Page 140 of What if It's Us

That’s when I break, full-on ugly sobs, the kind where you can’t get enough breath and everything—pain, adrenaline, fear—pours out all at once.

“I’m scared! They’re too little. It’s not time! I can’t do this!” I shake my head. “I can’t Corri. I need Ledger!”

Corrigan presses her forehead to mine and lets me leak snot and mascara all over the shoulder of her scrubs. Above me, the lights flicker past, counting down the seconds to some new version of my life, and all I want is Ledger.

Where is he?

Why isn’t he here yet?

But when the next contraction hits and I twist up, Corrigan just says, “Breathe. You’re safe.” She goes with me, leaning her full weight across my torso to help me curl into the pain. No nurse, no friend, not even my own therapist when I used to have one, has ever felt so solid, but Corrigan is with me through everysecond of the pain. “You’re in great hands, Marlee, and we are going to do every single thing we can to make sure your precious babies are okay. Your blood pressure is too high and the babies lungs may not be strong enough yet for vaginal delivery. We need to get the babies out for their safety and for yours.” She darts her eyes around the room. “I promise you I would trust my life with anyone in this room, okay? I’ve got you. I’ll be right here until Ledger shows up. I won’t leave your side.”

Then I’m in an OR, and a dozen people are suddenly scrubbing in with surgical urgency and I know from here on out, ready or not, my life is about to be forever changed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

LEDGER

I’ve never run so fast in my whole fucking life, but I spring into Pacific Children’s like I’m wearing two blades on ice. I climb the stairs to Labor and Delivery, because I don’t have time to wait for a slow as fuck elevator, and slam into the scrub station like it’s a puck in overtime when I finally reach the front desk.

“Mar-Mar-Marlee!” I finally shout, bending at the waist and trying like hell to catch my breath. “Babies!”

“They’re prepping your wife now, sir,” a nurse says to me as she hands me sterile scrubs with the speed of someone used to men in full panic mode. “They'll be starting surgery any minute,” she says, voice calm but urgent.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I freeze, my whole body in shock. “Surgery?”

“A C-section, sir. Her blood pressure is to high which means?—”

“Pre-eclampsia.”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Also, she’s not my wife,” I breathe, fumbling with the gown, “but she’s…she’s my everything.”

I’ve got one bootie halfway on and the other completely backwards. Mask, cap, gloves. I don’t know what the hell I’mdoing but I’m pretty sure something’s inside-out. It doesn’t fucking matter. All I know is Marlee is behind a set of these doors and I need to get to her right fucking now.

A nurse slides open a gap between a pair of swinging doors and I spot Marlee lying on the table and barge through, nearly skidding into another nurse standing nearby. The OR is white and blue and painfully bright. Machines bleep, instruments glisten, and Marlee lies on the table, face slick with sweat, eyes rolling like she’s trying to see inside her own skull.

There are so many people in here: the OB from last Tuesday’s appointment, a gray-haired anesthesiologist attending to the IV in Marlee’s hand and a team of three nurses standing by tiny incubators. I can only assume they’re from the NICU. A team for each of the three babies, I guess. There are three other people attending to Marlee, and then me, the only one in the room without a clue, swaying in a sea of disinfectant and adrenaline.

“Ledger!” Marlee’s voice is soft and tired but I can hear the relief in her words. “You made it.”

I shuffle around to the left, where someone points and encourages me to hold Marlee’s hand.

As if I would ever deny myself the opportunity.

I fold my hand over hers, her skin damp and cold, fingers curled up hard, nails digging into my knuckles.

“Hey, beautiful.” I whisper, “Hey, I’m here. You’re good, you’re a fucking superhero, Marlee.” She laughs, or maybe she winces, but I choose to believe it’s laughter because right now the team on the other side of the curtain that is now hiding us from the action is yanking and shifting her body like they’re trying to get the world’s most stubborn cork from a bottle of wine.

A beeping monitor alarms. “BP’s up,” someone says, and the anesthesiologist with the gray hair leans in, murmurs something reassuring to Marlee, and taps a syringe. Marlee’s lips are blueat the edges and she’s breathing in short, shallow gasps. I lay my hand just above her forehead and smooth my thumb across her hair cap and then I say all the words a person is supposed to say.

“I love you.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You’re almost there, babe.”

“God, I can’t wait to meet them.”

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