Page 129 of What Blooms in Barren Lands

“It’s time to go, Ren,” the voice, like a lion’s rumble, urged.

Meanwhile, the hand and its pair settled around my midriff, resting flat on my round, protruding stomach.

With an immense effort, I forced myself to open one eye and then another. A lone, inconspicuous candle stood on the nightstand further away from the window, the warm light falling on the rickety chest of drawers that creaked in mortal throes whenever pried open. It cried like that many times the day before as we packed ...

Realising what day it was and why I had been so rudely awakened, I shot out of bed. Or rather, I performed a much slower and inelegant version of shooting out of bed; the only kind I was capable of, given my predicament.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep! You shouldn’t have let me!” I complained, putting clothes on as hastily as I was able to, which was not saying very much.

“Ah, you need your rest.” Einar planted a kiss on my forehead, struggling to wrap his hands around me in a vain effort to calm me down. “All three of you do.”

I was wrong to think that my pregnancy would be the biggest surprise of my life, as even a bigger revelation was about to hit me like a thunderbolt soon after.

“I was training to be a plastic surgeon so in an ideal case you’d only come to me for a mommy makeover after,” Dave said as he squirted a generous measure of cool gel on my stomach on the day I finally brought myself to visit him in the hospital. “But I’ll do my best. It’s a good thing we got this ultrasound in working order—just in time.” He smiled at me encouragingly and then focused his attention on the screen, sliding the ultrasound probe across my belly.

Then he frowned in a manner that I recognised all too well in doctors. Something was not quite right. Years of constant examinations had taught me to identify various parts of my internal anatomy hidden in the maze of black, grey, and white pixels. And as Dave pressed the probe a little harder into my expanding abdomen, I easily discerned the black splotch of the amniotic fluid. And grey-white against it, the distinct shape of a head and a torso.

Before I managed to express myself with anything more eloquent than a choked sob, Dave moved the probe slightly higher up, and another, more obscure shape, came in view.

“No, there’s no way in hell ...” I gasped.

“Well, life does have a strange sense of humour,” Dave remarked dryly but without a trace of his customary jocularity. “Both measuring on track and ...”

A sound like the fast galloping of antelope hooves filled the room.

“We have two strong, healthy heartbeats. That’s where the good news ends, I’m afraid.”

With a sigh, he set the probe aside and handed me a towel to wipe the gel off.

“After my surgery, they told me that I shouldn’t carry multiples.” I rolled my shirt down, straightening up. “That the uterine wall of my womb is too weak in too many places.”

Pushing a stray strand of tawny hair from his warm, brown eyes, Dave grabbed my hand and held it in both his.

“As I said, this is not my area of expertise. But I would fully agree with that assessment. The risk of uterine rupture is high, all things considered.”

I gulped down in a vain attempt to swallow the ball of ice that was forming in my throat.

“They also told me that whilst natural delivery is possible for me, it may not be the safest option.”

Dave nodded.

“Caesarean is the gold standard for any woman who has undergone such a complex uterine surgery. It’s usually not worth taking the chances with natural labour. I’m sorry, Renny.”

I scoffed, shaking my head.

“That’s fine, trust me, after everything, I place no importance on which hole they enter the world through,” I told him, my voice shrill. “But just what the hell do I do now?”

Pulling my hand away from his clasp, I threw my arms wide in a gesture of exasperation, indicating the ghost-like space all around us.

“Well, I’d suggest constant monitoring, ideally from about the twenty-fifth week of gestation onwards, with the caesarean planned at about the thirty-sixth week if the uterus can last until then.”

“You mean staying in a hospital? For ten weeks?”

I gaped at him, my mouth working, opening and closing with a will of its own like that of a fish tossed ashore.

“Renny, I know you dread hospitals after what you’ve been through, but?—”

“Dave, never mind that now! Einar and I must leave in the spring, or our lives will be in danger! You know that! Just how am I supposed to be here in a hospital and travel to Iceland at the same time?”