Page 14 of Absolution

Lying small in a sea of white sheets. Her mother is holding a cup with a straw to her lips. Her face is pale, eyes half-closed. Her skin, Jesus, she looks wrecked. Fragile in a way I’ve never seen.

She looks up. And in that moment, I want to disappear. I want to tear out of my own skin and start over.

Because I know exactly where I was when she needed me. Who I was with. What I was doing. She looks straight at me, like she already knows. But she can’t. Please God, I’ll never do it again, just don’t let her find out.

I rush to the bed, guilt curdling in my gut. “What happened?”

"My water broke," she answers flatly.

I reach for her hand, but she pulls away like I’ve burned her. I deserve it.

“What were you doing?” I ask. Did she fall and I wasn’t there.

“Sleeping,” she snaps. “What were you doing?”

I look away, afraid that if she sees my eyes, she’ll see everything. The guilt. The self-hatred. The lie I’m choking on.

“We had a big case,” I say, voice low. “I fell asleep at the office. I’m so sorry, Jackie. I…”

But she’s not listening. She just shakes her head. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this.

The door creaks open, and Dr. Stevens steps in. Clipboard in hand. His expression is composed, but I see it, right there in his eyes.

Dread coils in my chest.

“You’re stable now,” he says, his voice gentle, practiced. “Vitals are good. Bleeding’s under control. But there’s something we need to discuss before we talk about the babies.”

Jackie straightens as best she can, but I see her wince.

“You had a significant amount of internal bleeding when you came in,” he says. “We did everything we could to manage it conservatively, but your uterus wasn’t contracting the way we needed it to. You went into haemorrhagic shock.” I glance at Jackie, her face is stone. Still, silent.

“We had to perform an emergency hysterectomy,” he says. “It was the only way to stop the bleeding and save your life.”

Jackie jerks like she’s been punched. “You mean… you took out my…”

He nods slowly. “We had no choice. You had a condition called uterine atony, your uterus stopped contracting entirely after delivery. The bleeding was severe, and you were losing blood too fast.”

Her mom tightens her hold on Jackie, whispering something, but I only hear the rush of blood in my ears. Jackie’s hand floats to her stomach, still swollen beneath the blanket.

“We saved your ovaries,” he adds. “If you ever want more children down the road, surrogacy is a possibility.”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. My wife, my strong, stubborn, shining Jackie, just had her whole future ripped from her. And there’s nothing I can do or say to help her.

She doesn’t say a word. Not to me. Not to anyone. Just keeps her eyes on some point past all of us. Like she’s floated away.

“The babies?” she finally says, voice paper-thin.

Dr. Stevens switches gears. “Your daughters are doing well. At 28 weeks, their lungs are underdeveloped, but they’re responding to ventilation. We’ve started both on CPAP, continuous positive airway pressure to help them breathe, andwe’re giving them surfactant to improve lung function. They’ll be in the NICU for a while, but they’re stable.”

Jackie nods, and a few tears slide down her cheeks. I reach for her again. She doesn’t respond.

“The boys were smaller. Less weight, shorter gestation response.” he says, voice slowing. “Your son, Baby C has a condition called persistent pulmonary hypertension of the newborn, PPHN. One of his blood vessels hasn’t transitioned properly after birth. We’ve started him on oxygen and nitric oxide therapy to help oxygenate his blood. He’s critical but stable.”

Jackie’s lips tremble. So, I ask, “And the other?”

Dr. Stevens glances at her me, then back at Jackie.

“Baby D was born in the ambulance. They didn’t have the neonatal equipment onboard to intubate a baby his size. The paramedics did everything they could… but by the time they got here…”

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