Giftchild (26 page)

To his credit, the doctor didn't look away. "You're at seventeen weeks," he said. "If I had to deliver today, the baby would have almost no chance of survival. But babies can survive as small as twenty-three, even twenty-two weeks sometimes. Ideally, you'll heal and make it close to full term. But at minimum, we need to buy you more time."

Mom's voice was quiet. "Penny," she said. "Is that what you want to do?"

As opposed to what? Let the baby die?
"Yeah," I said. "It's just five weeks. We can do that."

I tried not to think of pictures I'd seen in my physiology book—images of premature babies so tiny they looked like they were only half-formed.

Mom put a hand on my knee, and I held perfectly still. "I need to go call your dad," she said quietly.

I bit down on my lower lip, hard.
She
got to talk to Dad.
She
got to seek comfort from someone she trusted. But I wasn't even supposed to call Rodney and tell him what was going on.

"Do you want to know the gender?" Dr. Kauffman asked.

I froze.
The gender?
They weren't supposed to check that for another few weeks. But I'd had an ultrasound. If he happened to see . . . .

Mom stood, suspended. It took several heartbeats for me to realize she was waiting for
me
to answer. Did
I
want to know? I finally spared her one quick glance.

Big mistake. Nothing Dr. Kauffman had said prepared me for the stricken look on her face or the tears gathering below her eyes.

"Yes," I said.

Dr. Kauffman spoke quietly. "You're having a boy."

A boy.
Not a replacement for Anna, or the other babies Mom lost, but a little boy, who'd be a person in his own right. A little boy who might die, even if I did everything in my power to help him get here safely.

Oh, crap. Would he look like Rodney? Would he have his mannerisms? Would my own brother forever remind me of the guy whose heart I broke?

Mom's eyes closed, and a tear welled out of the corner of her eye and hung there, like a little blister. When her eyes opened again, she half smiled at me. I knew it was all she could muster, but for the life of me, I couldn't paste one on in return.

If I lost this baby, was I looking at what I would become? A deep well of sadness, unable to cope?

And if I was, who would support
me
?

Guilt settled in my stomach like bad eggs. That thought was beyond selfish. What was I doing, resenting her? She was the one I was supposed to
help
. "Call Dad," I said.

Mom nodded and turned to go. The door clicked shut behind her like a slap to my face. I'd failed her in every way. I just wanted everyone to be okay—my mom, Rodney, myself, this little boy—
everyone
.

Why was that too much to ask?

Chapter Nineteen

Week Seventeen

The hospital was only across the parking lot from Dr. Kauffman's office, so the nurse wheeled me there. I didn't feel one stab of pain for the entire trip over, and even though Dr. Kauffman had given me painkillers, I told myself they couldn't have kicked in yet. This was just a precaution. They'd monitor me for a few days, I'd spend some time on bed rest, and then I'd be fine, and the baby would be fine, and we could be on our way and pretend that none of this ever happened.

Unless Mom had a stroke in the meantime.

Mom pulled the car across and she and Dad both met me at the elevator. Mom gripped Dad's hand so tight I was pretty sure they were both going to lose circulation and maybe their limbs. I could see the headline now:
teen pregnancy leads to double amputation.
At least they'd each get to keep one of their arms.

The hospital had crammed more furniture into my tiny room than I would have thought possible. There was the bed, of course, and then a sectional couch big enough for a family member to sleep on, and two uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs. Mom and Dad squeezed onto the couch, with their knees mashed against the side of the bed, while the nurse wheeled in a cart covered in cords and a monitor, crowding the room further.

I hoped we wouldn't be here that long.

Mom and Dad still gripped each other's hands. The nurse hooked me into a belt with sensors that wrapped over my abdomen and sent data arcing across a monitor to my left. I studied it until I could recognize my slow, steady heartbeat, and the baby's tiny heartbeat, pulsing along with two beats for every one of mine.

I leaned back into my pillow. I just had to hold on. My baby would make it at least five more weeks. Maybe he'd be born as soon as he was old enough to breathe on his own—early, but ready. Mom would have her baby; my baby would have a life.

And then, at last, all of this stress would be over.

After about fifteen minutes, Athena swept into the room, her eyes shooting daggers. She stood at the end of my bed, some of her hair hanging out of her ponytail like she'd been obsessively pulling at it.

"Penny," she said. "What the hell? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry, I should have called you. I mean, I tried, but you didn't answer." I shot a look at Mom, hoping she hadn't caught that I'd tried to call Athena before I'd texted
her
. Both my parents had somehow managed to keep their limbs, though Mom was now threatening her circulation by winding her purse strap around and around her wrist.

"I called," Dad said.

"Good," I said. And then, turning back to Athena, "Sorry."

Athena's eyes bugged out. "Why are you apologizing to me?" she asked. "Stop
doing
that."

I held up my palms. "Doing what?"

Athena clamped her hands over her eyes, like this was all just too much to deal with.

"Honey," Dad said to Athena. "Why don't you have a seat."

"Yes," Athena said, her voice crawling with sarcasm. "Let's all sit around and pretend that Penny isn't dying."

My heartbeat quickened. As I looked up at the monitor, the baby's matched pace. "I'm not
dying
," I said.

Athena widened her eyes at me. "Don't be stupid. Placental abruption can kill you."

Mom looked up at her wearily. "Athena," she said. "You're not helping."

"
I'm
not helping?" she said. She drew herself up to her full height. "If you weren't so obsessed with having a baby, this wouldn't even be happening."

The air grew thick, dampening all sound. Mom stood off the couch, her face livid, and Athena glared back with equal force. I wrung my hands, wishing I could step between them. My mouth fumbled for the words that would make them stop, but Mom got there first.

"You," she said quietly, "cannot pin this on me."

Athena waved her arms in the air. "Are you kidding me?" she said. "Are you blind?" I could tell in the way her stance changed that she was getting worked up, like a rubber band stretched near to breaking. I balled my sheet in my hands. This wasn't the time to tell Mom the truth. Not in the hospital. Not with everything she wanted on the line. "You guys," I said. "Stop it."

But Mom didn't even look at me. "What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

Dad sank deeper into the couch, looking at the floor. A look of satisfaction crossed Athena's face. Of all of us, she was the only one who didn't mind being the voice to deliver the hard news. But she hesitated, then, her eyes flicking to me.

She wanted to tell Mom. She was burning to tell her. She was looking to me for permission.

But Mom looked over at me, and I could see it was already too late. The pieces she'd been holding at arm's length were finally snapping together like magnets.

She was going to realize the truth. And then, if we said nothing, we'd all know, and we
still
wouldn't have talked about it.

I slipped my hands under my thighs, digging my nails into my skin.

I couldn't let Athena be the one to deliver the news. Mom would take it even worse, coming from her. "Mom," I said. "I got pregnant on purpose. I wanted to have this baby . . . for you."

I huddled down in the bed. If I'd been a magician, maybe I could have disappeared—slipped under the sheets and never surfaced again. But no, magicians did their tricks by misdirection, by distracting the audience into looking at something else.

There'd be no distracting Mom from this now.

Dad covered his eyes with his hand. Mom looked over at him, her face contorting as she noted his lack of shock.

He was no help. Come to think of it, he'd never been any help when Mom was freaking out. He always laid low, waiting for the storm to pass. We used to wait it out together, while Athena battled the winds. Before I put myself directly in that storm's path in a desperate attempt to stop it.

It hadn't worked, but for the first time, I wondered if it wasn't my total failure at fault. Maybe
no one
could have stopped the winds. Maybe it didn't matter how good of a daughter I was. Maybe my family would still be a mess, no matter what.

And if it wasn't my fault, it was no wonder that I couldn't fix it. I was an idiot even to try.

But I still couldn't stop myself. "I'm sorry," I said. "I was just trying to make it better."

Mom closed her eyes, and her face seemed to go gray. "How," she said, but she stopped as her voice lilted higher, and broke. She tried again, lowering her tone. "How could you have ever thought this would be better?"

I looked around at my wilting father, and my shouting sister, and my fading mother. I looked at the beeping monitors, and at myself, strapped in bed, and thought about the poor, unwitting child maybe dying inside me in a soup of my own blood, and I told her the truth. "I thought it was the only way you'd ever be happy. I didn't think you'd ever stop crying unless I found a way to give you a baby."

I waited for her to scream at me about what an idiot I'd been. I deserved it. But Mom's cheeks seemed to collapse in on themselves. Her chin quivered, like she was barely hanging on.

"How could you think that?" she asked. "We're a family. We would have pulled through."

Athena's voice was flat. "In her defense," she said. "We all thought it. Penny's just the only one crazy enough to do anything about it."

The pain of that seemed to hit Mom square on, and her frame swayed. Dad stood and steadied her from behind, giving Athena a stern look. She wasn't supposed to say things like that to Mom. None of us were.

But wasn't it about time that
somebody
did?

"I'm sorry," I said to Mom. "Things have just been so bad for so long."

And I waited for her to tell me that things hadn't been that bad. That we'd been dealing just fine. That it was all my fault if I thought she'd been having such a terrible time. But instead, her lower lip wobbled, and she pawed at her eyes. Then she turned and paced out of the room, with Dad following right on her heels.

I sank back in the bed, wishing I could meld with the mattress and become it: a soft place for people to rest. But I was the opposite, like a nail to the foot. A thing that only caused pain, and never prevented it.

Athena bit her lip. "I made things worse, didn't I?"

I let my hands fall limply at my sides. "No," I said. "It had to come out eventually."

Athena sat down on the couch, her hands on her knees. "Yeah. But maybe I could have started that fight somewhere other than the hospital."

I squirmed in the bed. I wanted to chase after Mom and apologize, to make sure she was okay.

But who was I kidding? She wasn't okay. If I couldn't make it better, that should mean I didn't have to, shouldn't it? It should absolve me of the responsibility to try.

But instead of feeling comfort from that, my stomach twisted around the pit that just kept growing larger and larger.

If I didn't fix it, maybe no one would.

Chapter Twenty

Week Seventeen

I sent Athena to get herself dinner around seven o'clock. Mom and Dad still hadn't come back, and watching her watch the door with guilt etched all over her face was worse than scrutinizing the baby's heartbeat. I couldn't take it.

When I checked my phone, I found a text from Kara, asking if I'd been sick.

Yeah
, I texted back.
I'm in the hospital.

She texted back almost immediately.
?!?!!

Not much to tell
, I sent back.
They're just observing me to make sure things are okay.
That wasn't exactly true, but it was as much as I was prepared to explain over text message.

Okay
, Kara responded.
Keep me posted.

I appreciated the thought, even though there wasn't anything she'd be able to do.

When a knock came at the door a few minutes later, I assumed it was a nurse. Athena couldn't be back yet, and Mom and Dad wouldn't knock. "Come in," I called.

When the door cracked open, Rodney peered in. "Hey," he said. "Is it safe?"

Never
, I thought. I sat up as much as I could without disturbing the sensors. "How did you know I was here?"

"Athena," Rodney said. "She just texted me. I told her your mom didn't want me around, but she said they weren't here right now." Rodney stepped into the room, and I watched him take in the monitor, and the cords running underneath my sheets.

I straightened in bed, tugging at the sheet so it covered my hospital gown up to my armpits. I'd been wishing at the doctor's office that Rodney had stayed, but now I was shocked at how much I wished that Athena had minded her own business for once. "She shouldn't have done that," I said. "You don't need to be here."

Rodney hesitated, but the door snapped shut behind him. "Well," he said. "I am."

I sighed. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"Yeah. My mom called right after Athena texted to find out where I was."

"And?"

Rodney gave me the traces of a smile. "And she told me I didn't need to be here. It's a popular theory. But I told her if I'm old enough to father a child, I'm old enough to be at the hospital with that child and its mother."