Page 184 of Not Another Yesterday
“Nothing,” I sigh, feeling completely drained.
Just then, I see Cat’s doctor emerge from the double doors and I shoot to my feet.
“Shane, I gotta go. Cat’s doctor is coming to talk to me. Hey, can you try to get in touch with Cat’s mom? Or my dad? Or both? I haven’t been able to reach anyone.”
“Sure thing, Ran.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, hanging up and shoving my phone back into my pocket as I move toward the doctor.
“How is she?” The words tumble out as soon as I reach her.
She rests a hand on my shoulder and begins guiding me gently toward the double doors. “She’s out of surgery. We were able to stop the bleeding, and we’ve been giving her blood transfusions. She’s going to be okay.”
The air rushes from my lungs. Relief hits me like a wave, giving me enough strength to speak the next words. “I’d like to see him.”
The doctor nods, offering a small, warm smile that somehow makes the whole moment even more unbearable.
She leads me down a wide hallway to an elevator.
“Were you able to figure out why this happened?” I ask, my voice strained. “I mean, is there anything we need to do differently the next time… wait, will she be able to have kids? She wants kids.”
“We’re going to run some tests,” the doctor says, her voice calm, practiced, kind. “But yes, she will be able to have children. She’ll just need to be monitored more closely next time. Once complications like these arise, the risk can be higher in future pregnancies. But that’s something her primary doctor will watch for… once she’s ready to try again. Right now, she just needs time. Time to rest. To heal.”
The elevator doors open. We take it up to the third floor where she leads me into a small room.
The morning sun spills in through a large window to the left of Cat’s bed. I walk straight to her, taking her hand into mine.
She’s sleeping. Peaceful now. Her face no longer contorted in pain. The cold sheen of sweat is gone, wiped clean from her skin, but she’s still too pale. Ashen. Her lips barely pink. There’s an IV feeding her donated blood. I catch the sticker on the bag: A negative. I never knew her blood type. I make a mental note, filing it away just in case that’s info I’ll ever need to have on hand.
“We’ll keep her for a couple of days,” the doctor says. “She should be able to go home on Saturday.” Her hand touches my shoulder again, soft, comforting. “The nurse will be up shortly to let you see your son. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I nod. Or at least I think I nod. And then she leaves.
I pull a chair next to Cat’s bed and sit, still holding her hand. My thumb drags along her soft skin, still too cool. I let my forehead rest against her arm, and for a moment, I just breathe.
It hits me then. All of it. Everything I’ve been forcing down to survive the last few hours—terror, adrenaline, helplessness, grief—rises at once, leaving me shaking.
I almost lost her. I almost lost the only person I’ve ever been certain of.
Even in the months we were apart, I still belonged to her. I always did. I see that now, with painful, piercing clarity.
A soft knock at the door draws my head up. A nurse steps in, gently pushing a small hospital bassinet toward me.
My breath catches. Or disappears entirely. I can’t tell which.
She brings it to a stop beside me.
My heart—if it’s still beating—feels like it’s moving underwater.
Inside the bassinet is a tiny bundle, wrapped in a white blanket with pale pink and blue stripes. There’s a matching hat on his small head. He looks like he’s just sleeping.
“Can I hold him?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
The nurse nods and lifts the baby—my son—into my arms.
He’s weightless. Fragile. Perfect. Lifeless.
His skin is grayish, almost translucent. Still… he’smine.
