The Choices We Make (27 page)

57

I see Edward as soon as I walk through the ICU doors, leaning against the wall outside Kate's room, looking thin and tired, his arms limp by his sides and the wall clearly holding him up. I pause for a moment, unsure if I should walk right past him without a word or wait until he's gone, but then he looks my way and I know what I need to do.

“I'll be right in,” I say to Ben. He looks at Edward, then back at me, and nods before heading into Kate's room, pausing to rest a hand on Edward's shoulder. I sit in one of the chairs by the nursing station and wait. Edward joins me a moment later, sighing deeply as he settles into the chair beside me.

We're silent for a moment, and then I do the thing I never would have expected a few days ago: I grab his hand and hold it tight. He looks down at our hands, surprise etched on his face, then begins to sob. Though his body shakes, he is quiet aside from the occasional intake of breath. I hold his hand tighter, keeping my eyes straight ahead and letting my own tears stream down my cheeks unencumbered.

“It isn't supposed to happen like this,” Edward says, when he's able to. “A father is not supposed to bury his daughter.”

I nod but can't speak. And for one selfish moment I hope I never know what that pain is like.

“How can I... How can I ask for forgiveness now, Hannah? It's too late. It's too late.” He bows his head, and I turn my body so I'm facing him. I soften my voice, let him see my own tears.

“You know something, Edward? I think she forgave you a really long time ago.”

He shakes his head. “That's kind of you to say, but you were right the other day. She hated me, has ever since she was old enough to understand what happened. And all I ever did to try and fix it was write those goddamned letters and send checks. As if that would somehow make up for everything. I was so, so stupid. So stupid.” He wipes a shaky hand across his eyes, and I notice again how much Kate looks like her father. “I didn't know what else to do. I love her so much, but I didn't know how to be a father.”

“She did not hate you. She was angry and upset and wished things were different, but I promise you, Edward. She didn't hate you.” And as I say it, I know it's true. Kate had a complicated, fractured, distant relationship with her father, and he hurt her no question, but hate had no part in it.

“You know, when we had lunch a few weeks ago she told me it was the baby that finally made her come to meet me,” Edward says. “She said she would not infect your baby with any of her anger, because she wanted him to be pure and perfect for you, and she decided it was time to let a few things go.”

I'm not surprised when he tells me this—it sounds like something Kate would say, a decision she would make. I'm overcome with gratitude for her willingness to put my son first.

“I'm sorry about all of this, Hannah. About the reporter and everything that came after that. Please also tell Ben, would you? I really thought I was helping.” His voice is low, his tone regretful, and I'm suddenly filled with compassion for a man who only days ago I hoped to never see again.

“You shouldn't be sorry,” I say, remembering what my mom said after Amelia's birth. “You did what you thought was best for your child. You were trying to protect her, like a good father would. Don't ever be sorry for that. She would be grateful, Edward. I know she would.”

He nods. “Thank you. Even though David said you don't speak for Kate, I really believe you do. You knew her better than anyone else, have always been there for her.” He smiles, and I return it the best I can. “I am indebted to you for taking care of her when I couldn't.”

And with that Edward squeezes my hand one last time, then stands and walks out of the ICU, not looking back once.

* * *

David is sleeping in a chair in Kate's room. Ben is outside making calls. Cora and Tucker will bring the girls—who are mercifully asleep, tucked in under matching princess-adorned Pottery Barn quilts—to the hospital early in the morning, so they have a chance to say goodbye to Kate before the surgery.

I'm relieved when David finally closes his eyes, not only because he needs the rest but also because his rapid pacing of the room and his grief-fueled outbursts have left me emotionally and physically wrung out. I try, but my words, my arms can't help him. Not right now. It's been a slow, painful goodbye, and there is no peace yet—not for David. He's still very much in fight mode, even though there's nothing left to fight for. And the realization of exactly what he's losing—the gritty, horrific, unbelievable reality of Kate being erased from our lives—is starting to take shape, to set up space in David's mind and body. He is barely holding it together and though I don't want to witness any of this, I vow not to turn away when he needs me most.

After I assure David I won't leave the room, won't leave Kate, he finally settles into the chair and within minutes his eyelids droop and his breathing deepens. I try to picture what life will look like now, with Kate's absence. But it's too hard to fathom, my brain not allowing the images to load, and so I stop imagining life without her.

There are tubes and wires and very little room in Kate's bed, but I crawl in beside her regardless, tucking my body up against her still form. Her chest rises and falls in a mechanical rhythm, the perfection of her breathing disconcerting and reassuring all at once.

Her belly is round under the sheet, and I put one hand on it, feeling the fetal heart rate monitor strapped around her middle. I rest my head beside hers, the edges of the tape holding her ventilator in place scratching against my cheek.

Looking at Kate's face now, I try to remember that girl who jumped off the cliff without a moment's hesitation. But she's not here anymore. Impossible to find amid the tubes and bruising and frightening stillness. Leaning in close to her ear, which still holds the diamond stud her mom gave her for her eighteenth birthday, I whisper, “I just threw a very big egg, Katie. You would have been proud. And whenever you're ready to jump off that cliff, you jump. I'm going to take care of everyone for you. I promise.”

58

David's in the hallway, shouting for help. Something about the baby. I've stepped out of the room to call my mom, and hang up midsentence.

Machines beep incessantly at the nurse's station where Ben and I stand, and the sound mingles with David's frantic voice. Two nurses are on the move, heading for Kate's room, and Ben is at their heels. But I'm a few steps behind, sluggish with fear, terrified of what's happened to make the machines make these noises.

Kate lies in bed, looking essentially the same as she has since I first saw her here—serene and pale and motionless except for the rise and fall of her chest. Alarms are screaming, the baby's monitor is flashing and David stands in the corner, tears streaming down his face and hands clasping the sides of his head as he watches helplessly as the medical team works around Kate. Dr. Swartzman rushes in and scans the continuous stream of paper that prints from the machine measuring the fetal heart rate. Ben and I stand outside the room, trying to stay out of the way, holding our collective breath while we wait to find out what's happening.

The nurses start moving about hastily and Dr. Swartzman looks over at us, speaking quickly but calmly. “The baby's heart rate is dropping and he's in distress. We need to get him out right now.” Her voice is urgent but steady. I feel as if all the oxygen in the room has disappeared.

“But this isn't supposed to happen until later,” I say, my voice squeaking out. It's only five in the morning. “We need time.” I feel faint and lean against Ben. David drops to the ground in a crouch, burying his head in his arms. I look at Ben, and he knows what I'm thinking.
Help him.
A moment later he's beside him, crouched down and speaking quietly into his ear, his arms holding David's shaking shoulders.

Dr. Swartzman stands in front of me. “It's amazing, all things considered, that we made it to this stage, Hannah. Your baby has an excellent chance at survival. But we can't wait any longer. I need to get him out.”

“What about Kate?” I whisper, trying to breathe through the sob that racks my chest. “We're supposed to have some more time. We need some more time with her. The girls aren't even here yet.”

She puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. “Kate has done the most incredible job at keeping your son healthy and giving him time to grow.”

I know what she's not saying; it's time to say goodbye.

* * *

The operating room is bright and cold, even with the gown overtop of my clothes. Spotlights come on as Kate is wheeled into the room, a nurse bagging her, as the ventilator is temporarily unhooked to accommodate the move to the operating room. Staff in masks, gowns and gloves move about the room in coordinated chaos, hooking up machines, reattaching the ventilator, draping the table to keep me from seeing exactly what's happening below her neck. I'm told to sit on a stool at Kate's head, and ask if I can touch her face. The nurse says that's fine, and so I lay my hand against her cheek, her forehead, telling her what a great job she's done. What an amazing mother she is. How much I love her. How much we all love her.

David, despite his devastation at knowing his moments with Kate are numbered, insists I be the one to go in for the C-section. He wants me to be the first person to see the baby, saying Kate wouldn't have wanted it any other way. I am overcome when he tells me this, and for as long as we can we cling to each other, our foreheads pressed together, our arms around each other, the tears falling between us.

David and the girls will wait outside the operating room until after the baby is born, and will then have a chance to say goodbye to Kate before she's removed from life support. But I can't think about what happens after the baby is born beyond the logistics of it, because if I do it will consume me and I can't fall apart now—our boy needs me.

Dr. Swartzman peers around the sheet and tells me things are about to get under way. She adds that my son will be out in fewer than twenty minutes, and so instead of focusing on the loss I know is coming, I try to prepare myself for imminent motherhood. A neonatal intensive care team is waiting off to the side, an incubator ready to whisk the baby away as soon as he's born—Dr. Swartzman tells me she'll do her best to give me a moment with him, but it depends on how he's doing when she gets him out.

A moment later she's made the incision. I focus all my energy and attention on Kate, knowing Dr. Swartzman has things under control. I whisper favorite memories into Kate's ear, like the time when we were fifteen and drank a bottle of my grandfather's cherry whiskey after cutting class, only to spend the rest of the night so sick our parents decided that was punishment enough. Or the first time I babysat Ava, and was so proud of myself until we realized I'd put the diaper on backward—thanks to a stream of runny, pea-green baby poop that escaped the incorrectly positioned diaper and ran all over Kate's brand-new beige couch. I laugh softly while I recount some of the more memorable moments we've shared, and I kiss her forehead every few minutes. Then I tell her the secret ingredient in my guacamole, wishing now I'd told her the first time she'd asked, and promise I'll teach Ava and Josie how to make it.

I'm so focused on Kate it takes me a moment to come back to the present, to understand what Dr. Swartzman is saying. “It's a boy,” she says, but her voice doesn't carry the excitement one expects in the first moments after a baby is born. She sounds tense as she says it, and my heart rate speeds up. But I stay on the side of the curtain like I've been told to, too afraid to ask questions or move—there is no baby crying, no one is talking, but there's plenty of movement. I can hear the squeak of rubber-soled shoes shuffling across the floors. Then, finally, “Hannah, would you like to meet your son?”

I nod and push the stool back so the nurse can place the tiny bundle in my arms. She doesn't fully let go of the baby, who is wrinkled and quite red. “Happy Birthday, baby boy,” I whisper. Staring into his face I see some of Kate right away, and I turn back to her to tell her how beautiful he is, how perfect he is, and then he's gone. Whisked away to the incubator and the doctors who will work to keep him here with us.

I look again at Kate, her face blank, and wish desperately she could meet him. That she could see the moment I became a mother, because of her. And though I know it's unlikely she can hear me, that she's probably somewhere far away now, I kiss her cheek and whisper “Thank you” over and over until my voice grows hoarse.

59

October

I meet Ben in the hall, just outside our current hospital room. After eight weeks in intensive care, Cole has been transferred to a step-down room from the NICU, which means soon we'll be able to go home, a family of three.

Our boy had a variety of medical issues early on—requiring round-the-clock oxygen support and a plethora of medication—but has since grown strong, his face and body filling out thanks to formula and my breast milk. Nursing has been both a wonder and a challenge. I never made enough milk to satisfy Cole's needs, but the feel of him suckling at my breast, his tiny fingers hanging on while he drinks, eyes closing in contentment, moved me in a way I wasn't expecting. Somehow, it made him mine.

“David's with him,” Ben says before I can ask why he isn't in the room with Cole.

I nod, my heart fluttering inside my chest like a butterfly caught in a net. Though David knows he's welcome anytime, he hasn't visited Cole yet. To know he's here, sitting with our son, fills a hole inside me I hadn't realized was there. I hand Ben his coffee and gesture with my head toward the room.

“How is he?” I ask. Ben knows I mean David, not Cole.

“He seems okay,” Ben says. “I told him to stay as long as he wants.”

“Good, good.” I notice how tired Ben looks this morning, his eyelids heavy and his face sagging. “Why don't you go get something to eat, to help wash this coffee down?” I smile at him, and he returns it.

“Want anything?” Ben asks, heading down the hall to the locked doors of the unit.

I shake my head. “I'm good, thanks.”

“I'll get you a muffin or something. You haven't eaten anything since last night.” He pushes the button beside the doors to unlock them. “Be back soon.”

With another sip of my coffee I walk toward our room. David sits in the rocking chair beside the crib, Cole bundled and in his arms. I hear David's voice, low and soft, and at first I think he's simply talking to Cole, but then I notice the book in his hands—my tattered copy of
The Velveteen Rabbit
—and I take a quick step back, watching with tears in my eyes. Once David turns the last page and sets the book down, I wipe the tears away and knock on the door frame, smiling gently when he looks up.

If I think Ben looks exhausted, he has nothing on David, who is almost unrecognizable. My heart lurches, seeing the marks grief has left on his face. It has been nearly two months since I've seen him, at the funeral, and much like then all I want to do is hold him and tell him it's going to be okay. We're all going to be okay. But I stay by the door, waiting for David to decide if he wants company.

At first he stares at me as if he's trying to place why I seem so familiar; then he smiles before looking back at Cole. I take that as an invitation and walk into the room. “He looks like Kate,” he says. “His eyes. Do you see it?” David's own eyes come back to mine, and I hold his gaze while willing myself not to cry.

“I saw that right away.” I keep my voice soft, small so as to not scare him away, then sit down in the chair beside him.

“I hope it's okay that I'm here,” he says, eyes back on Cole, who is staring wide-eyed at David as though he knows exactly who he was.

“It's more than okay,” I reply, rubbing his arm with my free hand. “I'm glad you're here.” Then I notice a rectangular-shaped bandage on the back of his neck, just below his hairline. “What happened?” I ask, gesturing to the bandage.

“I got another tattoo.”

I press my lips tightly together as tears fill my eyes again. I don't have to ask of what. I know what's underneath that bandage—three tattoos, all sets of Roman numerals. Two are older, representing the dates of Ava's and Josie's births, and the other—the date of Kate's death and Cole's birth, I presume—is probably just starting to scab over.

We sit in silence for a moment and I don't try to hide my tears, my hand still on David's arm while he rocks back and forth, back and forth. When he finally speaks it startles me, and my hand drops from his arm. “The autopsy came back,” he says, his tone flat. “It confirmed Kate had an AVM that ruptured, which is what we already guessed, but it was good to know for sure.”

I nod, Annabel having already told me the results. That Kate's brain bleed was the result of a ruptured aneurysm, this so-called AVM, which she'd probably had since birth and that was possibly responsible for her migraines. Kate had a ticking time bomb in her head that no one knew about and that could have exploded at any time. There was no indication, Annabel said, that the pregnancy in any way caused that bomb to go off.

“Thank you for letting me name him,” David says, so quietly it comes out nearly in a whisper. “Did you know we thought Ava was a boy?”

“I remember that.” David had been thrilled to have a boy, Kate less so. She said she had no idea how to raise a boy, with all the stuff that came along with that. But turns out the ultrasound technician had gotten it wrong, labeling the umbilical cord a penis. Ava had been a huge, welcome surprise.

“Kate had finally conceded to Colton. It was my grandfather's name.” He brushes a finger against Cole's cheek, and the baby turns his head toward him. “She didn't like it at first, but it grew on her. But as soon as Ava came out I knew no matter how many other children we had they would all be girls. I have no clue how I knew, but I did.”

“I love the name.” I watch Cole's face as it stretches into a yawn—his mouth open in a perfectly round circle, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “It suits him.”

David nods, a smile coming across his face. Cole's eyes drop closed, and his mouth starts moving, his lips suckling in his sleep.

“I miss her, Hannah. So much I can't breathe some days.” Tears fall from David's eyes, dropping onto Cole's white-and-blue-striped hospital blanket. My breath catches, and I push the emotion threatening to spill out of me back down. I place my hand back on David's arm and squeeze, and he looks at me, tears streaking down his cheeks.

“I know,” I say, wishing I could say something to make this easier for him, knowing there is nothing that can magically erase even a fraction of his pain. His loss is too great for any words to provide comfort. “I miss her, too. Desperately.” I hastily wipe away my own tears. “I'm sorry I can't make this better for you.”

“Don't be,” he says, watching me. “She is...” He shakes his head, and his Adam's apple bobs a few times while he tries to get the words out. “She was your best friend.”

“Yes, but she's your wife. And Ava and Josie's mother.” I decided at the funeral, where everyone kept referring to Kate in the past tense, that I wouldn't let that happen—I wouldn't let her fade to only a memory, a two-dimensional picture on the wall, a person we all used to know. No, Kate would stay with us, relevant in our day-to-day lives—even if she wasn't physically here. “It doesn't matter what I... What matters is you and the girls. I hope you'll let us help you however we can.”

“Hannah, you and Ben and Cole, you're family, okay? Kate would have been so mad about how I handled things,” he says, laughing a little. It was not his usual laugh, however—easy and big—and the sound of it makes things hurt deep in my chest. “After she yelled at me for a few days, she would have given me the silent treatment, and I'm not sure which would have been worse.” I laugh with him, knowing exactly what he means.

“I have a feeling I would have been on the receiving end of that silent treatment, as well,” I say. “Besides, you did what you thought was best for her. You took care of her, David, the only way you could. Ben would have done the same for me.”

“He told me that at the funeral,” David replies. “But for what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

“Well, apology not accepted,” I reply, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “Even though Kate held the gold medal in stubbornness, I was certainly on the podium with her.”

David nods and goes back to rocking Cole, who sleeps soundly—unaware of how the landscape has shifted so drastically around him since his birth. “So what now, Hannah? What do I do now?”

His voice is so lost, so void of the usual confidence I have come to associate with David, and I worry he may never get it back. I lean back in my chair, letting my head rest against its cushioned back, and turn to watch him, taking a moment to consider my answer.

“Now we figure out how to live without her.”

“I don't know how to do that.”

“Me neither,” I reply. “But at least we don't have to do it alone, right?”

“Right,” David says, his voice gruff. “Kate would be so happy about Cole. All she wanted was for you to be a mother, to know how amazing it was to experience that. I'm glad she was able to give you that, Hannah.”

I can't speak, now crying too hard to say anything. David shifts Cole deeper into the crook of his arm and clutches my hand. “Having Cole means you'll always have a piece of her with you. Just like I do with Ava and Josie. She gave us the greatest gift, our children.”

He goes back to rocking, and soon my tears dry and my breathing becomes less ragged. But David doesn't let go of my hand through any of it, and I silently vow Cole will always know the woman who gave him life, and the people who loved her. After about ten minutes I gently tug my hand out of David's and reach into my purse, which rests beside my chair. I pull out an envelope, pink and tattered with age, and place it on my lap. Then I look over at David and say, “Remember how Kate and I met? The whole Darren and the swinging backpack incident?”

He nods. “Something about how you defended her honor and sent some delinquent kid to the hospital?”

“Something like that,” I reply, chuckling. “I was saving this for Kate. To give her after...” My hands shake as I open the envelope—which I've kept in my purse since Cole was born, waiting for this moment—and hand the card inside to David. “I was going to give it back to her after Cole was born.”

He looks at it for a long moment, taking it all in, before glancing at me with a smile. “She always kept her promises, didn't she?”

“That she did.”

* * *

“Did you hear Darren had to get five stitches?” Kate asks me the next morning at school, while we stand at her locker. I had heard, from my quite furious mother who was forced to apologize profusely to Darren's mother when she called to give my mom a piece of her mind about me. My grandmother, however, winked after my mom's lecture and pushed a piece of lemon cake toward me, whispering she thought that boy only got what was coming to him.

“Now every time he looks at that scar on his stupid head he'll think of you, and maybe he won't ever tell another girl she has a ‘fat ass,'” Kate adds. She grins, and I can't help but grin back even though I've been grounded for the foreseeable future. “I made you something,” she says, pulling an envelope out of her backpack.

“What is it?” I ask, turning it over in my hands. On the front of the soft pink envelope is written, “To Hannah,” a big heart around the words.

“Just open it—you'll see,” she says, shoving her backpack into her locker.

I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and feel it release. Pulling out the card inside, a flurry of gold sparkles flutter into the air like snowflakes, and Kate giggles. “I may have gone overboard on the glitter,” she says. The card is made of black construction paper, bordered with a thick band of sparkling gold. On the card in gold-inked bubble letters she has written, “Good for ONE giant awesome favor. Love, your BFF Kate.”

“Whatever you want, whenever you want it. It's yours.”

“Thank you, but you don't need to give me a favor, Kate,” I say, tucking the card back into the envelope, the clingy glitter transferring to my jeans when I wipe my hands. “Darren's a jerk. You would have done the same for me.” But I flush with happiness, grateful to have made a new friend who seems to like me as much as I like her.

“Keep it. You never know when you might need that,” Kate replies, pointing to the envelope before I tuck it into my backpack.

We walk to class, laughing about the look on Darren's face after I smacked him with the backpack and making plans to have lunch together, no clue as to what the future holds for us, but happy that at least for this moment we have found each other.

* * * * *

Read on for an extract from COME AWAY WITH ME by Karma Brown.