A frown creases my brows. "What do you mean?"
She sighs, pulling up a chair next to the bed. "The hospital was offered a significant donation in exchange for my being here.” She pauses, brow lifted. “You are not my only patient, Miss Jones. I hope you remember that the next time you use cash to summon me.”
I inwardly cringe. "I’m sorry. I?—”
She waves me off. “No need. Let’s focus on your recovery and your pregnancy. How are you feeling?"
I take a deep breath, trying to push past the pain and embarrassment. "Physically, I'm sore, but mentally... I'm-I’m struggling.”
Dr. Yang nods in acknowledgment. "That’s understandable. You have a big decision to make.” She slides on a pair of sterile gloves. “Let me look at your stitches."
I wince slightly as Dr. Yang carefully examines thearea, checking for any signs of infection or complications. I’ll have to stay at this hospital for two more weeks, then I can recover at home. That annoys me the most. I just came back to work, and now I’m limited in activity. All activity.
Once satisfied with her examination, Dr. Yang shifts the conversation to my pregnancy. "As a heart transplant recipient, your pregnancy comes with some unique considerations."
I listen intently as she reiterates the risks and challenges, her voice steady and reassuring. We discuss the importance of regular check-ups, monitoring for signs of rejection, and the possibility of adjustments to my medication.
“I know it all sounds very overwhelming,” she says. “But with recent advancements in neonatal medicine and proper care, I believe you could safely carry this baby to term. That being said, if you wish to terminate the pregnancy, I would recommend performing the procedure as soon as possible to avoid any complications.”
I nod, absorbing her words like a sponge. Options. She’s giving me options. I have options. I can risk it. I can risk complications, the possibility of a miscarriage and the probability of a shorter life, to have a child. Or I can choose to say no. I can choose to recover from this injury and continue living life as I was.
A year ago, the answer would be easy. I wouldn’t think twice. Tom wanted kids. I didn’t. I told him that. I told him I wouldn’t risk it. That I couldn’t risk it. But that was Tom. I didn’t want to have a baby with Tom. Ididn't want to be locked in for life, or however long I’d have on this earth, with Tom.
But this baby? This baby isn’t Tom’s. It’s Quin’s. Or Damon’s. Either way, it’s ours. This baby would belong to the three of us. A year ago, I didn’t know I was capable of love. Of affection. But now I know. They’ve taught me that I can love. They’ve shown that I can care for somebody other than myself.
I place a hand over my stomach. Seven weeks. It’s tiny right now. Only half an inch long. Its features are starting to look more defined—eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Its legs and arms are growing. It’s becoming a little person. It’s half of me, and half of him. Whoever he is, I love him.
The survival rate statistics for a heart transplant flood my mind. Five years: 64 percent . 10 years: 53 percent. 15 years: 40 percent. 20 years: 26 percent.
Quinton said 9 percent of pregnancies ended with rejection. With one third of the individuals studied dead within three to fifteen years. Mathematically speaking, my odds aren’t great either way. Rejection is possible without a pregnancy. I could die either way, baby or no baby.
But if I kept it. If I kept the little bean, maybe a part of me would never die. Maybe a part of me would stay with them. Laugh with them. Hold them and love them when I’m no longer here. I think they’d like that. I think Damon would love that.
I settle into the bed, relaxing against the plush pillows. “Thank you, Dr. Yang.”
“Of course, Miss Jones.” She gathers her belongings. “I’m to stay in town while you recover here, so please, call me when you’ve made your decision.”
Dr. Yang exits the room. Damon and Quin hover by the door, their anxiety palpable. I sigh. I haven't been fair to them these past few days. I haven't let them in. I needed time. I needed space to think. But now I know. I know what I want.
"Come in.”
Neither of them speaks as they sheepishly enter the hospital room. I meet their gaze, my tone firm and resolute. "I'm keeping the baby.” Quin opens his mouth to protest, but I lift a finger in the air. “And I don’t want a paternity test. This isourbaby. Ours. I don't want lines drawn in the sand. Is that clear?"
Damon beams with joy. "We're having a baby."
Quin's jaw ticks. "As you wish, my darling."
They sit on either side of the bed, and I reach for their hands. Damon's touch is warm and soft. I can feel the blood in his veins. But Quinton's hand is cold, almost frigid. Hard as ice. And he can't relax.
I glance up at him, our eyes meeting. He doesn’t need to say it. I can feel it. If the time comes to save one of us, he’ll choose me.
He will always choose me.
THE BROKEN CAGE
QUINTON
My eyes glaze over,red and bloodshot as I attempt to focus on the plethora of medical journal articles sprawled across my desk.
