Page 45 of Falling for Carla

Those rational facts did nothing to console me. I had seen Carla get shot. I saw her lurch forward, unable to catch herself, and saw the dark, blackish-red stain seeping through her white shirt, onto the dotted skirt I’d twirled her in when we danced in the gazebo at the vineyard earlier that day. Had it been the same day? I felt like ten years had passed since then or twenty. The loss I felt, the abject horror of what happened was monumental. I had never been more afraid, more certain that everything in my life hinged on one outcome.

When I applied for the police academy, I was confident that it was the most momentous event of my life to be admitted to study there. I was following my destiny, and nothing could stop me. When I passed the detective exam and got my promotion, I was so proud. I was convinced nothing could compare with that feeling of elation. When I took the bullet for Lou, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his life was worth more than mine, that I’d sacrifice mine to save him. That I knew what true loyalty meant.

Every damn thing I thought I knew was swept away when I met Carla. When I kissed her. When I saw her get shot in the street.

Now I knew exactly two things and two things only.

I loved her.

She had to be okay.

Make that three things—because the man or men responsible for the attack on her were going to pay. And I didn’t mean a court-ordered fine.

I told them I was her fiancé in order to get her status and have access to her prognosis, her doctors. I would’ve told them I was her husband, her brother, anything to get closer to her. Those ethics I sweated over because I was her professor? They burned up in the aftermath of her gunshot wound. My self-righteousness, my supposed values meant fuck all compared to her life. Compared to all I ever wanted and all I could hope for.

If something went wrong, if she didn’t pull through the surgery, there was nothing left. Not one goddamn thing worth living for. Oh, sure, I’d hunt down every living member of the Lombardi family and put them in the ground, but once that was done, it would be curtains for me. I sure as hell didn’t have anything to teach future law enforcement officers—not when the only thing I ever needed was lost to me forever. She had to live. She had to be okay. Even if she told me to go to hell, it would be a hell infinitely preferable to a world without her in it. She could spit on me and never see me again, and as long as she was safe and sound, I could go through the motions and live my life.

I could survive her rejection, not her death. The truth was, I didn’t want to survive either. I wanted her to live and to love me back. It was simple and selfish and true.

Every cliché came to life that night. I sat in the waiting room for five hours while she was in surgery. I bargained with God. I promised virtue, sacrifice, repentance. I’d give up alcohol, satellite TV, and I’d quit using the preferential parking for law enforcement at the grocery store. Every stupid thing I could think to offer up in exchange for her life was so paltry, so absurd, but I offered anything I had.

I’d volunteer at the women’s center teaching self-defense—the place where Kyle’s wife worked. I’d donate twenty percent of my salary to charity and I’d start riding a bike to work to reduce greenhouse gas emissions. It was desperation at its finest. I even swore I’d give up on vengeance, on wreaking bloody havoc on the Lombardi clan. I wouldn’t even act to dismantle their organization or leave a trail of bodies from here to Nevada and back again.

When the doctor emerged and pulled down his mask, his face was grave but not grim. I held my breath, needing to know exactly how she was.

“The bullet nicked her liver. Fortunately, it missed her spine and the exit wound was clean and uncomplicated. We were able to repair the damage. She should make a full recovery, but she’ll be in quite a bit of pain for a while. I’m going to recommend physical therapy when she’s able to participate in it.”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“The bullet missed the uterus, and there was no disruption of blood flow to the placenta. Our OB on call examined the scans and her blood counts and she’s monitoring the fetal heart rate now. There have been no signs of serious distress to the baby.”

If I hadn’t been trained and conditioned for two decades to react calmly in the face of the unexpected, I probably would have stood there and gaped at the doctor, completely speechless. Fortunately, my version of autopilot defaults to a rational, soothing hostage-negotiator tone of voice.

“That information is very reassuring, thank you,” I said. “What is the prognosis from here?”

“As I said, after she’s discharged from the hospital in a few days, I’d recommend physical therapy, and I’m putting in orders for a nutritionist consult as well as a follow up with her OB next week. Make sure she takes it easy for a couple of weeks, and don’t let her lift anything greater than five pounds for the next couple of months. She may have suffered only minor internal damage, but there is always a risk of postoperative bleeding if she doesn’t abide by her restrictions.”

I took note of that information and nodded as if the side of my head hadn’t just been blown off by the news that Carla was pregnant. She had been dragged and fought and run and fallen and been shot. While pregnant with my child.

My mind raced as all the possible disastrous outcomes came at me all at once. Then, as the doctor answered his phone and moved on, I wondered if she knew.

But no, she couldn’t have known. Thinking back to the afternoon we’d had and the wine she’d drunk, I knew that she would be as surprised as I was by this news.

I made myself take a deep, grounding breath and resist the impulse to run to her and assure her in the most urgent language, in my most authoritative tone, that I would take care of everything, that I was going to take charge of her and her pregnancy and keep them both safe and provide all the financial and emotional support she might need. Because being pushy wasn’t a respectful response, and she was just out of surgery and unlikely to cope well with the overwhelming devotion that seemed to stir in my chest.

A nurse admitted me to her room, a small private space where she was taken after coming out of the recovery room. I sat on a very flat, squared off vinyl chair wondering why the furniture was so horrible and if it was possible to develop sciatic pain instantly upon contact with a bad chair. I sat patiently, silent, as she slept. I listened to the regular beep and buzz of the machines that monitored her and could calculate the number of seconds until the automatic cuff took her blood pressure again.

I kept silent vigil like it was the most important stakeout of my life. I didn’t move. Not to shift in the uncomfortable chair or rub my eyes or get a glass of water. I had convinced myself that if I kept watch over her, nothing could go wrong.

I had a hard time putting aside my pride there and remembering to be grateful she was going to recover and that the baby was unharmed. The baby. When the doctor had said those two words, I felt like I’d been shoved off a rooftop and fallen twenty stories. A free-fall with only the promise of gravity and disaster ahead of me. Because never in a hundred years would I have imagined that Carla Russo was carrying my child.

. I wasn’t unhappy—quite the opposite, but it was a staggering adjustment to get my head around—to make the leap from staying away from her to admitting I wanted to be with her had been a monumental step. And now…baby made three. It sent me reeling.

Periodically, nurses checked her vital signs and tapped information into a tablet. One of them asked if I wanted anything to drink. Another turned her onto her side and said something about not placing her on her back because of the incision and moving her to avoid pressure sores. As if she had been in a coma for months and hadn’t just been in surgery a couple of hours ago.

Every fiber of my being wanted to pick Carla up and carry her out of this place. The tubes and wires, the constant beeping, the too-cold air pouring out of the vent overhead and the static greenish glare of the fluorescent lighting all made the place hellish, not to mention the smell. It didn’t feel right having her here, silent in that bed, too still and too pale. I was gripped by something like panic. Maybe it was the events of the day catching up with me.

I’d done stakeouts that lasted four days, living on coffee and smart ass remarks and thirty minute naps when I was on the force. The difference was that had been my job. This was the most acutely personal experience of my life, the dearest person—people—to me in the world had been hurt badly and I was ultimately helpless to make this better, to rescue her, and the anguish was messing with me. So my frantic impulse to wrap Carla in a blanket, scoop her up and take her home was irrational but it made a strange kind of sense as the day’s trauma unspooling in my body.

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