The Choices We Make (18 page)

37

HANNAH

I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head, trying to drown out Clover's scratching and whining. “What time is it?” Ben asked from beside me, his voice rough with sleep.

Reaching my arm out from under the warmth of our bed, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and pulled it under the duvet. I squinted at the brightly lit screen, then groaned and tossed the covers back. “Clover, it's only six o'clock.”

“Want me to take her out?” Ben still sounded groggy, and I knew he'd be back asleep in thirty seconds.

“That's okay—stay in bed. Why should both of us suffer?”

“I love you.” He patted my empty side of the bed with an uncoordinated arm.

I opened Clover's crate and gathered her warm, wriggly body in my arms. “Okay, let's go, you.” She licked my face with so much enthusiasm I had to laugh, my frustration disintegrating. I let her outside to do her thing and brewed a big pot of coffee, then figured I might as well make the pie while I was up. Today was Kate's thirty-sixth birthday, and she had made one request: she wanted an apple pie and she wanted it all to herself.

With a glance outside to make sure Clover wasn't digging in the garden, I pulled the pastry out of the fridge to let it come up to room temperature while I peeled, cored and sliced the apples. Thirty minutes later the apples were nestled inside the crust, dusted with brown sugar and cinnamon and dotted with dollops of butter. After I braided the delicate pastry ribbons over the pie, brushing the top with melted butter and putting it in the oven, I hopped in the shower. Ben joined me a minute later, and despite my protestations that we didn't have time to do anything but shampoo and lather up, he said, “Come on. What better way is there to start the day?” I relented, which set us back ten minutes—but it was worth it.

With Clover snoring in her crate and the pie cooling on the kitchen island, we raced to the hospital for our breast-feeding class. After having to park in the secondary lot because the hospital was so busy, and another few frantic minutes of trying to find the right room for the class, we stood arguing in the hallway about possibly being on the wrong floor when we heard our names being called. “Hannah and Ben?”

Turning I saw a woman, early fifties with a stylish pixie cut—blond with a shock of hot pink on the front pieces—beckoning us into a room. “Thought that might be you. Come on in. We're about to get started.”

“Sorry we're late,” I said as we made our way toward her. She wore tight black yoga pants and a fitted long-sleeved shirt with the words
I make milk. What's your superpower?
written across its front.

“Like the shirt,” Ben said as we walked into the room.

“Thank you! I have one for all the ladies.” She stuck out her hand. “I'm Trudy, the instructor. Nice to meet you both.” The room had a large conference table running its length, and Ben and I took the last two seats and smiled and said hello to the other couples already seated.

“Now that we have everyone,” Trudy began, and I gave Ben a wry look that he pretended not to see, “I'd like to introduce you to someone.” She pulled a soft-bodied doll out of a canvas bag from under the table and a murmur of laughter echoed around the table. “This is Sherry.”

Ben nudged me and leaned over, whispering in my ear, “What sort of class did you sign us up for?”

I tried not to laugh, my frustration dwindling with his question and the appearance of the strange-looking doll. Sherry, a breast-feeding prop, looked like a cross between a handmade Cabbage Patch Kids doll and one of those “party” dolls you find at a sex shop. She was the size of a chunky three-month-old, bald with a single pink ribbon sewn to the top of her head, painted on eyes and a nose, and a hole where her mouth was—which made her look as though she was quite surprised to see you. I was afraid to ask about the mouth hole, and looking around the room and hearing the snickers I suspected I wasn't alone in that. Trudy seemed oblivious to the reaction Sherry had on the group, but I imagined she was used to it by now—either that or she really didn't see what the rest of us did.

Soon we were practicing our breast-feeding holds with Sherry, who as it turned out had a hole so we could “finger feed,” which is basically taping a tiny tube to your finger to deliver pumped breast milk directly to your baby's mouth.

Though Sherry was supposed to put us at ease, that stupid doll made me worry more about my decision to induce lactation. The positions felt awkward, and no matter how many times Trudy said, “Line Sherry up against you, tummy to tummy, nipple to nose,” I fumbled the holds. Ben, who seemed to be allergic to Sherry and the dust mites she probably carried inside her old stuffed body, started to sneeze, and both of us were soon miserable.

Three hours later we were on our way home, a top-of-the-line pump in the trunk of the car and a white T-shirt on my lap—the words
I make milk. What's your superpower?
emblazoned across its front in hot-pink puffy writing. Ben was still stuffed up and feeling like crap, and I was disheartened by my lack of success with Sherry, not to mention starving thanks to the lactation medication I'd been taking for two weeks.

“We need to leave in about fifteen minutes,” I said, once we got inside the house. “I told David we'd get there a bit early.”

Ben was preoccupied with the pump, trying to figure out what piece went where. “Did you see the instructions?”

I looked around halfheartedly, having no desire to worry about the pump at this exact moment. “Let's do it when we get home. I need to change.”

“You go. I'm okay like this,” Ben murmured, pulling out a plastic-encased brochure from the pump's carrying case.

I sighed but let it go. I needed to start pumping in a couple of weeks and knew he was only trying to help. Ten minutes later I came back down the stairs, dressed for the party and brushing out my hair, then stopped dead on the second to last stair, staring at Ben—who was shirtless.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He grinned and pointed at the suction pieces of the pump. “I'm testing it out.” He turned on the pump, which was louder than I expected.

“You are not!” I laughed and stepped into the living room.

“What? You think you get to have all the fun?” He winked and picked up the cone-shaped suction cups that attached to the bottles. He placed them against his chest so his nipples were fully covered by the silicone cups. His eyes widened and he grimaced. “Holy shit.” The pump made a rhythmic swooshing sound, and I could see his skin being pulled in and out of the cups.

I cringed and sat down across from him. “What? What does it feel like?”

His grimace turned to full-blown panic. “Get it off!” he shouted, but I was laughing so hard I had to keep my legs crossed so I wouldn't pee. He was trying to pull the cups off, clearly forgetting all he had to do was shut the machine down. I reached over and flicked the switch, and relief flooded his face. When he took the cups off, his skin had deep red circles surrounding his nipples, which made me laugh even harder.

“Do not tell anyone about this,” Ben said, rubbing his chest. He pulled his shirt back on and frowned at the pump.

“Babe, trust me. I don't
want
to tell anyone about this.” I snickered again, and he glared at me.

“I don't know how you're going to use that thing six times a day. It
hurts
.”

I shrugged. “Whatever it takes.” Opening the fridge, I pulled the cupcakes out and set them on the countertop. “And apparently a baby's suction is even more intense.”

“I have no idea how that's possible,” Ben said; then he lifted up the breast-feeding T-shirt from the couch where I'd dropped it. “You deserve this shirt. You should wear it everywhere you go, forever.”

Smiling, I handed him the pie carrier. “Thanks, but I think I'll save that for sleeping. Not everyone in the world needs to know I'm lactating.”

He glanced back at the pump and shuddered dramatically, and I laughed again as we headed out the door.

38

KATE

“Milk or OJ, girls?” I stood in front of the fridge, waiting for their answer.

“Juice,” Ava shouted back.

“Milk, and one of Auntie Hannah's cupcakes please,” Josie added. I grabbed the carton of milk and jug of orange juice, and kicked the fridge door shut with my foot.

“Your dad ate the last cupcake last night.”

“Dad, no fair!” Josie pouted, crossing her arms over her little puffed-out chest.

“You've had so many you were at risk of turning into a cupcake,” David said. “I
saved you
by eating that last one.
You're welcome.
”

Josie continued to complain, and I smiled as I poured her milk. Hannah had made two-dozen cupcakes, of which we'd eaten close to a dozen in the past few days since my birthday, and I didn't tell the girls I had the second dozen in the freezer. Those I was planning to use for bribes as needed.

“What's this babysitter's name again?” David asked.

A sharp pain moved across my forehead, and I gasped, then put my hand to the spot and rubbed firmly a few times. Thankfully the pain subsided a moment later.

“You all right?” David asked, watching me.

“Yeah, fine. Babysitter's name... Jennifer. No wait, Janet? Shit, I can't remember. It's here somewhere.” I went to grab my phone, lying atop the kitchen island, but for some reason my arm wasn't working right. It felt heavy and didn't want to move. “David, something weird is...”

“What?” David asked, but he wasn't looking at me now. He was reading something on his phone, his head down.

I tried to use my other arm to pick up my phone, and that's when the headache hit. Nothing like from a moment ago. This pain was blinding—bold and terrifying, like a thunderclap. I tried to tell David something was wrong, my skull was going to explode, but the words came out garbled and incomplete. His head snapped up and he looked at me in a way that scared me. I tried to speak again, but the pain made it impossible and I buckled to my knees, knocking the opened juice jug over in the process.

In a flash David was beside me, orange juice soaking into the knees of his jeans and the cotton fabric of my dress, which meant on top of everything else I would have to change before we went over to Hannah and Ben's. David shouted my name, repeatedly, telling me to keep my eyes open, to look at him. Someone was crying, maybe me. I hoped it wasn't one of the girls. I wanted to tell David to be quiet, because his voice was so loud and this was the worst headache I had ever had. But I couldn't speak, couldn't move, and then a thick black curtain moved across my vision and everything went dark.

39

Kate remains blissfully unaware of the frightening chaos her collapse creates. The whole time, she's unconscious. Through those frantic minutes waiting for the ambulance, while the girls sob and David desperately tries to get her to open her eyes, to wake up, to stay with him. Through the ambulance ride, which is scary fast with sirens blaring. Through the rush of the emergency room, where doctors explain to David in calm yet concerned voices she's suffered a ruptured aneurysm and has bleeding into her brain. Soon words like
subarachnoid hemorrhage
and
craniotomy
and
Glasgow Coma Scale
are tossed about in tense tones while Kate lies nearby, a plastic tube down her throat attached to a ventilator that keeps her breathing.

She misses the look of horror and disbelief on David's face when the doctors discuss the surgical options. The pregnancy complicates things, they explain, and the next twenty-four hours will be critical in getting the aneurysm secured. So while one surgery has a better outcome, it's riskier because of the amount of radiation involved—riskier to the fetus, the surgeon clarifies. Kate would be happy not to hear David ask if delivering the baby now, today, would help—she couldn't have forgiven him for making that decision without her consent, without considering Hannah and Ben's wishes, at only twenty-six weeks. Thankfully he's told probably not, and so the baby stays put.

“She's lucky,” they tell David—about a third of people with ruptured aneurysms die instantly. When David asks about the other two-thirds, the doctors manage to hold eye contact when they say half of those patients die in the hospital. Unfortunately, it's impossible to say which of those last two groups Kate will be in, and David can barely stay upright when they tell him this.

Decisions are made, without Kate's opinion or consent. They will do the clip surgery—in the next few hours, or as soon as they can get an operating room prepped. It sounds dangerous, though leaving the aneurysm to continue bleeding into Kate's brain is the more dangerous of the two scenarios. They expect it will be successful, as she is apparently a good candidate.

For now the baby is safe, somehow unaffected by the storm taking place in Kate's body. They'll monitor him, too, and do all they can to minimize the effects. If Kate were awake and able to say it, she would thank them for thinking of the baby.

It's a precarious situation, and if Kate knew at all what was happening, her heart would break for David. Three hours ago they were getting ready to go to Hannah and Ben's for game night. Three hours ago she was a thirty-six-year-old pregnant woman whose biggest concern was a looming migraine that medication thankfully dulled, and who had an inability to remember the babysitter's name. Three hours ago she was a healthy and happy mom, simply trying to help her best friend experience the joy of motherhood. Three hours ago she had no idea the risk she had taken, or what it would mean for all their futures.

40

I haven't taken a proper, full breath since David's phone call from the hospital fewer than thirty minutes ago. In a rush Ben and I are out the door, chicken strips left half-cooked in the pan, a blender full of now half-melted ice, Clover left out of her crate in our haste to leave, front door unlocked and lights left on.

Upon our arrival, we find the ER jammed, as expected. We dodge the line like David told us to, pushing quickly through the doors that lead past the waiting room full of sick, bleeding and miserable people. I'm having a hard time catching my breath, the reality of what's happened strangling me. Ben holds my hand and tugs me forward, and I will myself not to cry. I don't want to cry in front of Kate.

And then I see David. His back is to us, but I recognize his close-cropped blond hair and the two roman numeral tattoos on the back of his neck, which represent his daughters' birth dates. He's standing before another set of doors, so still people trying to get by are forced to move around him.

“David!” He turns at the sound of my voice, and as he does, I stop moving and my hand drops from Ben's. David's face is pale, in stark contrast to his eyes, which are red and swollen, the way Ben's get when he spends more than five minutes in a house with a cat. He looks awful. Ben gets to him first and hugs him, but David doesn't take his eyes off me. They are so green, so wet, the way lush grass looks after a rainstorm.

I still can't catch my breath. But I move forward until I'm standing beside them.
Kate.

“Where is she?” Ben asks softly, close to David's face.

David gestures behind him, his arm waving around haphazardly, as if it has been deboned. “They took her.”

“Where? Where did they take her, David?”

I stare at David, and I know. It's bad. He starts to cry again, and Ben holds on to him tightly to keep him upright, shooting me a panicked look over David's head.

“David, where's Kate?” My voice comes out loud. Too loud. Almost angry. But I'm not angry. I'm terrified.

“They took her. She's... They took her, back there. It happened so...fast.” He sobs, then retches, but nothing comes up. Ben, looking stricken, keeps his grip on David.

My legs give out, and I fall to the scuff-marked linoleum floor, and though there's another question I desperately need David to answer—
What about the baby?
—I lose consciousness before I can get it out.

* * *

There's a lot of commotion. I'm being lifted, strong hands under my armpits and behind my knees. I can't focus on any one thing, so I don't bother trying. My eyes are still closed, but I can smell Ben. Or more specifically, his breath. Pungent with onion and jalapeño peppers from the guacamole, it tickles at the darkness behind my eyes as he calls my name, over and over. But I stay where I am, in this strange, oblivious place. Eyes closed. Remembering the first time I met Kate.

It's my third day of fifth grade, and the summer's heat is still going strong. It's so hot that teachers bring in fans from home, along with banana, cherry and orange popsicles for recess that melt faster than we can eat them. I'm at a new school this year, having moved during the summer, after Dad died. Mom is no longer able to take care of us without the help of my grandparents, who live in Marin County—Mill Valley specifically—in a house that feels as if it wasn't meant for children. So far I have made exactly one friend at my new school. A girl named Ruby Thoms, who wears thick glasses but has a kind face and really nice teeth. I'm waiting for Ruby outside the restroom, holding her backpack, when I see Kate.

She's short and curvy, which I notice first because I'm not, and pretty enough that she stands out right away. Big brown eyes and dark hair cut in a pageboy, with a silver elastic headband tucked behind her ears. I watch as she brushes a stray piece of bang back from her face, smiling at a passing teacher as she does. Because she's watching the teacher, and the hallway is busy with traffic of students coming and going to class, she doesn't see the boy off to her side, with a mirror crudely taped to a piece of a hockey stick positioned so he can see up her skirt.

But I do.

Before I even realize what I'm doing, I stride over to where Kate stands and with my hands on my hips, turn to the boy and very loudly say, “What exactly do you think you're doing?”

Kate, surprised by my arrival, looks at me before looking at the boy, who smirks at my question.

“None of your business.”

“He's looking up your skirt with that thing,” I say, pointing to the hockey stick and mirror, which the boy is trying to tuck behind his back. Two other boys flanking him on either side start to chuckle.

“Darren, you little pervert!” Kate shouts at him, which just makes the group of them laugh harder.

I see red, and my fingers grip tighter on Ruby's backpack straps. Ever since my dad died, swiftly but painfully of pancreatic cancer, I've been having what the therapist—whom my mom forced me and Claire to see—calls “grief outbursts,” but are really temper tantrums. However, “tantrum” sounds too juvenile for a ten-year-old, so the therapist and my mom agreed to a term they felt more appropriate.

“Not much to see, anyway,” Darren says. “Except some pretty ugly granny panties covering a fat ass!”

Kate's face falls, and without thinking, I swing Ruby's backpack—which is heavy enough to set me off balance—hitting Darren right under the chin. He looks shocked for a moment, then his chin splits open—unfortunately for him, and I suppose for me once my mom finds out, it's the heavy combination lock Ruby keeps on her backpack's zippers that connects to Darren's face first—and blood pours swiftly onto his shirt. I stare at him, also in shock at what I've done but exhilarated at the same time.

Darren starts to cry, his friends crowding around him and shouting for help, and Kate grabs my hand and pulls me into the girls' bathroom. Ruby is washing her hands and looks surprised to see us burst in. I'm out of breath, dizzy from adrenaline and pretty sure I'm going to be grounded for a long time when I get home. But I don't care about any of that when Kate envelops me in a hug, squeezing so tight I can barely breathe. I feel more alive than I have in a long time, or at least since my dad died, and I don't want the sensation to ever go away.

“Thank you,” Kate whispers, squeezing tighter. “You are now my best friend forever.”

* * *

I have no clue how much time has passed, but I come to with a jolt. As if someone has tossed ice water on me. I'm lying on a stretcher in the ER, Ben hovering over me.

“What happened?” I sit up, then immediately fall back on bent elbows as a wave of dizziness engulfs me. My head hurts at the back, and my fingers find a small lump under my hair.

Ben puts an arm behind my back and eases me back onto the stretcher. “Just lie back. You're fine.”

It all lands back into my consciousness.
Kate.
Something terrible has happened to Kate.

“Where's Kate?”

At this he pulls his eyes away from my face, and my heart rate speeds up. I'm trying to prepare myself for news I don't want to hear, but it's difficult to stay focused on Ben's face.

“She's alive,” he begins, and a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob explodes out of me. His eyes cut to mine quickly, stormy sky blue and worried. “David said she was fine and then just collapsed.”

I have no idea how to deal with this. So many questions circle my mind, tornado-fast and impossible to pin down. “The baby?” My voice is thin, weak with fear. I clutch Ben's hands and hold my breath.

“The baby is fine,” he says, the smallest of smiles coming across his face before quickly dropping away. “He's apparently just fine.”

“But Kate...” My heart flutters uncomfortably.

He looks grim. “Kate is being taken care of. That's all we know for sure.”

“Can we see her? I need to see her.” I get up again, and this time things stay in focus. Ben holds my elbow tightly as I slide off the stretcher. He asks if I'm okay; I nod and repeat that I need to see Kate.

“I don't think we can yet. She's...she's unconscious. They only just let David go back with her.” Ben watches me closely, keeping his hands on my elbows. “How are you feeling? You scared the shit out of me when you passed out.”

“Fine. I'm fine,” I say, irritation flooding my voice. How I'm feeling is of little importance right now. “What can we do? I can't just stand here waiting.” I'm agitated, shifting from one foot to the other.

“David gave me his phone and asked me to call a few people.”

A thought lands in my mind, and I nearly buckle again. “The girls, Ben. The girls.”

“They're with the babysitter. He had to leave them with her when the ambulance came.”

“They must be so upset,” I say, pacing in the tiny room. “Here's what I'm going to do. You make the calls, and I'm going to look for David and try to find out what's going on. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” Ben says, pulling David's phone out of his back pocket. “Hannah?”

“Yeah?”

“She's going to be fine.”

“I know she is. Now go. I'll see you soon.”

I watch Ben leave back through the doors leading to the waiting room, and then lean my forehead against the wall—the celery-green paint a surprisingly calming color when viewed so up close. Keeping my eyes on a tiny spot where the green paint has flecked off to reveal an apricot color below, I count to ten and try to find the strength to stand up straight again. I need to move, to find out where they took Kate, to see what David knows. But every ounce of energy has left my body, leaving in its place a deep sense of dread. Because no matter how many times I play the “Kate is going to be okay” track in my mind, my gut is telling me something different.