Declan nods. “I was watching the game and saw something crazy went down before they cut to commercials. I couldn’t see who was down, only Ren here attempting to climb over the glass to get up there.”
I attempt to take a solid breath in, relieved when I only half choke, so I try again, doing better this time. After a few more attempts, I manage to regulate my breathing enough to stand straight, stepping away from the wall. “How’d you know to come here?”
Declan shrugs. “Oh, you know, just made some calls.”
I shake my head. “It must be really fucking cool being you.”
“I mean,” Declan states with a small grin. “It’s not all bad.”
I laugh for real this time, grateful for the moment of levity after my emotional purge. Motioning for him to precede me back down the hallway I respond, “Well, I’m happy to see you anyway.”
“I’m gonna go grab a coffee in the cafeteria. Make some calls,” Dave says as he turns to head in the opposite direction. “Keep me updated.”
I hold up my hand, stopping him from leaving. Resting my arm over his shoulder, I give him a half-ass bro hug, which is more our style. “Thanks for being here. It means a lot.”
“Anytime, man,” he replies gruffly. “You know that.”
With a final nod he takes off, and Declan and I hurry back out to the main waiting room, immediately seeking my mom out. “Any word?”
“No,” Mom answers. “Not yet.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Mom and Dad look at each other, having some kind of silent conversation that I have no patience for. “Just tell me.”
“She said her shoulder was hurting her,” Mom explains. “She wanted to go for a walk to stretch her legs, so she got up and went to leave the row when suddenly she bent over, holding her stomach, obviously in pain. We managed to get her out of the row, but it wasn’t until we were on the stairs that I saw it.”
“Saw what, Mom?” I ask sharply. “Just spit it out already.”
“The blood.”
“Blood?” I whisper, cold dread churning in my gut. “What? where?”
Mom gives me a pained look, the sadness in her eyes almost taking me out at the knees. She doesn’t need to explain any further. “What caused it?”
Mom shrugs. “Hard to tell, really. Could be an underlying viability problem. That’s the case of most early term mi—” she cuts off her words, almost as if the word doesn’t belong in her mouth.
But she doesn’t have to finish the word for me to know what she was going to say. I squeeze her hand, dropping down into a chair and putting every ounce of energy I have left into willing Cassidy to be okay.
A few minutes later, the doors open, and a man in blue scrubs walks in, “Mr. Rafferty.”
I’m on my feet and across the room before the door closes behind him. “I’m Mr. Rafferty. Cassidy’s husband.”
He extends his hand, which I shake briskly. “I’m Dr. Evans, part of the gynecological team here.”
“Is Cassidy okay?”
“She’s stable,” he responds. “She’s being prepped for surgery, we just need some paperwork signed.”
“Surgery?”
“She has an ectopic pregnancy,” he replies patiently. “We need to perform surgery to determine the most appropriate treatment. She also may need a blood transfusion.”
I wince then ask, “But she’ll be ok?”
“Her prognosis is guarded yet good,” he answers slowly. “She’s in good hands with our team.”
A tiny thread of relief rushes over me. But then I pause, whisper, “The baby?”
