Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 5

by Chautona Havig

  A horrible sense of déjà vu flooded her as she rushed through the emergency room doors and followed the proper corridors to the OB wing. Sharon Vernon stood outside the room, her purse dangling from her wrist and anxiety oozing from her. “Sharon?”

  “I’m so glad you got the call. She’s panicking, I don’t know what to do for her, and—”

  “Will they not let us in?”

  Sharon jerked her head. “Go ahead. I’m not ready for it yet.”

  For several seconds, Willow stared at Chelsea’s mother, stunned at the woman’s words. “I imagine she isn’t either. I know I wasn’t.” When the woman didn’t answer, Willow asked, “Were you ready for Chelsea’s birth?”

  “Well, I was married and chose to get pregnant. I didn’t just sleep with the first boy who showed me attention. So, in that sense, yes.”

  “It’s probably best that you’re not ready then. I’m sure she’s not ready to be reminded of how horribly she has failed you—not tonight.”

  Before she said something she truly regretted, Willow stepped into the room and rattled the curtain before peeking around the corner. “Hey…”

  Chelsea lay on the bed, her arms gripping the rails, pain flooding her features. Willow remembered those horrible hours of misery and nearly fled the room. Gathering every ounce of self-control she could find, she gave Chelsea a weak smile and said, “Pretty rough, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  The single gasped word told Willow all she needed to know. “Look, I don’t know when they allow epidurals, but I went from truly believing I might die to relief almost immediately. Want me to ask them about it?”

  “Won’t do any good,” a nurse said as he entered the room. “Poor girl has a long, long way to go and we’re doing everything to stop the contractions so that it doesn’t have to be now.”

  “What?”

  “They said I’m not even close to labor,” the girl whined. “If this isn’t labor, I don’t want the real thing.”

  Willow watched another contraction on the monitor, holding Chelsea’s hand and frowning. “I can see the pain she’s in. What do you mean this isn’t labor?”

  “Dehydration. It can cause contractions, but they won’t accomplish anything. We’ve got an IV bag going and once the doctor gets here and says she can go, we’ll release her all rehydrated and with orders to drink more.”

  “If I drink more, I can’t sleep! I’m up every five minutes to pee. How am I supposed to get any sleep! Aaaaaaaahhhh!”

  None of it made sense to Willow. The girl looked positively wracked with pain, and the spikes on the monitor clearly showed a strong contraction. “When is Dr. Kline expected to be here?”

  “He’s usually pretty fast, so I’d say fifteen or twenty minutes. He lives close.”

  Willow tried everything to help Chelsea, but nothing worked. Back rubs, leg rubs, arm—the arms nearly got her decked. “Sorry,” the panting girl whispered.

  “I remember some things just really drove me crazy—never any rhyme or reason.”

  “That feels like my entire life lately.” Her eyes pleaded for answers as she whispered, “Where is Mom?”

  “Just outside. Want me to get her?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “I heard her when you got here. She’s getting worse every week.”

  “Where’s Ryder?”

  The girl studied the light sheet that covered her. “I didn’t call. I thought he’d feel pressured to come and then—”

  “He’ll be honest with me. Want me to ask?” Willow pulled out her phone.

  “Let’s see what the doctor says first. It would be crazy to call him if we’re going to go right home.” Another contraction built, and with it came a new, tearful round of pleas for help.

  By the time Dr. Kline arrived, Willow had decided that her infertility had a side effect that could only be regarded as a blessing—no labor. The day would come—she knew it would—that she might hope to endure anything to carry and deliver another child. But with the boys at home asleep in their beds, the memory of the horrible hours of her labor with them, and now watching Chelsea, she felt perfectly content never to endure any of it again.

  Willow stepped outside the room while the doctor examined Chelsea and found the hallway empty. At the end of the hall, a waiting area with one occupied chair drew her. “Sharon?”

  “What do they know?”

  “The doctor just got here, but the nurse thinks that she’s just dehydrated and that they’ll let her go home soon.”

  Sharon nodded. “I should have known she’d be one of those.”

  “One of those…” It took great restraint not to snap the words.

  “Going into labor every other day for eight weeks.”

  “Well,” Willow began, trying to find a way to keep the conversation civil. “Since she has just over seven weeks to go and this is her first possible false alarm, I’d say she’s not.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Willow glanced up at the woman, stunned. “Doing what?”

  “Adopting the child. You have those boys. They’re still very little. Why take another?”

  “I can’t imagine not taking her. I try to prepare myself for the idea that Chelsea may change her mind—”

  “It won’t happen. She wants that child less than we do.”

  “Or,” Willow suggested softly, “she wants you to believe that in an attempt to get some kind of approval from you.”

  “Chelsea doesn’t care about our approval. Getting pregnant is proof of that in itself.”

  “You think she did this just to show how she doesn’t care what you think? You think this was deliberate?”

  Sharon shrugged. “No, but if she cared what we thought, she wouldn’t have been sleeping with that boy.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that you’re correct—that she sl—was intimate with Ryder merely as a way of proving something to someone.” Willow took a deep breath and prayed for wisdom. “I’d say that whoever she tried to prove something to matters very much to her. When you don’t care, you don’t act in a way to prove it… you just don’t care.”

  The nurse appeared, calling for them. “Chelsea wants you there while Dr. Kline explains what’s happening.”

  “Me?” Willow asked, “Or Sharon?”

  “Both of you.”

  The women crowded around Chelsea’s bed, waiting to hear what the doctor had to say. Dr. Kline entered seconds later and nodded approvingly. “Glad to see you both here. Okay,” he squeezed Chelsea’s hand before continuing. “What we have here is definitely a case of dehydration. There’s no doubt about that. However, Maria here thinks Chelsea’s cervix feels softer and a bit thinner than when she first arrived. So, we’re going to wait an hour, check, and if Maria notices any difference at all, we’ll give you a shot of Terbutaline and see if we can’t stop the contractions that way.”

  Sharon spoke Willow’s thoughts before she could formulate them. “Why not just give it to her now?”

  “It’s not something I like to give at all. All drugs have risks. However, keeping that baby in there for a couple more weeks at the very least is important. I just don’t want to give it prematurely.”

  “Is there nothing you can do for her pain?” Willow flushed at the doctor’s knowing look. “I just can’t stand to see her hurting like this.”

  “If she can hold on for the next hour, we can make decisions then based upon a better knowledge of what is happening. If I start pulling out drugs now, it can affect how her body reacts and we might get a false reading. So, if she’s willing—”

  “I can take another hour,” Chelsea gasped. “I think.”

  As the contraction built, Dr. Kline watched the monitor. “Getting pretty bad right about there, isn’t it?”

  “Ya think?”

  He chuckled. “It must really be annoying for a man to watch a screen and tell you he thinks he knows what you’re going through.”

  “Just slightly,” the girl snapped.
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br />   As the contraction subsided, Dr. Kline felt around her pelvis, checking the position of the baby’s head. “She’s still down, but she isn’t engaged. I just don’t know what to think yet. I wish I could be sure now, but waiting would be best. Maria is usually right. If there was a change in the first hour, we hope to see just anything to hint as to what happened during the second.”

  An expression crossed Chelsea’s face—one Willow had seen before. The girl wanted to see Ryder. She waggled her phone and stepped outside the door. It took several rings, but Ryder picked up, his voice groggy. “What’s up? Something happen to the greenhouse?”

  “Chelsea’s at the hospital. I think she wants you here.”

  “Coming.” The phone clicked—dead.

  Dr. Kline stepped from the room as Willow returned. “How is she?”

  “She’s in pain, of course. I know it looks unbearable to you, but she’s handling it pretty well.” Willow’s skepticism must have shown because the man laughed. “No, I’m serious. I can see the difference in your eyes. You looked out of your mind with pain. Hers is the, ‘This hurts and I don’t like it’ variety. That can change in an instant, but I can guarantee that if it hurt as badly as you think it does, she wouldn’t have agreed to wait an hour.”

  “That was a test?”

  “Well, not intentionally.” He patted Willow’s arm. “I’ll be close. If you have any questions at all, just have them page me.” Dr. Kline took a few steps and turned back. “Is Chad coming?”

  Her eyes widened. “I forgot—wow. Well, Becca will have told him by now. Ugh.”

  The tension in the room grew with each passing minute. Ryder stood miserably beside the bed, begging with his eyes for Willow to do something about Chelsea’s pain. Sharon muttered unhelpful and irrelevant criticisms at the slightest provocation. Willow prayed. When Maria arrived to check Chelsea’s progress, Ryder and Sharon disappeared. “Squeamish, eh?”

  “Something like that,” Chelsea muttered.

  “Contractions getting any better, worse—about the same?”

  The girl squeezed her eyes as the nurse’s hand reached to determine her fate. “About the same.”

  Willow shook her head. “There have been a couple that were obviously worse than the others.”

  “Right, but I thought she meant in general. Ow!”

  “Sorry.” Latex snapped as the woman pulled the gloves from her hands and dumped them in the bin. “Let me call Dr. Kline down here and we’ll see what he has to say.”

  “Can’t you tell me—”

  But the woman was gone. Willow grinned. “I think that means something is happening. When she thought it was nothing, she said so.”

  Chelsea’s eyes widened and then tears filled them. “I don’t want to do this today. I’m tired. I stayed up with Mia and watched movies last night.”

  Willow beckoned Sharon and Ryder back into the room. “The nurse went to get Dr. Kline.”

  “And that means…” Ryder looked positively ill at the idea of what it might mean.

  “That we don’t know,” Willow answered.

  “This is just ridiculous!”

  Sharon’s outburst began a semi-hushed argument that drove Chelsea to scream for them all to get out. Seconds later, she wailed for them to return. Frustrated, Willow whispered for her to hold on, and went to wait outside the door for Dr. Kline.

  As he approached, she stopped him far enough away from the door to prevent anyone overhearing. “Sharon Vernon is not handling this well and it’s adding stress to Chelsea. Ryder is reacting to that and to seeing her in pain. If you could talk to them…”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  The doctor stepped into the room and pulled the others out. With Willow there too, he left an ultimatum. “If you can’t be quiet and supportive, keeping the room a conflict-free zone, you can leave now.”

  Silence hung as if freezing them in place until Chelsea’s wavering voice called out, “Willow…”

  After a glance at Dr. Kline for approval, she hurried to Chelsea’s side. A minute or two later, the other two returned to the room with the doctor following. He examined the monitor strip once more and turned to them. “Okay, this is what’s happening…”

  Chapter 171

  July 4th

  Chad worked from ten till six today. So, the boys and I did our best to celebrate without him—at least until he came home for dinner. After breakfast, I strapped them in the stroller and moved the animals around for Becca. She tried to stick to her usual schedule, but I insisted that she take the day off. So, Josh came and I think they’re making wedding plans. I’ve had three phone calls about things that make me suspect that. And, I think it means I get to try to make a wedding dress. I can’t wait to see what she wants to do! The fabrics, trims… I’ve never done anything like it! I hope it works.

  Speaking of fabrics and such, Josh brought me a fascinating bag of it for a surprise for Chad. I can’t wait to get started on it, but I will have to find a good hiding place. We can’t ruin his surprise. Of course, now that I write that, he will turn the house inside out to find it anytime he thinks I’m not watching. Let him. I have just decided how and where I will hide things and there is absolutely no way he’ll ever, ever find it.

  I got sidetracked. The boys are sleeping, so I feel compelled to write this as I have the peace and quiet to manage it. They’ve been loud today—louder than I’ve ever heard. I wonder sometimes how the baby will ever sleep through their racket. I’ve tried to teach them to hush, but they either cannot or will not understand. I suspect a bit of both. In fact, today was the first time I understood why people used to drug their children with “soothing drops.” Ugh. As nasty as those things sound, the idea of settling them down with the squeeze of a dropper does offer a bit of a temptation.

  And, sidetracked again. After the animal rotation, I took the boys out to Mother’s tree and we ate cherries and watermelon. The boys love the melon, but they weren’t fond of the cherries. Considering all the work it took to remove the pits, cut into pieces they could attempt to chew, and the stains they got on their clothes, I’m not sorry about that at all.

  When they got tired, I lay down on the blanket with them and recited every poem I could remember. Mother would be ashamed of me, but instead of proper inflection, I finished “Paul Revere’s Ride” with a decided sing-song rhythm. It put the lads right to sleep.

  The Declaration of Independence impacted me more deeply than ever this year. I think having children who will have to live in the country we leave behind, and seeing the world as it is rather than through the eyes of a girl with the luxury of an idyllic existence, has made me more aware of how far this nation has come from what our forefathers pledged their “lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor” to ensure.

  Chad will say that I am too narrow-minded about these things. He will say that things like the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence began a process of America rather than establishing the definition of her. I cannot agree. Still, it makes for stimulating conversation—something I expect that will come again after he reads this. My question or him is this. These men risked their lives and their families to fight for less government intervention in their lives. Would he fight—risk his life and the lives of our children—to continue to have more restrictions placed on what we can and cannot do on and with our own property? He risks his life every day to protect others from those who do not obey the law. He is a brave man to do that. I would never imply otherwise. I just wonder if he would risk his life to fight for more laws—ones that tax him more, limit his ability to protect his family, or restrict what crops we can grow or what animals we can raise here.

  Then again, does it matter? Probably not. I just can’t help but wonder sometimes.

  We played at the pond. The boys chased dragonflies and only Liam got too close. Nabbed that boy just before he fell in. Lucas seems to have a healthy fear of water. He was happy to splash downstream a bit as long as he held my hand
. Liam, on the other hand, kept trying to get away from me. I think he saw fish. If so, I might have a fine fishing buddy in a few years.

  I made hamburger buns yesterday. Chad came home tonight and found burgers, potato salad, “grill beans” as he calls them, and pie for dinner. He said it was the perfect “Fourth meal” he could have asked for. I guess it was worth throwing out two batches of botched buns.

  But the house is quiet. The boys—all three of them—sleep but I can’t. Something bothers me—something I can’t identify. I feel as if I’ve done something terribly wrong, but I don’t know what it is. As I read through this entry, it hit me, though. I said something uncharitable and unjust about Chad. Or rather, implied. I questioned his willingness to fight for what he believes in. I was wrong. Chad would—of course he would.

  Chad’s heart sank as he read the final words of the entry. Life had kept him busy—too busy to read it for over a week. Upstairs—directly above him, in fact—his wife slept with utter confidence of his willingness to stand for right and against anything he considered wrong.

  With heavy feet he carried his dishes to the sink, extinguished the lamp, and followed his way instinctively through the house and up the stairs. In the bathroom he brushed his teeth, each movement slow and deliberate. He stopped by the boys’ room, listening to their rhythmic breaths as they slept. Two little mounds, their backs pressed against each other, still occupied the same crib. Despite their attempts to introduce each to their own space, the boys didn’t sleep until Willow capitulated and put them together again. She had already chosen a full-sized bed for them to share. Why buy two beds if they’re going to insist on one?

  “Why indeed,” he whispered.

  A step into Kari’s room—that thought froze Chad’s thoughts. Kari’s room would be little Kari’s room. Was it a bad idea? Would it be harder on Willow than she thought? Should the boys have the bigger room? There were two of them. They might need or want the space. Then again, the room had always belonged to a “Kari.” Well, it had since the Finleys moved in. It would be nice to continue that. His boys would understand because he would teach them to. Then the truth hit him. They would have shared the other room regardless of little Kari’s presence. The room would have been kept as a guest room.