The Best We've Been

by Beth K. Vogt

  But somehow, I’d lost the rhythm of this pregnancy. Forgotten there were two hearts beating inside my body now.

  The door swished open, and I raised my head, hoping for a chance to apologize to Dr. Gray. Seeing Mom, I slumped back against the pillows.

  “Has Dr. Gray been here?”

  “Yes, she’s come and gone.”

  “I should have waited to call everyone. What did she say?”

  “Nothing I care to repeat.”

  “What?”

  I shook my head, unable to meet my mom’s eyes. “I’m as good as grounded—complete with a stern lecture.”

  “Well, I called your dad and your sisters and let them know what’s going on.” Mom smoothed the blanket covering my legs. “Why don’t I call Jillian back and ask her to go pack your suitcase?”

  “If I make a list first, it will be easier for her.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “The duration. I don’t know Dr. Gray’s plans exactly—she got a little sidetracked. But you’ve lost your houseguest.”

  My doctor had as good as put me in solitary in this hospital room—four walls, a whiteboard with my name and the nurse’s name scrawled on it, a basic clock, a chair, and a monitor that let me know my daughter was fine, just fine.

  For now.

  I needed to remember this wasn’t punishment. This was safety for both me and my baby.

  Dr. Gray returned less than a half hour later, her demeanor all business. “I wanted to let you know I finished up your admittance paperwork, so everything’s official.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I also wanted to apologize for what happened earlier.”

  “I understand. You had every right—”

  “Let me explain. I’m sorry for how I said things—not for what I said.” Dr. Gray pulled the chair up beside the bed and sat. “A few years back, I lost an OB patient who bucked me the entire time during her pregnancy. She either didn’t understand or didn’t believe how serious placenta previa was. We evaluated her after she had an episode of bleeding, but she refused to stay in the hospital. She . . . she went home and hemorrhaged. We lost both the mom and the baby.”

  I pressed my hand to my lips, overcome with a sudden wave of nausea. That could have been me. Me and my baby.

  “Admittedly, Johanna, that’s a rare occurrence. But it did happen to one of my patients—and therefore to me, too. You can understand my desire to keep you and your daughter safe.”

  “I do.” I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

  “Thank you.” She rose, pausing to touch my hand before stepping away from my hospital bed. “A nurse will be checking your pad every twelve hours. Standard protocol, I assure you. You still need to report anything—”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re thirty-five weeks. The goal is to get you to thirty-seven, if at all possible. The longer baby girl can incubate, the better.”

  “I can still get out of bed and use the bathroom, right?”

  “Yes. Limited activity—even more than when you were at your parents’. You won’t be roaming the hospital hallways. And you also won’t be going to full term.”

  “Does this mean we’re looking at a C-section?”

  “Yes. No induction.”

  “This is quite a change of expectations.”

  “I know. But if you keep all of this information in the context of safety—yours and the baby’s—it will be easier to accept.”

  “No arguments. You’re looking at your most compliant patient.”

  “Nice to know.” Dr. Gray smiled at me.

  With that, it was as if low-level static had been turned off. I’d won back my doctor’s approval—and I hadn’t even realized how important it was until I’d lost it.

  32

  I WASN’T GOING TO ADMIT I’d looked forward to Beckett’s visit tonight. His arrival was just a break from the hospital monotony of eating meals, having my vitals checked, tolerating the nurse checking my pad twice a day.

  He hadn’t come by every day since I’d been admitted, but when he did, he’d made me laugh—and he’d never once mentioned lawyers or how we were going to settle things between us about our daughter.

  Tonight, though, something was wrong.

  Ever since he’d arrived—a mere ten minutes ago—he’d been on edge. Refusing to sit. Glancing at the clock. Pacing.

  “What is going on, Beckett? And don’t say, ‘Nothing,’ because I’m not stupid.”

  Beckett shifted from one foot to the other. Glanced away. “I came to tell you something.”

  “Then tell me, already. But sit down, please.” I motioned to the hard, plastic chair in the corner. “Pull up a seat. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Beckett remained standing. “Well . . . I don’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I have to catch a plane out of DIA.”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “California. I’ve got a job interview.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. You said you were getting a job here. In Colorado.”

  His announcement carried echoes of that day in my bedroom—the one that ended our relationship. The phone call from Iris. The first time he betrayed me.

  No. Beckett had betrayed me before that. I just hadn’t realized it.

  My hands gripped the smooth metal of the hospital bed railing.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  “I am applying for a job in Colorado. A good job. And right now, I’m one of the top candidates. But the headquarters is located in California, so I have to go do this interview. For the baby.”

  “Right. For the baby.” There was no way I could believe Beckett. After all his talk about wanting to be part of his daughter’s life, he could be lining up a cushy job on the West Coast, deciding not to be involved at all.

  Which was fine with me.

  “What, Johanna? You want me to say for you? We don’t have a chance—you’ve told me that over and over again.”

  “And you’ve lost your chance with your daughter, too, Beckett.”

  “I said I’m coming back.” He banged his fist against the railing, jostling the bed and causing me to pull away. “I’m not deserting you or the baby. You don’t believe me? Here’s proof. I’ve deposited twenty thousand dollars into an account for the baby—”

  “Twenty thousand dollars? Since when did you start playing the lottery?”

  “It’s the money my father left me. Until now, I haven’t touched it. I never wanted it.”

  “What am I supposed to do with the money?”

  “It’s for the baby—not you. Use it to start a college fund. Get a nanny to help you. I don’t care. There are no stipulations on how it’s used.”

  This was the oddest offer of help I’d ever received—his words laced through and through with anger and frustration. My heart pounded, and if I unclenched my fists from the blankets, I might be tempted to slap Beckett.

  He needed to stop throwing money at me and leave.

  A nurse entered the room. “Excuse me—is there a problem?”

  “We’re fine.” Beckett never once looked away from me.

  “Yes. Yes, there is a problem.” My body was rigid beneath the blankets. “I’d like Colonel Sager to leave. Now.”

  The nurse lasered in on Beckett. “Colonel Sager, I need you to leave.”

  “But I’m—”

  “I don’t care who you are, nor do I care why you’re here. Johanna is my patient and I’m here to take care of her.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “So again, I need you to leave.”

  “Johanna—”

  I couldn’t turn off my side, so instead, I turned my face into my pillow.

  I didn’t know myself anymore. It seemed I was always having to let someone else fight my battles for me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat, but I couldn’t stop the tears that trickled down my face, over my chin, and onto m
y neck.

  When Jillian arrived fifteen minutes later, I’d reminded myself that Beckett wasn’t worth crying about. Convinced myself that I wasn’t depending on him to raise our . . . my daughter. And I certainly wasn’t going to touch a single cent of the money in that bank account.

  Ever.

  “Johanna, I saw Beckett leaving the hospital. He seemed upset.”

  “I’m not concerned about Beckett right now, Jill.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” I held out my hand, thankful they’d put the IV access site in my forearm, not in either hand, and covered it with a wrap of protective gauze. “I shouldn’t have barked at you like that. I’m stressed.”

  “It’s okay.” She squeezed my fingers. “But at the risk of stressing you out more, I’m going to mention Beckett again. He asked me to give you this.”

  I tried to ignore the slim legal-size envelope she offered me, but Jillian held it between us until I accepted it. “What is it?”

  “He said it was information you’d need. And he said he’d see you in three days.” She waited while I examined the contents. “So?”

  “It’s a bank statement.”

  “Why would Beckett give you his bank statement?”

  “It’s not his bank statement.” At Jillian’s confused look, I pressed my fingertips against my temple. “I mean, yes, it’s his bank statement. But it’s for an account he opened for the baby.” I shifted in the bed, careful not to jostle the monitors. “He was here earlier to tell me that he deposited twenty thousand dollars—”

  “What?” The look on Jillian’s face was almost comical. Almost.

  “You heard me. He put the money into an account for me to use for the baby.”

  “That’s nice of him—”

  “It is not nice of him. It’s presumptuous. And manipulative. Anything but nice.” I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I ever met Beckett Sager.”

  My words broke on a sob.

  “Johanna!”

  I pulled one of my pillows in front of me, cradling it against my body as best I could. “I’m not crying . . . I’m not . . .”

  “Okay, okay . . . you’re not crying.” Jillian sat on the side of my bed, pulling me close and wrapping her arms around me.

  The dam had burst. The last straw had been loaded onto my camel’s back. My last nerve had been stepped on. The control-freak Thatcher sister had freaked out.

  I wanted to cry and never stop.

  But I couldn’t keep crying. I couldn’t be upset. I had to stop thinking of myself, what I wanted, and think of the baby.

  “Joey . . . Joey, you’re going to be okay. Shhh . . . shhh. . . . You’re going to be okay.” Jillian patted my back as if she were a mom comforting her child—and that thought made my heart hurt all the more.

  My sister would be a better mom than I would.

  “You don’t know that.” My words were muffled against the pillow between us. “Everything’s wrong . . . everything. . . . No matter how much I try to control it, I can’t . . .”

  “Tough lesson to learn, huh?”

  “Beckett hurt me . . . I hurt you . . .”

  “You didn’t mean to.”

  “No. I didn’t.” I spoke the words through my tears, hoping Jillian could hear the truth. “I really didn’t, Jilly. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand.” Jillian inhaled a shuddering breath. “I should never have . . . never have asked to adopt your baby. I’m sorry.”

  “At first, I didn’t even want her.” I pushed away from my sister, swiping at the tears on my face. “Isn’t it horrible? Now I’m so afraid I’m going to lose her.”

  “You won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. She’s a Thatcher girl. We’re all strong. Stronger than we all realize. And we’ll make sure she knows that sooner than we did.”

  “I’ve missed you, Jill.” I leaned my head on her shoulder. “You’re not just my sister. You’re my best friend.”

  Jill hugged me close, as if she would never let go. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  I could only hope my sister would keep holding on to me. I didn’t have any strength left. I wanted—needed—to lean into hers. Like a transfusion, Jillian’s strength was infusing my weakness. With her help, I wouldn’t quit.

  33

  STAYING IN THE HOSPITAL involved so much waiting.

  Waiting for someone to come check my vitals. Waiting for my meals. Waiting to talk to Dr. Gray. Waiting for visits from my family. Waiting for the baby to move, which she did quite often. Waiting to fall asleep . . . or to fall back asleep after waking to find a more comfortable position in the hospital bed, which was becoming more and more difficult when I had to lie on one side. Waiting for a chance to use the bathroom—a highlight of my day because it meant getting up out of bed.

  Sometimes, like now, I found myself waiting for multiple things at one time. For the transition of nurses from one shift to the next so the night shift nurse could check my pad and for the arrival of someone—anyone—to help me get through the evening without resorting to TV.

  But not Beckett. He’d been gone twenty-four hours and that was fine with me.

  The door to my room opened and a tall nurse walked in. Payton would have asked her if she’d played volleyball in school.

  “Hello, Miss Thatcher. I’m Cara.” She took the marker and wrote her name on the whiteboard on the wall facing my bed. “I need to do your vitals and then I’ll check your pad.”

  “I’ve felt fine all day. There was nothing earlier today.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And I know you know the drill.” After taking my blood pressure, temp, and pulse, she put on a pair of blue disposable gloves.

  I slid the blanket back. I did know the drill. I was tired of the drill.

  “You were last checked at seven this morning. You say you haven’t felt anything all day—no cramping?”

  “No.”

  Cara’s expression never changed. “Well, you are bleeding. You haven’t soaked the pad, but you have a quarter-size spot of blood and a dime-size blood clot.”

  I needed to move my legs. To pull the blanket back over my body. But my limbs were frozen in place.

  Cara positioned the blanket for me. “I’m going to call Dr. Gray and let the in-house OB know what’s going on. I’ll be right back.”

  Breathe. Breathe. I needed to breathe. And all I could do was wait.

  Cara came back in, pushing the familiar fetal heart rate monitor, followed by another nurse pushing another machine.

  “What are we doing?”

  “This is to monitor the baby’s heart—”

  “I know that. Why are we getting an ultrasound?”

  “Dr. Gray’s going to want to take a look when she gets here.”

  “When will that be?”

  “As soon as possible. She’s on the way.” All the while she talked, Cara arranged the fetal heart monitor around my abdomen.

  The door to my room opened, allowing a swift glimpse of the hallway, as a young woman with a long black braid down her back entered the room. Both nurses nodded a greeting but focused on what they were doing.

  “Miss Thatcher, I’m Dr. Chambers.” She shook my hand, unaware that I wanted to ask when she’d graduated from medical school. “I’ll be covering until Dr. Gray arrives. I understand you have placenta previa. This is your fourth episode of bleeding. You’re thirty-six weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to check your blood count. We’re also going to monitor your oxygen and pulse, and you’ll be on continuous fetal monitoring now.” Dr. Chambers turned her attention to Cara. “I’m going to want a second IV site. And I’m going to do a brief exam.”

  I seemed to be the center ring in a circus—surrounded by a lab technician doing a blood draw, the second nurse returning to start a second IV, Cara setting up the ultrasound, and Dr. Chambers stepping up beside my bed to do an exam.

  “Is your abdom
en tender?” She pressed my stomach. “Are you feeling any contractions?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “I haven’t seen a previous ultrasound, but I’m going to go ahead and look at the placental condition and see if there’s any concern.”

  “Fine.”

  Her mannerisms were efficient. Sure. “You have a placenta previa, so there’s no change there. I think you have some blood in the vaginal vault. You definitely have some in the cervix. The blood the nurse saw is likely part of a bigger bleed.”

  A bigger bleed. There was no way those words could be good for the baby.

  Dr. Chambers turned to Cara. “Start some IV fluids in the first IV to ensure it still works. And how’s the second IV coming?”

  I had to say something, to feel like I was more than just an observer. “You seem to be doing a lot. Dr. Gray’s not even here yet.”

  “These are all standard precautions. Dr. Gray would be doing the same thing.” With those words, Dr. Chambers turned back to Cara. “Does she have blood typed and crossed?”

  “She did when she first came in last week.”

  “She needs two more units typed and crossed now. Call me when Dr. Gray is here.”

  As the obstetrician left, the electronic rhythm of my daughter’s heartbeat came into focus. For a moment, I allowed myself to center on the reassuring sound, letting it lull me into a sense of peace. But only for a moment.

  “Excuse me, can I call anyone?”

  “Yes.” Cara nodded. “Now would be a good time to do that.”

  Mom answered on the third ring. “Johanna? I was going to head over in about an hour. Did you want me to bring you something?”

  “No. I needed to let you know . . . I’m spotting again.”

  “What?”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m in the hospital, remember?” I tried to keep my voice light, to not let her know how scared I was.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “It’s pretty busy in my room right now. I’m getting hooked up to monitors again. Dr. Gray is on her way here. I’m not sure what’s going to happen. Would you call everyone and then come on over?”

  “I’ll call your dad and ask him to call your sisters. That way I can come right over.”