Page 24 of Justice

My knees ache from them hitting the hard bathroom floor. “This can’t go on anymore.” Christopher is pissed that my doctorhasn’t given anything to help me and pretty much ignores our concerns.

I’m wary of taking any medication unless it’s necessary, but at this point I think it is. I’ve lost weight instead of gaining like I should be.

A damp cloth is placed on the back of my neck, and I moan at the sweet coolness and rest my head on the toilet seat, not even caring if it’s gross.

I’m exhausted from throwing up so much and I barely manage to keep down my prenatal vitamins.

Christopher lifts me from the floor and sets me on the bathroom counter. I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror because my dark circles are horrible and I’m ghostly pale.

“That is it, we are going to another doctor because this is not normal," he demands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He takes my toothbrush, squeezing toothpaste onto it, and gently brushes my teeth. Tears spring to my eyes at his tenderness, the way he cares for me, even in this state.

He is with me every time I'm sick, rubbing my back and holding me. I rinse my mouth out into the sink, and he scoots closer until my forehead is resting in the crook of his neck. His large hands grip my thighs, dragging me flush against him, holding me tight.

"Let me get you into a hot bath, sweet girl. You're shaking." He lifts me off the counter, my legs wrapped around him, not wanting to let him go because of how warm he is. I just want to sleep for a week.

He sets me on the floor and I stand next to the tub, silent, as he fills it with warm water. He undresses me, and I can't fight him on it.

He’s looking at me with such concern, it’s starting to worry me. My doctor said this is normal, that women get sick like this and it will stop once I’m further into my pregnancy.

But, I haven’t yet. It’s been weeks.

He sets me in the tub, making sure I sit down in the water, then leaves the room. I can see him sitting on the bed, on the phone with someone. I lean my head back and relax, feeling so much better now that I'm not shaking so hard.

My heart constricts as I watch Christopher through the open bathroom door, his brow furrowed with worry as he speaks urgently into the phone.

The warm water laps gently against my skin, soothing my aching muscles, but it can't ease the ache in my chest. He deserves so much more than this, more than a partner who can barely function, who needs constant care and attention.

I sink lower into the bath, letting the water cover my shoulders, and close my eyes. Memories of the past few months flash through my mind: Christopher holding my hair back as I vomit, bringing me crackers and ginger ale in bed, researching remedies for morning sickness late into the night.

And yet we still haven’t had sex. The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt crashing over me. I know he understands, knows that I'm simply too exhausted and nauseous most days, but I can't help feeling like I'm failing.

I open my eyes, blinking away tears as I watch him pace the bedroom, still on the phone. His free hand runs through his hair, a gesture I know means he's stressed and worried. What did I ever do to deserve someone like him?

The devotion in his eyes when he looks at me, even now, takes my breath away. It's a look of pure love, untainted by the frustration or resentment I keep fearing I'll see.

Christopher

Something is wrong. This isn't just morning sickness anymore, it's like Elle is deteriorating before my eyes. Every day, she seems to get worse, and I'm terrified.

I glance at Elle, now peacefully asleep in the bathtub, her face pale and drawn even in slumber. My heart clenches. I can't stand seeing her like this anymore.

With trembling fingers, I dial Brittany, Elle's mom. "Hey, how's it going?" Her cheerful voice does nothing to ease the knot in my stomach.

"Brittany," I say, my voice low and urgent. "I think we need to take Elle to the ER. She's still super sick, and it's only getting worse. This morning, she could barely walk."

I pace the room, running my free hand through my hair. "Her doctor keeps saying it's normal, but it's been weeks of this. I've taken her back over and over, begging for tests, but they just laugh us off." My frustration bleeds into my words. "It's not normal for her to be this sick all day, every day. I thought it was supposed to be morning sickness, not all-day misery."

"We'll be right over," Elle’s dad assures me, his tone serious. I'm grateful we're still in their guest house until our place is finished. At least we're not alone in this.

I hang up and move to the closet, selecting clothes I know Elle finds comfortable: her favorite sweatshirt, a soft sports bra, comfortable underwear, and those leggings she loves. I add a pair of slip-on shoes and place everything on the bed.

Returning to the bathroom, I kneel beside the tub. "Hey, baby," I murmur, gently touching her shoulder.

Elle's eyes flutter open, and my heart breaks a little more. She looks so utterly exhausted, dark circles prominent under her eyes, her skin almost translucent.

"Chris?" she whispers, her voice hoarse.

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