by J. M. Maurer
I’m clearly confused.
Hormonally irrational.
And my head hurts like hell.
I cough through the pain. My vision seems blurry, perhaps even doubled. Blinking is doing nothing to bring Ben into focus.
Not thinking straight, I decide to break eye contact and feel my way out the door, choosing to leave my broken heart behind—with Ben.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ben
If she thinks I’m not going to follow her, she’s got another thing coming.
I bolt out the door so fast, coach would have thought I was trying to stretch a single into a triple. Once out on the front porch, I find Addison standing in the driveway. She’s got her hands on her head. She’s bent at the waist. Has her sight cast down as she lets out a groan that lifts the hairs on my nape.
Suddenly she lowers herself to the cold concrete, crosses her legs while taking a seat, and rocks back and forth, her hands still clutching her head.
I sprint like a cheetah and settle in behind her. Geeze. If this is her reaction from seeing Marissa, I’ve really screwed up. I can’t stand to see her this way. Surprise or not, I’ve got to clear this up.
“Addy, listen. The woman you saw was Marissa Messmer. She’s Mike’s daughter. The family who bought the house from you. Please come back inside the house where it’s nice and warm. And I can explain.”
“Ben,” Addison manages through a bout of strangled breaths. “I don’t feel right. And this isn’t about the woman.”
Well, thank the Maker. I think. I’m not really sure. If Addison’s behavior isn’t about Marissa, then what’s got her so upset? With the winter air darn near freezing my lungs, it’s no wonder she can’t breathe.
I rock her against my chest and tell her to focus on her breathing. “Slow down, sweetheart. I think you’re hyperventilating.”
She lets out a long moan, locking a death grip with her hands to my forearms, and then peers up at me with a sad, please-help-me look in her eyes.
I’m at a loss, trying to figure out how to get Addison to calmly follow me back inside when a loud boom fills the air, the sound coming from somewhere close by. I don’t know what caused it. I’m frozen, sitting on the cold, wet ground, willing Addison to open up and tell me what’s wrong. All I know is that I’ve got my grip locked in on nothing but the woman I love.
“Bender?” Mrs. Tinley screeches as she approaches at my side. “I told you to get your head on straight. Don’t you know it’s winter?” Beams from her flashlight flicker in and out of my peripheral vision. Stopping in front of us, she aims the flashlight at Addison. “Oh dear. Call an ambulance.”
My heart ceases beating. My stomach lurches out of my throat. How did I not recognize there was something terribly wrong with Addison?
“I don’t have my phone. It’s in the house.” I cringe, knowing Mrs. Tinley’s knees won’t get her anywhere very fast. “Switch places with me. I’ll run inside.”
“Bender, we ain’t got time for musical chairs. For God’s sake, son, carry her back inside.”
“Ben.” Addison’s tiny voice lifts the hairs on my arms to attention. “Get. The. Truck,” she says, each word spoken between a series of shorts breaths.
“She’s right,” Mrs. Tinley says, her tone loud, decisive. “By the time the ambulance arrives from the town over, you could have driven her to the hospital yourself. But even a drunk skunk could see you’re in no shape to drive. Get Addison in my car as soon as I back it out of the garage. And I don’t want no arguments. Hear me, Bender?”
She turns on her heel, not giving me a chance to answer, and shuffles off toward her garage. The awkward side-to-side tip of her movements sparks a wave of thoughts in my mind. Mainly, I’m worried about timing. If Mrs. Tinley drives her car as slow as she does the Gator, it’ll be well into next week before we make it into town where Addison’s hospital is.
I open my mouth to object but Addison coughs and clutches her head again, the action cutting me off and reminding me I don’t have time to argue. Besides, despite my nosy neighbor’s actions, there’s something about Mrs. Tinley that makes me trust her. I do as she says, carry Addison across the yard, and help her into the back seat of a hefty hunk of metal that makes me more nervous than an MLB rookie who’s taken the ball in his hand and is stepping up onto the mound for the very first time.
Hiding my reaction, I slide across the cold vinyl and buckle my babies in, my nervousness easing a minute fraction the instant I notice the car’s been retrofitted with retractable lap belts and shoulder harnesses. With the dome light on, I can see Addison’s cheeks. They’re flaming red, the odd color spurring more questions to pop into my head. Why does she look like this? Is the cough giving her a fever?
I place my hand against her forehead, like my mom did when I was a kid, and note her skin doesn’t feel overly warm. Maybe the color is just a product of the cold air. But what do I know? I’m just a guy who used to earn a living hurling a baseball sixty feet six inches.
I hear Mrs. Tinley pipe up from the front seat, her tone harsh, ordering me to close my door. But as if she’s been tipped off that the moonshine warden is hot on her heels, she doesn’t wait. Lays down a strip of rubber while backing out of her drive.
Hanging on, I manage to pull the door shut, just as the porch lights begin to blur in the distance. We left the house open. I don’t care. I’m just thankful Mrs. Tinley’s knees are working, and her foot actually does have the ability to give her engine a formidable amount of gas.
Interestingly, she drives her ’69 Dodge Charger like it’s a carbon copy of the General Lee. Only this isn’t Daisy Duke I’m talking about, this is a strange version of Mrs. Tinley. Whatever she’s packing up there under the hood, I’m thrilled. It’s fast. And for once, I throw out a prayer, hoping Rusty’s sitting somewhere along our path, loving on his radar.
Addison squeezes my hand. She seems a little more relaxed.
Looking at me, she lifts her pale lips into a thin grin. “Marissa…Messmer,” she says with a hitch in her breath. She lays her head on my shoulder. “So. She’s the. Woman. In all of. Those photos.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about. Maybe her words have something to do with her breathing. The thought crosses my mind that Addison’s not getting enough oxygen to her brain. Whatever the case, I wrap my arm around her shoulder, feeling the need to set her straight.
“She’s like a sister to me. Her whole family took me in after my parents passed away.”
Hearing my words, I start to panic a little more. I don’t want Addison freaking out or sensing I’m scared to death I’m gonna lose her. I pull her close, mentioning I’ll tell her more later. Then, as I prayed would happen, those familiar blue lights start flashing behind us.
“Don’t you worry, Bender,” Mrs. Tinley shouts from up front. “I ain’t slowin’ down. That copper ain’t got nothin’ on my engine.”
My body pulls back as Mrs. Tinley gives her engine more gas. Next thing I know, her boney fingers loosen some sort of handheld device attached to her dash. After bringing it to within centimeters of her lips, she spews a string of words which make absolutely no sense.
“Back door bear. Got your ears on? I got a Bambi in distress and she’s about to deliver. So peel the bumper sticker or give us a hand.”
“Copy that, Tinker Bell,” Rusty says, his voice piping in through one of the speakers up front. “Hitting the hammer lane now. Forget the double nickel. I’m ten and on the side.”
Mrs. Tinley’s CB handle doesn’t go unnoticed by me. Normally I’d have a good chuckle over it, but right now I’m too worried about Addison and the baby. Before too long Mrs. Tinley’s drifting her hunk of metal around the circle drive entrance to the ER. Just before the double doors slide open, she slams on the brakes and we come to a jolting halt.
Rusty must have called ahead because no sooner do our backs crash against the vinyl seat than a nurse dashes out of the hospital. She rolls up a wheelchair to the ba
ck passenger door as Rusty points it out.
I can’t get around the car fast enough. I don’t want Rusty’s hands anywhere near my girl. She’s mine. It’s my job to help Addison out.
“Sir,” the nurse says after I might have pushed Rusty out of the way. “I’ll take over from here. Don’t worry. Your wife’s in good hands. OB’s been alerted we’re on our way.”
My wife.
I’d give anything to have a piece of paper saying it’s true. I kick myself for not making it happen before the baby was due. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Rusty commandeers an elevator and for the moment, I’m thankful Addison seems okay.
Our short ride up ends with people in scrubs scurrying around Addison. Their feet move in so many directions I can’t possibly keep up. Each one seemingly has a job, placing oxygen and random gadgets all over my beautiful Addison’s body. If I thought the grounds crew covering the field in a downpour was fast, they have nothing on these medical people.
Shortly after our arrival, a monitor screeches alive and flashes up some pretty high numbers, catching the attention of everyone nearby. My heart hammers against my chest as I wipe sweat off my brow. A soft hand palms my back, and I realize it’s Mrs. Tinley’s. She doesn’t say anything. The pensive expression on her face already tells the story.
“She needs an OR,” I hear from within the room, the tone pitching several octaves higher than it should.
“Prepped and ready,” another scrub says. Then she picks up the bedside phone, presses one number, and adds, “We need a NICU team to OR four. STAT.”
I don’t know what team she’s talking about, but the word STAT sits heavy on my chest. I look over at the woman on the phone, feeling a tear rapidly disappear into my beard.
“Sir.” I see her mouth move but I’m not sure I’m really hearing what she’s saying. “How far along is your wife? How’s her history with high blood pressure been?”
As if sensing my trouble with pushing words past my lips, Mrs. Tinley rubs the back of my shoulder and speaks up. “I don’t recall Addison mentioning any problems with the pregnancy.”
Rusty concurs, adding that her cough is new.
My gaze darts around from Mrs. Tinley, to Rusty, to Addison before sliding back in on the nurse. I feel like I just booked it around the bases for an in-the-park home run. Only this doesn’t feel exciting. And I don’t hear the crowd behind me. Quite frankly, it feels like I’ve crashed into the catcher at home plate and the big guy running the show has called me out by slamming his fist into my face.
“She’s thirty-eight weeks,” I manage, hearing Addison cough beside me. It’s as if the dust I kicked up is somehow the cause of her distress.
“The baby looks good,” the nurse assures me, most likely because of the look on my face. “Your wife’s blood pressure is critical but under control with the medication we’ve given her. But for the sake of her life and the life of the baby, we’re going to need to take her to the OR for an emergency C-section. Go ahead and give her a quick kiss. We need to get going.”
Not needing to be told twice, I lean over the bed rail and press my lips to Addison’s. My heart heavy with concern, I close my eyes for a brief moment.
Aware that I can’t hold things up any longer, I squeeze her hand and then let my deepest emotion spill out across her lips. “I love you, Addison.”
After straightening my spine, I lock my watery sight on her beautiful face. She looks so peaceful. I hope it’s a good thing.
Whatever medications I saw them push into her IV must be working. It’s like she’s sleeping, her body unmoving, lying on top of a bed of starchy white linen. My gaze doesn’t move from her face despite the fact that her fingers slip out from under mine when they roll her bed away.
They’re taking my beautiful baby.
And I’m not ready.
The old Bender wants to sprint to her. Feel her soft lips on his one more time. But I’m not that man. Not anymore. I’m Ben Peterson. The newest resident of Willow Run. The man whose heart just left with that bed, along with the two souls I love more than anything.
Thirty-eight weeks. I can’t lose her now.
Please save her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Addison
I wake to the wail of a newborn and bring my gaze into focus. A sweet scent of flowers cuts through the sterile air, awakening more of my senses. Sitting up, I scan past more bouquets than any hospital should allow in a room. They’re big. Beautiful. All delivered with heartfelt congratulations and hand-written best wishes from Ben’s baseball buddies and our friends.
Moving my line of sight past a plush cotton teddy bear that’s half the size of my SUV, I feel my heart flutter away in my chest as my gaze finally lands on Ben. As nice as the flowers are, it’s Ben’s backside that catches my eye. He looks perfect with his tall form hunched over our baby, blankets creeping up the sides of the bassinette obscuring my view. I smile and take a moment to drink in the way his dark jeans showcase those tight buns I love so much.
Forever the Ace on the mound—in my eyes at least—he’s got his hat on backward, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and his game-day daddy voice on.
The nurses love him. And in six short days, they’ve added professional diaper changer to Ben’s long list of credentials. Though beard trimming currently isn’t one of them. We’ve all tried to get Ben to go home. He refuses to leave the hospital. I think he’s paying Mrs. Tinley on the side to keep bringing him fresh clothes.
Thanks to a team of caregivers, and mandatory “quiet hours” that enabled some much-needed rest, I have to say I feel a heck of a lot better. Didn’t have a clue that high blood pressure could creep up on me like it did. The warning signs were there. Up until the end, my body just did a decent job of keeping me safe.
According to the on-call doc who met up with me inside the operating room when I came to after a hefty dose of sedation, preeclampsia sometimes flies under the radar and presents in this way. I don’t recall most of our one-sided conversation, only the bit when he said, “I don’t want you to worry. You’ll feel a whole lot better once we get this baby out of your belly.”
Along with the reassuring words of a female anesthesiologist who sat off to my side, I had no choice but to believe him. My life was in their hands, my body numb and under a canopy of sterile drapes—where people I’d never met before tossed their voices back and forth, where the sounds of their efforts were hurried, and where nothing seemed to be enough to remove my focus from the strange tugging sensation going on at the lower section of my abdomen.
That is until Ben popped into my view, sporting a standard disposable sea blue bouffant operating room hat in place of the baseball cap he loves.
He looked ridiculous.
Ridiculously perfect.
I smile, liking the way he has his baseball cap on now. And the way he lifts our baby up to his chest, his eyes focused on the bundle in his hands, not the receiving blankets as they dangle haphazardly, warming his arms instead of Baby Peterson. He doesn’t know I’m watching, but catches on the moment he turns in my direction. Once he sees me, a silly grin spreads across his face.
He moves to my side, tucking our baby in safely against his chest. “The high-risk obstetrician, Dr. James, and the pediatrician have all signed off. I think we’re all packed up and ready to head home. How was your nap?”
Ben lowers to tap my lips with his. And as I knew would happen, he keeps our baby to himself.
“I feel rested, loved, and ready to leave,” I admit, just as Mrs. Tinley drums her hands against the end of my bed.
She may have knocked before entering. If so, I didn’t hear it. It’s not unlike her to just let herself in. It’s okay. She’s all we’ve got. And she seems to look after us as though we’re all she has too. As it is, I can’t thank her enough for everything she does for us.
After zoning out and half-heartedly listening to explanation after explanation of final paperwork, I find myself sitting in the
back seat of my SUV with our sleeping baby nestled in a car seat, facing me. Up front, I can hear Mrs. Tinley insisting that Ben drive safely. She mentions something about having plenty of time, then lifts her tone several octaves, scolding him with a string of heated words.
“Addison’s abdominal incision’s gonna get mighty angry if any of these tires get anywhere near one of them potholes. Lift your foot a little, Bender. It’s time to take things nice and slow.”
Mrs. Tinley’s right. I realize this the instant her comment makes me giggle, and the jiggle to my lower belly sets off a twinge of bearable pain. And even though he’s up front, I can tell Ben’s doing a fine job of not only avoiding the divots in the pavement but Mrs. Tinley as well. I smile, catching his wink as if I’m his personal catcher as it bounces in at me through the rearview mirror.
As Ben moves his attention back to the road, I return mine to the inhabitant who’s all cozy and cute in the car seat next to me. From deep inside my purse, I hear my phone ring. It’s most likely Rachel checking in. I fish out my phone and bark in a painful fit of laughter the moment I see who’s calling. It’s Mr. Jenkins. Hold onto your britches, there’s been yet another disaster in our surprising little town.
I contemplate going into a deep explanation of why Mr. Jenkins has this obsessive need to move all the stiffs he finds over to the cemetery and under the willow tree. But with Mrs. Tinley’s help, I manage to talk Ben into a side trip up to the town square before heading on home. I’m thankful for Ben sensing a perfectly good reason, because I don’t want to ruin the day by explaining how Mr. Jenkins thinks his late wife and deceased daughter, who are buried over by the willow tree, somehow collect the animals and take them up to the skies.
It’s late afternoon. It’s dark outside. And for Christmas Eve, the air’s rather cold. But I’m rested. The baby is calm and sleeping. And fixing the issues Mr. Jenkins believes are catastrophic usually only takes, on average, less than ten minutes. He’s always been there for my family. I don’t mind being there for him.
