Then, “You’re bleeding.”
I can’t keep up with what happens next. Declan is carrying me back to the house, sprinting, his heart thudding heavily. Inside, he barks at Orla to call Dr. Flynn as he passes through. He doesn’t slow down until he reaches the car parked inside the double garage, and then he settles me in the passenger seat and fastens the safety belt around me.
The color has drained from his face. “I’ll get you there as quickly as I can.”
I nod. Nothing I can say will make it stop. So, instead, I rest my head against the back of the seat and stare out the passenger window at the countryside as it passes us by in a blur of green and orange and amber, all of nature’s fall finery.
This is my punishment for lying.
The pregnancy wasn’t planned. The paternity situation is the most stressful thing that has ever happened to me. But the thought of maybe losing this baby is scaring the life out of me. This isn’t what I want. So soon after losing Ruairi, it would destroy Declan.
I curl my legs up onto the seat as if I could hold our baby inside me. Nothing else exists, only me and this new life that I’m growing. I will it to be safe. Mind over matter. I tell myself that if the universe is on our side, I’ll spend the rest of my life atoning for my terrible secret. Just please let everything be alright.
I barely take in my surroundings when Declan carries me into Dr. Flynn’s private clinic. It’s different here than in America. Midwives handle all the antenatal and postnatal care, and they even deliver the baby; I read the documentation that I got following the ultrasound scan.
A midwife is waiting to see me, and Declan carries me straight through to the examination room.
I’m trembling violently when he sets me gently down on the sterile paper-covered bed. He squeezes my hand and doesn’t leave my side.
“Amelia, my name is Mairead.” The midwife has rosy cheeks and hazel eyes. “Are you in any pain?”
“No.” My voice sounds weak. Fragile. And Declan gives my hand another squeeze.
“Can you talk me through what happened?”
I want to tell her to stop the bleeding, but I don’t. I tell her that we were in the stables when I felt the blood in my panties.
She asks me to remove my pants and underwear. Then she places more white paper over my nakedness and feels my belly with her fingertips while I try to regulate my breathing. Her expression remains neutral. Even when she wheels the ultrasound equipment across the room and squeezes cold gel onto my belly, she gives nothing away.
Finally, she turns the monitor around to face us. “Baby’s heartbeat is strong.”
“It’s … going to be alright?” I whisper.
Mairead smiles. “I would advise taking it easy for the rest of the first trimester, but the fetus is doing well.”
“What about the bleeding?” Declan asks.
I hear the tremor in his voice, and my heart melts for him. He’s the strong protector most of the time, but he’s still vulnerable when it comes to the people he loves.
“It happens sometimes. You did the right thing, getting it checked out, but try not to worry about it.” Her gaze flits back and forth between the two of us, but there’s no judgement. “Amelia is your responsibility, Declan. Make sure that she rests.”
“Oh, I will.”
We get married a week later.
It’s a small wedding. I never bought into the whole fairytale wedding narrative that society pushes because it’s a commercial earner for wedding planners, venues, and bridal gown designers. Besides, Declan has been married before, and I’m not exactly the typical blushing bride.
Orla comes to Dublin with me to choose a wedding outfit. Another secret for me to feel guilty about. I know that my mom should be here with me, helping me plan my wedding, crying happy tears when I find the right wedding gown, choosing a mother-of-the-bride outfit with a wide floppy hat.
I haven’t told her that I’m pregnant yet. Our phone conversations generally end with, “Are you sure that everything is alright, Mia?” Or “You know that you can come home anytime, baby.”
Which makes it even harder. She knows when I’m lying, but I need to come clean with Declan before I can tell her everything, and I can’t tell Declan because I don’t want to pop his happy bubble.
We’re riding different carousels. His is the one painted in bright colors, with smiling horses and gilt poles, jolly music and sunshine pouring down from above. Mine is the one in shadow, where the music is out of tune, the horses are black, and the spiderwebs are tacky and impenetrable.
I only have myself to blame, and I’m the only one who can make this guilt go away. But the longer I leave it, the harder it is to pluck up courage.
So, I force myself to smile when Declan brings me breakfast in bed on our wedding day. I dress in my wedding outfit—a floaty silk gown the same shade of gray blue as Declan’s eyes. And I carry the bouquet of timeless blush-pink and ivory roses that Orla had made for me into the registry office on trembling legs.
