Chapter 6: What the Doctor Said, and Who Was in the Lobby
"She's out of surgery."
Three words.
I felt Ben's hand grip my arm before I even registered that my legs had gone soft.
"Both babies were delivered safely," Dr.
Morrow continued.
"Two girls.
They're small, but they're breathing on their own.
We have them in the NICU as a precaution."
"And Rosie?"
A pause.
Not long.
But long enough.
"Your sister lost a significant amount of bl00d during the procedure.
We've stabilized her, but she's not conscious yet.
The next several hours are critical.
We'll know more by morning."
"But she's alive."
"She's alive," Dr.
Morrow said.
"And fighting."
I hung up and looked at Ben.
His face had gone through five different things in the space of three seconds.
"She made it through," I said.
"Two girls.
Both breathing."
He sat down on the floor.
Right there, on the bedroom carpet, he just sat down, and pressed both hands over his face, and didn't say anything for a long moment.
I let him have it.
I stood there with the letter and the transfer record and I let him have that minute.
Then I said, "We need to go back."
He nodded, hands still over his face.
"And Ben — Gerald is going to be there."
He dropped his hands.
His eyes were red but his expression had gone somewhere harder.
"I know."
"We can't tell my mother any of this today.
Not while Rosie is still—"
"I know."
"But I'm not going to sit in a waiting room and make small talk with that man."
Ben stood up.
He took the envelope from my hands, slid both pages back inside, and held it for a moment.
Then he handed it back to me.
"Keep it with you," he said.
"Don't let it out of your hands."
We drove back to the hospital in silence.
My mother was in the waiting room when we arrived.
She stood up the moment she saw us, and I held her for a long time, and I told her about the girls, and I watched her cry with relief, and I said nothing about the letter pressed against my ribs inside my jacket.
Gerald arrived forty minutes later.
He came through the main entrance with a bouquet of flowers — white lilies — and a look of practiced concern arranged across his face.
He was sixty-three years old, silver-haired, well-dressed in the way that people are when they want to appear trustworthy without trying too hard.
He hugged my mother first.
Then he turned to me.
"Sweetheart." He opened his arms.
I stepped forward and let him embrace me.
Over his shoulder, I watched Ben standing very still across the room, watching us.
"How is she?" Gerald asked, pulling back, his hands on my shoulders.
"Stable," I said.
"She made it through surgery."
"Thank God." He shook his head slowly.
"I've been thinking about you all day.
All of you." He looked around the waiting room.
"Where's Ben?"
"Right here," Ben said, from directly behind him.
Gerald turned.
Something moved across his face — just a flicker, gone in an instant — before the warm smile settled back into place.
"Ben." He extended his hand.
"How are you holding up?"
Ben shook it.
His face gave nothing away.
"Better now."
Gerald nodded, squeezing Ben's hand an extra beat before releasing it.
"Good man.
Good man." He looked between us.
"Is there anything I can do?
Anything at all?"
"Actually," I said, "there is."
Gerald turned back to me, eyebrows raised, helpful and open.
"I need to talk to you," I said.
"Privately.
When you have a moment."
The eyebrows stayed raised.
The smile stayed in place.
But something behind his eyes went very quiet.
May you like
"Of course," he said.
"Whenever you're ready."
