tissues. “You clean yourself up. I’ll finish up your chart and get these printed for you in a minute. Just sit tight.”

“Congratulations, Mommy,” she adds, squeezing Levana’s shoulder.

She pauses at the door, voice kind but firm. “And Dad? Remember what I said. Obstetrician ASAP, alright?”

Levana sits up slowly, moving like she’s underwater. She grabs the tissues with one hand and wipes the gel from her belly, staring down at herself like she’s trying to figure out how two whole people are growing inside her.

I stay close, brushing hair from her face, kissing her temple, whispering soft things I can’t even remember two seconds later. I keep trying to talk to her. Keep saying her name, telling her we did it, that they’re beautiful, that I’m so damn happy.

But she won’t respond.

Not a word.

The nurse returns with the print outs and the paperwork and we leave.

The second we step into the hallway, Levana stops and hands me the stack. “I need to use the bathroom. Can you grab me some coffee from the vending machine?”

“Baby, you can’t have coffee, you know that.”

She turns and shoots me vicious daggers.

I raise my hands, backing off instantly.

Fuck. My mind’s gone. She shouldn’t be drinking coffee but right now, does it really matter?

She’s in shock. She needs it.

She loves me, and we’re having twins.

We share a son and a daughter now.

This is everything.

“Okay. Okay,” I say. “I’ll meet you back here in five.”