Page 99 of Pregnant in Plaid
My stomach drops. Thirty-three weeks. That's—that's not good. That's premature. That's?—
"Babies born at 33 weeks do very well," Dr. Martinez says calmly, as if she's commented on the weather. "We have an excellent NICU team standing by. Your baby is going to be well taken care of."
"But what if—" Patrice can't finish, another contraction stealing her words.
I squeeze her hand, trying to be an anchor when I feel like I'm drowning. "The baby's going to be okay. You both are."
Dr. Martinez pulls off her gloves. "I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to rest between contractions if you can. This might take a while."
My stomach drops.
Tessa catches my eye from the other side of the bed. "Gage and I are going to give you two some privacy. We'll be right outside if you need us."
"Thank you," I manage.
They slip out quietly, and suddenly it's just us. Me and Patrice and the steady beep of monitors. I try not to obsess over them.
"I'm sorry," Patrice says again, her voice small. "About the fight. About everything. I shouldn't have?—"
"Stop." I brush hair back from her sweaty forehead. "None of that matters right now. The only thing that matters is you and the baby. Okay?"
"But it's my fault. The stress. The fighting. I did this?—"
"No." I make her look at me. "You didn't. Dr. Martinez said these things happen. And even if—even if the fight was a factor, I'm just as much to blame. I pushed you. I said things I shouldn't have. But we're not doing this now. We're not playing the blame game. Deal?"
She nods, another tear slipping down her cheek. "Deal."
A contraction builds, and I watch helplessly as pain tightens her features. I count in my head—thirtyseconds, forty-five, a full minute—before it finally releases and she sags back against the pillows.
"That sucked," she mutters.
Despite everything, I almost laugh. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She takes a shaky breath. "Trace, I'm scared."
"Me too."
"You're supposed to say something reassuring."
"Want me to lie?"
She almost smiles. "Yeah. Lie to me."
I lean down, press my forehead to hers. "Okay. Here's the truth with some optimism thrown in: Yeah, it's early. Yeah, it's scary. But Dr. Martinez is the best. This hospital has a great NICU. And our baby—our baby is going to be a fighter. Because our baby has you for a mom, and you're the strongest, most stubborn, most incredible person I know."
"You left out 'most difficult,'" she says, but she's almost smiling.
"That too." I kiss her forehead. "But I wouldn't have you any other way."
The next few hours blur together in a haze of contractions, breathing exercises, and me feeling profoundly useless.
Dr. Martinez comes and goes, checking Patrice's progress with maddening calmness. Four centimeters. Five. The numbers climb with agonizing slowness while Patrice grips my hand hard enough to cutoff circulation and makes sounds I never want to hear again.
"You're doing great," I tell her, because what else can I say?
"I'm not doing great," she pants. "I'm dying. I'm definitely dying."
"You're not dying."
