CHAPTER 33
Georgie knew something was wrong because she’d been through this once before, and that time, the baby had come right out.
With Alice, there’d been an incision, then a slippery pull—like someone had just hooked a wide-mouthed bass and yanked it out of Georgie’s guts. Then a nurse had rushed away with the baby, Georgie thanking God for the screams.
The slow part, after Alice, had been putting Georgie back together again. Neal told her that the doctors actually took out her uterus and set it in on her stomach, then poked around inside her abdomen to make sure everything checked out.
Neal had been sitting right next to her that day, when Alice was born.
He was sitting right next to her now. Georgie’s hands were strapped to her side, and he was holding one.
Georgie knew something was wrong this time because the incision happened, and she felt the pressure of the doctor’s hands inside her—but then there was no baby. There was no rush of movement. The nurse who was supposed take the baby away stood tensely behind the doctor (and the intern and the two medical students), empty-handed.
Georgie knew that something was wrong because of the tension in Neal’s jaw. Because of the way he was watching everyone.
She felt more pressure inside—more hands, more than just two.
The anesthesiologist kept talking to her in a low murmur. “You’re doing just fine, Mom. You’re doing great.” Like it took special talent to lie still on the table. (Maybe it did.) She was poking Georgie’s chest with a toothpick. “Can you feel this?” Yes. “Can you feel this?” No. “It might feel like you can’t breathe,” the anesthesiologist said, “but you can. Just keep breathing, Mom.”
They were all talking now, doctors and nurses; everything that came out of their mouths was numbers. The table suddenly ratcheted upwards, so that Georgie was lying at a mild incline, her head toward the floor.
This isn’t good, she thought calmly, looking up at the lights.
It seemed smart to stay calm in this situation, with her body wide open, her blood pumping who knows where. She could see someone’s arm reflected in the light fixture above her—the sleeve was red.
Then Neal squeezed Georgie’s hand.
He’d turned away from the doctors and the place where the baby was supposed to be, and was hovering over Georgie’s shoulder. His jaw was tense, but his eyes were fierce and open.
Maybe this was why Neal always had his guard up. His eyes, unguarded, could burn tunnels though mountains.
Georgie kept breathing. In, out. In, out. “You’re doing great, Mom,” the anesthesiologist hummed. Georgie knew she was lying.
Neal’s eyes were pouring fire on her. If he always looked at Georgie like this, it’d be uncomfortable. If he always looked at her like this, maybe she’d never look away.
But she’d never doubt that he loved her.
How could she ever doubt that he loved her?
Neal was saying good-bye to her with that look. He was begging her to stay. He was telling her that she was doing just fine—just keep breathing, Georgie.
How could she ever doubt that he loved her? When loving her was what he did better than all the things he did beautifully.
The anesthesiologist pushed a plastic mask onto Georgie’s mouth. Georgie didn’t look away from Neal.
When she woke up, later that night, in a recovery room, she realized that she hadn’t expected to.
There was a hospital bassinet pulled close to her bed, and Neal was asleep in the chair.