“Try texting him,” Piper says, swerving onto the highway.
I do just that, typing out a similar message to the voicemail with shaking thumbs. But when my message just sits there on Delivered instead of Read, my ribs threaten to constrict everything they’re caging—my lungs, my heart, my quickly diminishing calm.
He hasn’t read it, nor has he heard the voicemail.
Maybe he’s still in the middle of that meeting. Maybe he’ll see it in the next minute or two. Oh, God, what if something is wrong? What if something happened to him?
No, no. We’re not going down that road, Nisha. Nothing is wrong. He’s alive and fine.
I mean, he won’t be either of those things after he calls me and realizes how much of a panic he’s put me in, but we’ll deal with me murdering him later.
This isn’t like last time.
He’s been around,present and doting, these past nine months.
He’s just . . . caught up. His phone is probably set to Do Not Disturb.
But it wouldn’t be, would it? Not when he knows how crucial these last couple of weeks are, when any moment could bethe moment.
Still, I press his contact name again, the tentacles of that old feeling wrapping around me like steel cables. Loneliness, fear, the desperate need to hear his voice and feel his arms.
And the bone-deep ache of acceptance when he never called.
He said he’s changed; I’ve seen it. And I want to believe it. But as the minutes go by—twenty, thirty, forty-five—and multiple contractions tear through me while my phone remains silent, all I can think is,Why am I never important enough?
thirty-three
nisha
Come Through for Me
The private suite inside the Stanford Medical Center’s VIP wing that Patton had arranged long ago feels more like a hotel room rather than a hospital, with its soft lighting, plush seating, and inviting decor. But neither the luxurious amenities nor the fully attentive medical staff can erase the smell of antiseptic or the dread growing inside my heart.
Two hours. It’s been almost two hours and still no sign of Patton.
With my hand entwined with my sister’s, I’m propped up on the bed, wearing one of those measly gowns that are more lace ties than fabric, with monitors strapped to my belly to track both mine and the baby’s heartbeats.
And though the rhythm of her heart is comforting, knowing she’s healthy, safe, and ready to come out, my fears overshadow the moment, repeating on a loop.
Why hasn’t he answered my calls? What if something is wrong? What if he misses our baby’s birth? How do I do this without him?
“How are we doing, Nisha?” Dr. Gilbert asks, checking the results from the fetal monitor. Thank God she was here whenSarina and Piper brought me in, instead of an on-call doctor I’m not familiar with.
“Oh, just peachy,” I say sarcastically, clenching my teeth as another contraction twists my uterus like it’s a fabric being wrung out.
This one seems to last longer, making me grip Sarina’s hand so tight, I’m afraid I’ll break bones. Piper comes to my other side, brushing a damp strand of my hair off my forehead.
I was prepared for the pain, and under no illusion this was going to be easy, but having these two women by my side as pillars of support has made me feel braver than I ever thought possible, especially since Patton isn’t here. They’ve shown up for me time and time again, setting aside their own families and lives to hold my hand.
Which is a lot more than I can say for my ex-husband, the man who said he’d never let me face this alone. The man who promised this baby and I were his highest priority.
As soon as the contraction crests, I check my phone, praying that I’ll see a missed call or text. But of course, there’s neither.
It’s then that I hear a change in the beeping from one of the monitors. It’s jagged, slower than before. “Wh–what’s happening? Why did the beeping slow down?”
Dr. Gilbert’s brows furrow. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping during your contractions and not recovering as fast as we’d expect.”
“What does that mean?” Sarina asks on my behalf, seeing the way my face pales.
