Dropping into a chair, elbows on my knees, I cradle my forehead in my hands and fist my fingers in my hair—like she does.Fuck, baby, please be okay.
Ashley’s shoes step into my line of vision just before his hand lands lightly on my shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there.
I’m grateful he stays silent. I don’t want more noise in my head—inane platitudes. I want answers. I want Ever.
“Mr. McKay?”
I twist my neck and look up at the petite woman in scrubs, dark curly hair under a blue scrub cap. I stand, but it feels like I’m in slowmotion. I track her features, posture, my eyes bouncing between hers as I approach her.
She holds out her hand. “I’m Attending Physician Michele Laine. I took care of your wife.”
I shake her hand but again like I’m in slow motion.Did she just use past tense?
Allie and Ashley flank my sides.
“How is she?” I think I’m gripping her hand too tight. I force myself to release it, but I don’t know what to do with mine now that I have.
“Let’s step over here, into the hall.” She sidesteps out of the waiting room a few paces, never turning her back on me. She places her hand on my forearm and meets my eyes. “Your wife suffered a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. Sometimes called a tubal pregnancy. We had to surgically remove her fallopian tube, but she should make a full recovery. We’ll keep her overnight to monitor her, make sure the bleeding is stabilized.”
I hear the words and mostly understand them, but I can’t form any of my own. My head is buzzing like it sustained a close-range blast.Pregnancy? Surgery?Shouldmake a full recovery?
“Can we see her?” Allie grips my other forearm.
“She’s still asleep in recovery, so immediate family only. I can take you to her, Mr. McKay.”
I follow her in a trance.
The room is dimly lit despite it being the middle of the day. She’s lying there while tubes connect her to machines that beep. She looks so pale. I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear as the first tear spills. “She’s . . . okay?” I swipe it away. “She’s going to be okay?”
“Yes. She should make a full recovery.”She already said that.“We removed the ruptured tube and stopped the bleeding. She has another perfectly healthy one on the other side and should be able to get pregnant again. It just means her chances are cut in half now with only one working fallopian tube.”
“Why did . . . How did this happen? She’s on the pill. We didn’t—weren’t trying to . . . make a baby.”
“Sometimes these things just happen. It was early, probably five weeks. Six at the most. While a rupture is serious and can be life-threatening, we got to her in time. Your wife’s going to be okay, Mr. McKay. She’ll be waking up any time now but will be groggy. Press the call button if you need anything.”
Coming to my senses enough to shake her hand, I respond, “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Of course.” The door whisks closed as she leaves.
I pace around all three sides of her bed before I scan the room and drag a lone chair to her bedside and sink into it. Gripping her hand, the one without the IV, I tuck it between my cheek and her thigh and rest my head there. I let the pulse in her wrist soothe me that she’s here, alive. I watch her chest rise and fall and will her eyes to open, to look at me. I close mine to block out the tubes, the sterile bed. I concentrate on her pulse tapping against my fingertips, the warm velvet of her skin against my cheek.
“Julie,” she croaks, “what happened?” She reaches out to touch my face, then frowns at the IV on the back of her hand.
“Baby. Shh, you’re okay. You . . . had an accident.” I don’t know what to say to her, how to explain it.
“Surf . . .” She clears her throat and tries again. “Surfing?”
I shake my head that’s suddenly pounding with the restraint to not break down.
“I don’t know. You . . . Ever, you were pregnant. Five weeks, they said.”
“Were?”
I nod, touch her cheek. “They call it a tubal pregnancy. It’s—it can be dangerous if it ruptures. Yours did. But they caught it in time and you’re going to be okay. You’re okay.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more. I stand up to lean closer and kiss her cheek. “Want me to get the doctor?”
She shakes her head, her eyelids dropping like they’re weighted. “I’m just tired.”
“You lost a lot of blood.” I keep petting her face, a reminder that she’s here maybe. “Your color is better now.” Her eyes flutter open and I smile at her, then kiss her forehead.
