Page 98 of Harper

“Joe?”

I’ve stopped walking, staring at her from behind, lusting wildly after my baby-momma.

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Coming,” I say, my whole body taut with want.

“You okay?” she asks.

No, I think, pulling her suitcase over to the plane. No, I’m not okay. I’m sick with longing for you. I’m barely holding on. And I have no idea what to do about it.

“Hey, folks!” says Brian, hopping down from his pilot’s seat. “How’re we doing? Got a gorgeous day for a quick flight!”

Harper exchanges pleasantries with Brian, who helps her onto the nine-passenger plane that we have all to ourselves today. When I hop up into the fuselage, she’s buckled into a seat on the right side. I take the seat across the aisle from her on the left. After a brief safety chat, we’re off.

It’s loud in a little plane like this, so we don’t talk. We each have a window that looks out onto the beautiful Alaskan scenery—mountains and water, and fir trees as far as the eye can see. After twenty minutes or so, I look over to see that Harper’s fallen asleep, her head leaning against the window, her sweet lips parted repose. And suddenly, there’s nothing outside that can compete with the view to my right. That strong, certain wave of love for her, my constant, lifelong companion, washes over me. I want to protect her, to stand beside her, to wake up to her face every morning and fall asleep to the rhythm of her breathing every night. I want to meet our first child while holding her hand and raise our second child with her by my side.

What would she say, I wonder, if I asked her to give us another chance?

Would she say yes? Or would her reservations, like mine, make her pause?

How many times can you say yes to someone, only to have your heart broken again?

I look away from her, forcing myself to stare out the window until we land.

***

“Your baby looks good,” says Dr. Kim, who’s performing the 4-D ultrasound for us. “Measurements are healthy.” She grins at us. “I’ve got a perfect view of baby’s genitals. Do you want to know?”

Harper smiles at me, and I give her a little nod.

“Tell us,” she says.

“You are having…a baby girl,” says Dr. Kim.

A daughter. We’re having another daughter.

Harper sobs softly, then laughs, reaching for my hand, which I give her. She holds it against her cheek, smiling up at me.

“A daughter,” she says, her eyes bright with happiness.

“A daughter,” I say, smiling back at her, my own eyes welling.

“Um…” Dr. Kim’s expression straightens a little. She leans forward to get a better look at the ultrasound screen. “Hmm.”

Harper’s fingers tighten around mine. “What? What’s going on? What do you see?”

Dr. Kim lifts the transducer, squirts a liberal amount of gel over it, then presses it back against Harper’s abdomen. She sighs softly. “Okay. So, what I’m seeing here appears to be placenta previa.”

A prickle goes down my spine. I’ve been a first responder to major accidents. I’ve seen dead bodies. I’ve been in a helicopter when an injured person was airlifted to a hospital, with blood everywhere. But I have never—never in my life—known the chillof visceral fear that slices through me when Dr. Kim utters these words.

“What does that mean? Is this—is this like last time?” I ask, panic making my brain mushy.

Jesus, is this how Harper felt all those years ago? She was only a kid, facing something as heavy as this with only her aunt…almost totally alone.

“No,” says Dr. Kim. “Not exactly.” She looks at Harper. “Do you know what this is, Harper?”

Harper nods, her voice pitchy and thin. “It’s, um, when the placenta is blocking the cervix, right?”

“Yes,” says Dr. Kim. “It’s not ideal.”

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