by Emily Giffin
“More than thinking about it, darling…. We’re actively pursuing it, aren’t we?”
“Right,” I said. “That’s the plan.”
An awkward silence befell the table where we all just sort of smiled at each other and then looked down at our menus with seeming concentration. A moment later the waiter appeared to take our orders. As it turned out, we all wanted the filet mignon, medium rare. Sondrine and Geoffrey seemed to think that ordering four identical steaks was some sort of breach of etiquette so they changed their orders at the last second, Sondrine opting for the sea bass and Geoffrey going for the rack of lamb.
Throughout dinner, we all made a great effort to keep the conversation lively, but as on New Year’s Eve, there was an unmistakable tension, a lot of fake smiles. Bottom line, nobody was having a particularly good time, and I had the feeling that it would be our last double date.
Then, right before our desserts arrived, I excused myself, announcing that it was the longest I had held my pee in nearly two weeks. To my dismay, Sondrine said that she would join me. We weaved our way through the maze of overdressed couples to the bathroom, where she tried to make interstall small talk with me, saying something about what a cute couple Geoffrey and I made. I couldn’t bring myself to reciprocate the comment, so I just thanked her instead. That’s when I turned to flush and saw a bright red ribbon in the water below. For one brief second, I was confused. Then it registered. I was bleeding. I panicked and wiped. Another smear of blood appeared on the white tissue.
The next few minutes were hazy, but I remember gasping so loudly that Sondrine asked if I was okay. I remember saying no, I wasn’t okay. And I remember feeling my heart thudding in my ears, as I crumbled onto the edge of the cold, enamel toilet seat.
“What’s wrong, Darcy?” Sondrine asked over the sound of flushing, an automatic hand dryer, and happy female chatter.
I managed to say, “I’m bleeding.” Then I remember just sitting there in my stall with my underwear down at my ankles, holding my legs together, as if the babies would fall out otherwise. All the while, I visualized the passages I had skimmed over in my pregnancy books. I could see the words on the page: phrases such as “placenta previa” and “premature rupture of the membranes” and even the horrifying acronym CLIMB, which stood for “Center for Loss in Multiple Birth.” I couldn’t catch my breath, let alone stand and leave the bathroom.
Some minutes later I heard more commotion as Sondrine announced that a man was entering the restroom. Then I heard Geoffrey’s voice outside the stall and the sound of his knuckles rapping hard against the metal door. Somehow I managed to stand, pull up my pants, and swing open the door. I saw Sondrine hovering at Geoffrey’s side, and a few other women standing near the sinks, mouths agape.
“Sweetheart, what is it?” he asked me.
“There’s blood,” I said, feeling faint at the sound of the word.
“How much blood?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
I turned and pointed downward. The strands of red were dissipating, turning the water a frightening pink hue.
Geoffrey glanced down and then spoke with measured calm. He told me that third-trimester bleeding, particularly with multiples, was not uncommon. He said that everything was going to be fine, but that I needed to go to the hospital.
“Right now?” I said.
“Yes. Ethan’s getting my car now.”
“So this is really bad, right?” I asked. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not scared, sweetheart,” he said.
“Could I be losing my babies?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I knew he couldn’t possibly be sure of such a thing, but felt grateful when he said yes anyway.
“If I delivered now, would they live?”
He told me that it wouldn’t come to that, but that if I had to deliver the babies, I was far enough along that they would survive. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” he kept repeating as he put one arm around me, the other hand at my bent elbow, and guided me out of the bathroom, through the dining room, and past our four plates of beautiful desserts. At the front door, Geoffrey handed the maître d’ his credit card and said, “We’re having a small emergency. I’m very sorry. I’ll send someone to collect my card later.”
The drive to the hospital was a blur, but I remember catching glimpses of Ethan’s pale, worried face in the rearview mirror. I also remember Geoffrey repeating that everything was going to be fine, just fine. And most of all, I remember thinking that if he turned out to be wrong, if things weren’t fine in the end, I wouldn’t be able to bear the grief.
When we arrived at the hospital, Geoffrey and I went immediately to a small room on the labor and delivery wing, where a nurse handed me a hospital gown and instructed me to change and wait for my doctor to arrive. Mr. Smith came in minutes later, consulting with Geoffrey for a moment before examining me. He felt inside me with a look of intense concentration. Geoffrey hovered by my side.
“What?” I asked. “What’s happening?”
Mr. Smith told me that although I was slightly effaced, my cervix was still closed. Geoffrey looked relieved, but I asked Mr. Smith the question anyway, “Does that mean the babies are okay?”
“Yes. But we’re going to hook you up to the fetal monitor just to be absolutely sure,” he said, and then motioned toward the nurse. I shivered as she slid my hospital gown up and strapped three monitors around my stomach. She told me one monitor would measure contractions, and the other two would trace the babies’ heartbeats. I held on to the cold bar next to my bed and kept asking her if she could hear them.
Geoffrey told me to be patient, that the babies were still small and that sometimes it takes a moment to locate them. I waited, still imagining the worst. Finally, a joyous galloping sound filled the room. Then another. Two heartbeats. Two distinct heartbeats.
“So they’re both still living?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Yes, darling.” Geoffrey’s face broke into a smile. “They’re both fine.”
In that moment of relief, something in my mind clicked, and I realized what had been troubling me in recent days. It was all so clear. Maybe a crisis will do that for you—make you see things that were there all along. Or maybe it was the connection I felt to my sons, hearing the whooshing sound of their movements and the thumping of their tiny hearts. Or maybe it was the sense of enormous gratitude I felt for the miracle of not only one but two lives inside of me. Whatever it was, I had my awakening at that moment, right there in my hospital room.
Just to be sure, I asked Geoffrey if he wouldn’t mind getting Ethan for me.
“Certainly,” he said. “I’ll send him back while Mr. Smith and I have a chat.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead before leaving the room with his partner.
A moment later, a still pale Ethan opened my door and walked hesitantly toward me. His eyes were watery, as if he had been crying or trying hard not to cry.
“Didn’t Geoffrey tell you? Everything is fine.”
“Yes. He told me.” Ethan sat tentatively at the foot of my bed. He squeezed my foot through the sheets.
“Then why do you look so upset?”
“I don’t know…You just had me so worried…” His voice trailed off.
I adjusted my bed to a more upright position and then lifted my arms to indicate that I wanted a hug. Ethan obliged, his cheek resting against mine as his arms encircled me. In that simple but soulful embrace, one simple truth was confirmed in my heart: I was in love with Ethan.
Twenty-Nine
Geoffrey barged back into the room in the middle of my transforming hug with Ethan. At least it seemed as if he were barging, given my mind-set, but more likely it was his usual dignified entry. In any event, I felt flustered and guilty. I told myself that for once, I had not cheated. I couldn’t control my feelings, and Geoffrey couldn’t read my mind. Neither could Ethan for that matter. By all appearances, I was only hugg
ing a friend. Yet inside I was reeling.
I watched Ethan stand and walk over to the window, as if to give Geoffrey and me privacy. I wanted to yell out, “No. You stay here. You belong next to me.” But instead I looked at Geoffrey, standing at the foot of the hospital bed with his erect posture, in his starched white shirt and perfect suit and tie. Despite our ordeal, he remained composed, unruffled, and steadfast. It was clear to me why I had been confused about loving him, why I had wanted so much to love him. On paper, he was perfect: handsome doctor, committed lover, seeming savior.
“What happens now?” I asked Geoffrey as I fiddled nervously with the unraveling hem of my hospital gown. Of course, I meant what would happen in the next few minutes and hours, but to myself, I was also wondering about the long-term future. I had been fooled into falling in love with what was on paper once before. Dex had been all about the checked boxes, the fine fiancé résumé—good guy, chiseled cheekbones, careful grooming, fat bank account. And look how disastrously that relationship had ended. I vowed to myself not to make another seven-year mistake. Or even a seven-day mistake. I needed to break up with Geoffrey within a week.
My soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend informed me in a brisk, professional tone that Mr. Smith had decided, and he agreed, that as a precautionary measure, I was to be on bedrest until the babies arrived. He said that they didn’t want any unnecessary pressure on my cervix. I had read that bedrest was common in twin pregnancies, but I still felt shaken by the news.
“So I have to stay in bed all day?” I asked.
Geoffrey said yes, except to use the bathroom or shower. He said that I had to avoid all stress, as stress can cause contractions.
“Can I get up to fix meals?” I asked.
“No, darling. I will hire someone to come in and cook and look after you while I’m at work.” He thought for a second and said, “I know a wonderful Portuguese woman who helped after Max was born. You will love her.”
Ethan turned to face us, his eyes flashing. “That won’t be necessary, Geoffrey.” His tone was emphatic and take-charge. Sexy even. He continued, “I’ll write at home and take care of her.”
I smiled, feeling touched, and also tremendously relieved. I didn’t want to stay in Geoffrey’s flat. I wanted to be home with Ethan. I wanted to be with him forever. I marveled at how such a monumental realization can unfold in an instant and change every single thing in your life. I loved Ethan. It was crazy, but there it was anyway. Even if he never loved me back, my feelings for him negated any possibility of a future with Geoffrey. I had never understood what people meant when they said they’d rather be alone if they couldn’t be in the right relationship. Now I got it. I wanted Ethan or no one.
“You don’t mind writing from home?” I asked him tentatively.
“Not at all.”
“But I thought you said you couldn’t think in your flat?” I asked him. “I don’t want to infringe on your creative process.”
Geoffrey, who seemed to sense what was happening, seized on this opening and said, “Yes. We don’t want to impose on your writing.”
I held my breath and felt my muscles tense as Ethan walked over to my bed and squeezed my shoulder. “Darcy and her babies are not an imposition.”
“Darcy?” Geoffrey looked at me plaintively, his palms pressed together in front of his chest. “Is this arrangement okay with you?”
“Yeah,” I said apologetically.
“It’s settled then,” Ethan said. “Let’s go home.”
It was after midnight when Ethan, Sondrine, and I spilled wearily onto the dark, narrow street outside the hospital and waited for Geoffrey to swing his Jaguar around from the short-term parking lot. He got out of the car, hurried around to the passenger side, and helped me into the front seat. Ethan and Sondrine sat in the back.
On the drive to Ethan’s flat, Sondrine chirped about how she’d come over and cook for me, and Geoffrey thanked Ethan half a dozen times for his “generous spirit” and his “willingness to help in a pinch.” I stared silently out my window, trying to process exactly what I was feeling. There was guilt over my impending breakup with Geoffrey. There was relief that my babies were okay. There was worry that I still had a long road ahead of me. Most of all, there was my love for Ethan, a love that reached down to my core and made me feel both queasy and exhilarated.
When we arrived home, Ethan awkwardly invited Geoffrey and Sondrine inside. Of course, they had no choice but to decline. I mean, what were we all going to do? Pile in Ethan’s bed for a midnight snack of tea and biscuits? I heard Ethan whisper an apology to Sondrine. She murmured something back that I didn’t quite catch—something about how she’d miss him—and then there was the sound of a quick kiss. Geoffrey followed suit, brushing his lips against mine and saying that he would call me in the morning. Then he said, “Drink as much water as you can because dehydration can trigger contractions. And stay in bed.” By his expression, it was clear that he had not forgotten that there was only one proper bed in Ethan’s flat.
Ethan and I got out of the car and stood on the curb as Sondrine took my spot in the front seat. Geoffrey promised Ethan through his half-open window that he’d get Sondrine home safely. Then she gave us a little wave and slammed her door. A second later, the disgruntled duo was gone. I turned to face Ethan, feeling strangely shy in front of the boy I had known since the fourth grade.
I waited a beat and then said, “Did they seem…a bit miffed?”
A smile tugged at the corners of Ethan’s mouth. “A little. Yes…”
His expression made me erupt into nervous laughter. “They were totally pissed,” I said.
“They sure were,” he said, grinning.
As Ethan helped me up the front stairs to his flat, we both insisted that there was nothing funny about Geoffrey and Sondrine being upset. To reinforce the point, I apologized to Ethan for ruining his Valentine’s Day. He told me not to be silly, that I hadn’t ruined anything.
“Sondrine might disagree with that.”
He shrugged as he unlocked his door. “Sondrine will get over it…They’ll both get over it.”
I thought about how Sondrine and Geoffrey had become the they, and, if only for the time leading up to my delivery, Ethan and I would be the we. I liked being a we with Ethan, I thought, as he led me down the hall to his room. When he switched on his light, I saw his unmade bed, as well as the foil condom wrapper on his nightstand. The predinner romp was confirmed. Ethan looked embarrassed as he asked if I wouldn’t mind hanging out on the couch while he changed the sheets. Something about his pained expression made me want to throw my arms around him, kiss him, and tell him how much I loved him.
Instead, I went and sat on the couch, feeling jittery and excited about sleeping next to Ethan. My heart refused to slow even after I reminded myself that the giddy brand of anxiety was still stress and that Geoffrey had said that stress causes contractions. A few minutes later, Ethan appeared in his T-shirt and boxers. I couldn’t help gazing down at his legs. They were the same as they’d always been, thin calves covered with fine, light hair, but now they held incredible appeal.
“All set,” Ethan said. “Did you want to change into some pajamas?”
I told him that none of mine fit anymore. I had been sleeping naked with Geoffrey for the past several weeks, but I didn’t offer this part up.
“Do you want to borrow some of mine?” Ethan asked.
I told him yes, even though I doubted they would fit either. Ethan was only slightly larger than my normal size. He produced a plaid flannel pair and said, “Here. Try these.”
I took them from him and said that I’d change in the bathroom.
“Okay. Hurry. You should be in bed.”
I nodded and said that I would be back in a jiffy. I went to the bathroom and took off my clothes and stood sideways in front of the mirror. My stomach was huge. So huge that I could no longer see my feet without bending forward. I prayed that I would get even bigger over the next few weeks. The big
ger the better. I peed and held my breath as I inspected the toilet. Much to my relief, there was no more blood.
I quickly brushed my teeth, washed my face with cool water, and put on Ethan’s soft, worn pajamas, pushing the elastic waistband below my stomach. They fit—barely. I inhaled a sleeve, hoping to smell Ethan’s cologne, but only got a whiff of fabric softener.
When I returned to Ethan’s room, he was turning down the sheets, hotel-style. “Climb in,” he said as he plumped my pillow with his fist.
I slid under the covers and asked if he was coming to bed soon. He said yes, soon, after he brushed his teeth and did a few other things. I wondered if one of the things he had to do was phone Sondrine.
If he did call her, the conversation didn’t last long, because a few minutes later, he was back in the room, flicking off his lamp and getting in bed next to me. I longed to touch him, debating whether to seek out his hand under the covers. Just as I decided that I’d better not, he leaned over and planted a quick kiss just to the left of my mouth. His breath smelled of Listerine and his mouth left a trace of wet on my skin. I touched the spot as he said, “I’m so glad your babies are okay, Darce. And I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too, Ethan. Thank you.”
In the darkness of his room, I squeezed my eyes shut and made everything black. I pretended that Ethan and I were really together, a permanent we, on the verge of becoming a real family.
I awoke the next morning to the ringing phone. My first thought was, I hope it’s not Geoffrey. My next thought was, I still love Ethan. So, my feelings weren’t just an illusion rooted in near tragedy. I felt the mattress jostle as Ethan reached down to grab the phone. I could hear Sondrine’s French accent on the other line. I think she must have asked where I was sleeping because Ethan answered, “Right here.”
The controlling, jealous, break-of-dawn maneuver was something I would have pulled in my former life, and I silently vowed that no matter what the circumstances of my future relationships, I would never behave that way again. It was selfish and unattractive. Ethan reacted as I knew he would—with restrained annoyance. I pretended to be asleep as he got out of bed and whispered fiercely in the hall that she was being ridiculous.
