by Nina Levine
“Terrified about the actual injection?”
“Well, you know how much I hate needles, but no, not about that. About starting something and not knowing the outcome or all the things that may happen along the way.” I take a deep breath before sharing the thing that’s weighing heavily on me but haven’t voiced to anyone but Cleo. “What if Winter and I don’t survive this, Mum?”
“Birdie,” her voice takes on the stern tone she uses when she’s trying to mother me, “stop thinking that way. It’s not a productive use of your time and it’s definitely not the way to begin this journey. You need to be positive, not negative.”
“I am being positive, but I’m also being practical and thinking through all the possible scenarios that could happen. I want to be prepared for anything.”
“So you’ve thought it all through and come up with your marriage failing as one of the scenarios. Does it make you feel more prepared to know that’s a possibility? And does it make you feel better to be prepared for that?”
When she puts it like that, no it doesn’t, but damn it, I can’t help who I am. I’m a compulsive worrier, and I need to know all the possibilities and prep for them. I don’t love this about myself, but I can’t control it. “I think you know the answer to that, and I also think you know I can’t help myself.”
“All you’re doing is stealing today’s peace,” she says, referencing the quote she likes to tell me when my anxiety gets the better of me. “How’s Winter feeling about it all?”
“He’s staying strong.”
“Good.”
“Okay, that’s enough about us. Tell me all about this date.”
We spend another fifteen minutes on the phone while she gives me all the goss. When we end the call, I place the phone on the table and stare into space for a long time thinking about what she said.
Worrying over something that will probably never happen really is stealing today’s joy, and today is supposed to be a joyful day. It’s the day Winter and I are finally going to start doing the things we need to do to make a baby. To build our family.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, frustrated with myself. “Stop messing things up that weren’t in a mess to begin with.”
My phone rings, thankfully cutting into my thoughts.
Lily.
“Thank God you called right now. You’ve saved me from spending the next God knows how long thinking about things I need to stop thinking about.”
“I’m not even going to ask what those things are because I don’t want you to keep thinking about them. We can just deal with my shit on this call if you’d prefer. I mean, I have enough of it to last the entire call.”
I laugh. I can already hear her exasperation and we haven’t even gotten into what’s going on yet. “Yes! Let’s just deal with your shit today. King? Your mum? Or the kids?”
“For once, it’s not King. It’s Zara. If I could lock that girl in her room for the next decade, I would. Honestly, I’m gaining premature grey hairs because of her.”
“What’s happened?”
“What’s not happened is more the question. She’s been lying to us about where she’s going with friends; she’s gotten into trouble at school because of the boy she’s been seeing; she’s fighting with her father all the time, driving me insane; and now she’s had a huge fight with King, too. I need some of your advice because, at this moment in time, I’m ready to strangle her.”
“Okay, deep breath, babe. Firstly, what does King think about all this?”
She sighs. “Why do we always have to know what King thinks about things?”
“Because the man seems to know his shit when it comes to your kids.”
Another long sigh. She knows I’m right and from her reaction, I’m guessing King has already tried to talk sense into her but she’s not listening to him yet. Calling me is often her response, which still surprises me because I pretty much always agree with King’s ideas for handling the kids. “He does agree with me that she needs to be disciplined over this stuff, but he also thinks I need to loosen my control over her. He told me last night that he believes she’s acting out because I’m too strict. Like, seriously, the man has no experience with teens. As far as I’m concerned, I’m not strict enough.”
“Umm, Lil, you’re forgetting he helped raise his sisters. The man has plenty of experience with teens.”
“Ugh. Why do you always have to point things out and be right?”
“Are the two of them okay after their fight?”
“She’s not talking to him today, but they’ll be fine. They argued over the way she was treating me.”
“Where’s her dad in all this?”
“He’s busy dating all over town. He’s around for the kids, but he’s not much help with Zara. I’m relying on King more and more for this kind of support.”
“Okay, I’m going to give you advice that you’ll hate. I agree with King. Stop being so strict on her. She’s fifteen and her hormones are raging through her. You need to find a balance between letting her explore her new feelings and experiencing everything life offers a fifteen-year-old, while keeping her safe. And, Lil, stop worrying that she’s going to get pregnant like you did. You’re stealing your joy from today by worrying over tomorrow.”
“You did not just quote your mother’s favourite quote at me, Birdie Morrison!”
I laugh again. “I so did because if I had to just sit through her quoting it at me, there’s no way you’re not gonna hear it today too.”
“I need wine for this conversation. You should go get your fruit popper out of the fridge and have a drink with me.”
“That was mean.”
“Well, if you’re gonna quote your mother at me, I’m gonna remind you that you can’t drink alcohol for a long time. And speaking of that, tonight’s the night, yes?”
“Yes. Winter should be home any minute now and he’s going to give me the injection.”
“I can hear the nerves in your voice. You okay?”
“Yes and no, but I’d be worse if I had to give myself the shot. You know I hate needles.”
“Yeah,” she says, pausing briefly before saying, “Shit, I’ve gotta go. King just arrived home and he’s in a mood. Text me and let me know how it goes. I’ll call you tomorrow to check in. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Lil. Don’t kill Zara.”
“Ugh,” she says and ends the call.
I think about our friendship while I finish making lasagne for dinner. We’ve grown close over the last year. My move to Melbourne didn’t end our friendship; it only made us closer because now we talk a lot on the phone. While Cleo is my rock at all times, she doesn’t understand what it’s like to be married to a club president like Lily does. The worry over something happening to our husbands, the stress when they’re away taking care of club business, the nights they don’t come home because of club stuff. Lily understands all of these things and why I chose this life. I’d be lost without her some days.
Once the lasagne is in the oven, I head into the bedroom and freshen up. I also check my phone for a text from Winter. He said he’d be home around 6:00 p.m. and it’s nearly 6:30 p.m. I don’t find a text, which is unusual. Winter is hard-core about punctuality. He also knows I worry, so he never fails to call or text with an update if his plans change.
I send him a text and then decide to watch some TV to take my mind off everything; however fifteen minutes later, I’m growing more anxious than I was. I still haven’t heard back from Winter. The only time I know not to expect a reply is when he’s doing something for the club that prevents him from staying in touch. And those are times I know he’s in potential danger.
Shit.
Another half hour passes with still no word. I’ve imagined a wide range of scenarios of what could be happening and am trying to talk myself into believing his bike broke down and his phone battery went flat. My brain can get on board with the bike breaking down, but not the battery going flat, simply because my husband is fas
tidious about everything, including charging his phone. Damn you, Winter Morrison, for being so meticulous and predictable. If he was neither of those things, I could believe so many more possibilities right now.
As it draws closer to 8:00 p.m., I accept I’ll be giving myself my injection tonight. The doctor advised to give the shot between 6:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m. each night, so I can’t wait for Winter any longer.
I grab the vial from the fridge, and the syringe, trying to ignore the nerves running through me. Needles and me do not go well together, and on top of that, I can’t help but feel disappointed Winter isn’t here for this. It’s kind of silly, but this moment feels huge to me. The next big step in our journey, and for months now I’ve imagined Winter and me doing this together. That he’s not here feels all wrong.
Taking some deep breaths, I fill the syringe the way the nurse showed us. My hands are shaky so I slow myself down. “You can do this, Birdie. You just have to stick the needle in your stomach. It’s not hard.”
Shit.
Why does it feel hard then?
Good God, do not cry, woman.
“I’m not going to bloody cry,” I mutter, exasperated with my emotions.
Sitting, I gently pinch my stomach together as shown and bring the needle to it.
You can do this.
Seriously, just do it.
My breaths grow shallow as I give myself a stern pep talk. At my age, it feels dumb to still be afraid of needles. However, it’s not so much that causing my emotions to fray, it’s my silly wish that Winter was here. I mean, it’s just an injection. He’s not missing out on anything important tonight.
“Okay, let’s just bloody get this done,” I tell myself before finally pushing the needle into my stomach and giving myself the shot.
After, I sit quietly for a long while thinking about the significance of what I’ve done.
We’re going to have a baby.
We’re making this happen.
I’m going to be a mummy.
Winter is going to be a daddy.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I don’t understand it, but all the anxiety and stress that’s been coursing through me has disappeared, and all I feel now is wonder and belief that this is going to happen. It’s like I needed to see that needle going into my stomach to fully believe we were doing this. Up until this point, it’s just been a whole lot of planning and talking. Now we’re taking action and my brain has finally caught up to understanding what’s happening.
The rumble of Winter’s bike pulls me out of my thoughts and I head for the front door to meet him, relief flooding me that he’s okay. However, when I open the door, the first thing I see as he walks my way is blood. A lot of blood. His shirt is soaked in it. He’s got his hands pressed to his stomach, but that doesn’t seem to be helping stem the flow.
My heart beats faster and my chest tightens with fear. “Oh my God.” I rush towards him. “We need to get you to a doctor.” A million thoughts speed through my mind. Why is he here instead of at the hospital? What happened? Has he been shot? Where is all that blood coming from?
“No,” he clips. “Go inside.” His hard voice catches me by surprise, but it also causes me to do what he says.
Once we’re inside, he takes off down the hallway and into our bedroom. “Gonna need your help, angel,” he says as I trip over my feet trying to keep up with him.
Of course I’ll help him, but at this point, I’m not sure what he thinks I can do for him. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. “Okay.” I enter the bedroom behind him, my heart still pounding hard. “You want me to stitch you up?” It’s a joke, my way of dealing with stress. I never expect the answer he gives me.
Without stopping or looking at me, he enters our walk-in robe. “No, I’ll do the stitching, but I’ll need your help with it.”
My legs stop moving.
My heart beats faster if that’s even possible.
What?
Surely I misheard.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Still not looking at me, he says, “No.” Rummaging through his belongings, he locates what he’s looking for and then turns to face me. “Doc is away until tomorrow and I can’t go to the hospital for this.”
It’s like I don’t recognise my husband. I mean, I know he learned a heap of shit in the army that I have no clue of, but I never for one second imagined he’d ever say to me “hey, let’s sew me up so I don’t have to go to the hospital.”
“Umm, Winter, you’re losing a lot of blood. I know you’re capable of many things, but I’m not sure we can add doctor to that list. Not when there’s this much blood.”
Why are we even having this conversation?
Why are we not getting him to the hospital?
Oh, God, I’m going to lose my shit soon.
Leaving me, he heads for the en suite. “It’s not the first time I’ve done this, Birdie, and it probably won’t be the last.”
Wait. What?
I hurry after him, my mind scrambling to keep pace. “When have you done this?”
He dumps the small bag he took from the wardrobe on the bathroom counter and pulls his blood-soaked shirt off, throwing it in the bin. He then washes his hands and dries them before looking down to inspect the wound I can’t take my eyes off. A knife wound if I’m not mistaken. The scariest looking wound I’ve ever seen. Without answering my question, he says, “Wash your hands.”
Dragging my eyes from his stomach, I do as he says. “You had to sew yourself up in Afghanistan?” How did I not know this?
“Birdie,” he starts, his tone snappy, a mixture of impatience and irritability, “can we just get this done and then talk?”
I finish washing my hands. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” I sound a whole lot more confident than I feel. My tummy is already squeamish. But at least I’ve now seen the wound and know that although Winter’s shirt was soaked in blood, there’s actually not that much still coming from the gash.
He nods at the bag on the counter. “There are alcohol wipes in the kit. I need you to sterilise everything in there while I clean out the wound.”
I try to shift my focus from the fear swarming through me and instead focus on what I’m doing. The job Winter has given me is easy enough. My concern is he’s going to ask me to stick a needle through his flesh or something equally horrifying. However, I love this man with everything in me, and so I know that if the next words out of his mouth have anything to do with sewing his flesh together, that’s what I’ll be doing.
I finish sterilising the tools from the bag and watch as Winter cleans his wound. I’m surprised I can watch. I usually struggle with blood.
When he’s done cleaning it, he reaches for what looks like scissors to me, but they aren’t scissors because they don’t have blades. They kinda look like tiny little pliers. He also grabs what I’m guessing is the needle even though it looks more like a fishing hook. I only know it’s the needle because it has surgical thread attached to it. He takes the little plier things and uses them to hold the end of the needle before reaching for another tool in his kit, which looks like tweezers.
Using the tweezer-looking tool, he exposes one side of the wound and pushes the needle through his skin. I watch in fascination as he does this and then twists his hand so it starts coming up on the other side of the wound. Working with skill I never knew he had, he manoeuvres the tools to create his first stitch, bringing his skin together as he ties a knot in the thread.
Repeating the knot three times, he then glances up at me and says, “Can you pass me the scissors?”
I hand them over and he cuts the thread. Moving about a quarter of an inch down the wound, he does this all over again, creating another stitch, and then repeats this until the wound is sewn up. Lastly, he wraps it with a bandage. All of this, he does without barely a mention of the pain he must be feeling. He grunts a few times throughout, but that’s it. I would have passed out by now if I was the one being
stitched without anaesthetic. I’m surprised he hasn’t guzzled some whisky.
I remain silent while he cleans up even though I have a million questions I want to ask. Knowing I’m going to struggle not to blurt them all out, I decide to take his bloody shirt out to the rubbish. However, as I reach for it, he curls his hand around my arm and stops me. “I’ll do it.”
I meet his gaze. “I need to do something, Winter, or else I’m going to go crazy waiting for you to talk.” Crazier than I already am. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt fear this strong. My husband was stabbed tonight. Stabbed! I knew this kind of thing was possible with him being a club member, but holy hell, the reality is more frightening than I ever imagined. He may be standing in front of me all stitched up, but all I can wonder is how close is the danger? Will the person who stabbed him hurt him again? Will he survive a second attempt?
Oh God.
My knees go weak.
Birdie, stay strong. Winter doesn’t need to add worrying about you to his list of shit to deal with tonight.
He shoves his fingers through his hair, his face revealing his torment. “Fuck, angel, I’m sorry I had to bring this shit home. And I’m sorry I fucked up our plans for tonight.”
Deep breath, Birdie. “What happened?”
“Ransom and I got into it with some guys on our way home, but I don’t want you worrying. We handled the situation.”
I know that’s all he’ll give me because after living with him in Melbourne for these last nine months, he never gives me much more than that when something goes down. And things have gone down a few times. Winter warned me before I moved that things weren’t good here and he was right. And as much as he tells me not to worry, I do. However, I keep most of that worry on the inside like I’m going to do tonight.
“Will you be okay until you see the doctor tomorrow?”
He nods. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
I wish he’d go to the hospital, but I know his mind is made up and to try to force him will only end in us arguing. “What about infection?”
