Page 303 of Heart So Hollow

I crouch down, balancing Brett on my knee while the rest of her hangs over my shoulder. As soon as I do, she grabs under her belly and lets out a jarring scream into my neck, the first sound she’s made since we left the barn. Letting out one curse after another, I roll her off and onto the ground, giving her a once-over before jerking up her bloody shirt.

Her belly is stained with the blood that soaked through, but it’s otherwise devoid of injuries. Still, she’s grabbing at it and pressing her fingers against her bump like she’s in immense pain. I grab the sides of her face and tilt her head up to look at me.

“Look at me, baby,” I hold her eyes, struggling to focus on me, “you’re in shock. I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to stay awake.”

Brett cringes and holds her breath for a few moments, “Something’s…wrong…” she gasps and grabs my arm, digging her fingertips into my wrist. My eyes dart between her belly and her pallid face while she tries to speak. “It’s cold…” her voice cracks through clenched teeth.

“No!” I roar, “Fuck no!”

And then, instantly, I’m back in those woods, somewhere between Palomino and Wyandot, and her skin is getting colder and colder.

Please, don’t do this to me. Just fucking don’t…

I let go of Brett and feel my back pocket for my phone. Thankfully, it’s there and it didn’t fall out back at the barn. It only takes a couple seconds for me to make the call and another second for Dallas to answer.

“She’s hurt! Get everyone up here, now!”

???

Brett doesn’t cry. It takes a lot to make her that upset. Technically, she’s cried in front of me twice. Once after she broke out of Bowen’s house, and the other was when I put a gun to her head. That time, I didn’t see her face—I just saw Bowen’s—but it was no less traumatizing.

In any event, she’s more of a scream and get angry kind of person. But she’s crying now, before the ultrasound tech even squirts the KY onto the wand.

With Dallas’s help, a convoy of medics and law enforcement descended on the property only minutes after I brought Brett out of the woods…alive. By the time we got to the ER and they hooked her up to all their equipment, Brett’s cheeks and lips were starting to gain some of their color back. I can’t say the same for everyone else. When the paramedics wheeled her in, both of us covered in blood, the nurses and doctors started shouting back and forth about not being prepared for this level of trauma.

But once they realized only some of the blood was Brett’s, their shouting stopped and then it was my voice shouting at them to get an obstetrician down here immediately. In true irony, now we’re shut behind another sliding glass door, waiting for an ultrasound. Brett’s pain has dulled, but she’s still at the brink of panic. One minute she’s Zen, ready to face whatever’s coming, and the next she’s bawling into her hands.

Now, she covers her face with one hand and shudders silently so maybe no one will notice. But of course, they do. Everyone does, because she just got wheeled in from the site of a homicide—justified, but a homicide nonetheless. That, and there are six sheriff deputies posted up outside the door and a couple of guys in suits just arrived and started speaking with them.

Take a number…

I sit next to Brett, clasping her hand and jiggling my foot impatiently. My phone’s been vibrating non-stop, but I don’t look at it. All I can think about is whether she’s OK after being attacked by that son of a bitch lying dead in my barn on the side of our mountain. Fortunately, Brett seems to be improving quickly, but I swear, if he took my child from me, I’ll take one of these officer’s weapons, shoot myself right here in the ER, and hunt him down in the afterlife.

I can tell, as soon as the ultrasound tech walks through the door, she wishes she didn’t come to work today. She expected gallstones and intestinal blockages, but she got us; dirty, sweaty, and covered in blood stains. They should’ve sent in one of the more hardened, jaded techs; some short, round woman with 40 years of experience who doesn’t bat an eye except to complain about her own artificial hips and knees. But instead, they send in a pretty, fresh-faced blonde named Jess who looks like she’s 17.

She pulls the curtain shut behind her and sits down on her little wheely stool next to Brett’s bed, hoping to God she doesn’t have to deal with the hell that’ll be unleashed if a tiny heartbeat doesn’t show up on her screen.

Brett just stares straight ahead while Jess lubes up her wand and flips Brett’s blanket over her knees.

“Sorry, this’ll be a little cold…you’ll feel some brief discomfort…”

Excuse me while I shove this plastic beat stick up your snatch. And, by the way, stay still…

Jesus Christ, how do women not commit more violent crimes?

Jess keeps her wide eyes trained on the screen as she searches for signs of life. Seconds later, her face lights up and she points to the black and grey blobs wobbling over the screen. She might be the most excited person in the room, considering the alternative if there was bad news.

“There’s the heartbeat,” she smiles, “we have a heartrate of…150 beats per minute and…yolk sak intact…”

Jess continues her evaluation, but after confirming the heartbeat, I’m barely listening anymore. I’m just staring at Brett, the calmest I’ve been since we set foot in this hospital, taking in her flushed, tear-stained face that I still think is the most stunning I’ve ever seen. And when I smile, she does, too, like a weight’s been lifted. Like it’s OK to be happy again.

While Jess extracts her torture device from Brett’s cervix and tells her that an OB resident is on his way down to go over the results, I go to the sink and start wetting a handful of paper towels with warm water. As soon as she leaves, probably planning on having a strong drink after her shift, I sit down at the end of the bed and lift the blanket up to Brett’s knees again.

“They must go through lube here like a Vegas brothel,” I joke, gently wiping the excess gel from between her legs, “I mean, this is excessive,” I glance up skeptically.

“Would you want to feel them shove something inside you without it?” she chuckles, “Too much is better than not enough.”

“And then they just leave you a goddamn mess,” I continue, tossing the used paper towels in the trash and going to the sink for more.

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