This Woman's Work

April

Bree isn't in her car. She's not outside. I open my phone and see I have a missed call from Peyton. Then she texts me.

Peyton: I found her. We're in the bathroom. Hurry.

I sprint back through the doors, down the hall, and into the women's restroom. They're in the handicap stall with the door closed. Bree whimpers.

"It's okay, Bree," Peyton whispers. "Jack is coming."

"I don't want you here!" Bree shouts. "Just go!"

"Are you talking to me, Bree?" I ask, peeking through the gap in the door.

Peyton opens the latch. "No, she's talking to me. She's in pain, but she doesn't want a big scene."

I scoot around Peyton and squat down next to Bree who's kneeling on the floor, hunched over her belly like she's protecting a treasure someone is trying to take from her. "Okay, should I call 911?"

"No! No ambulance. I'm fine. It will pass." She looks up at me, her face ashen, sweat beading above her lip. Her breath is coming quick and shallow.

"What hurts?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Yes, I can see that," I say glancing at Peyton. "Listen, I'm just going to walk you very slowly to the parking lot. No scenes. We'll get in your car and head to the ER, just to be safe."

She shakes her head no, staring at the ground. Then she starts hyperventilating like she can't get oxygen. She nods yes. "Okay," she pants. "Okay." She tries to push herself up and doubles over, so I grab her around the waist and place her arm around my shoulder. Peyton gets on the other side.

"Don't fucking touch me," Bree hisses.

"You're really not in any condition to stop me," Peyton says in a calm, steady voice. "But if you like, I can go get one of the teachers on duty."

"No!" Bree shouts. Then she quiets and allows Peyton to support her other side. We make our way to the parking lot as fast as Bree's pace allows.

When we get outside, I realize she doesn't have her purse. It has her keys in it.

"Fuck," I whisper. "Bree, where's your bag?"

She just shakes her head. "I don't know..."

Some of the faculty on duty crane their necks trying to see what's going on.

Just as one of them is about to come over, Marshall pulls up in his truck. He rolls down the window. "Climb in," he says. "I'll take you."

"How..." I'm at a loss for words.

"I texted him," Peyton says. "You can't do this all by yourself, Jack." Then she hops in the back seat so she can help me ease Bree inside. "I'll ride back here," she says. "You navigate. Call her parents."

I slide into the passenger seat, and Marshall starts driving with no idea where to take her. I don't know who her doctor is or what hospital to go to.

"Bree, which hospital does your doctor deliver at?"

She just shakes her head. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" I'm about to lose it.

She pants, clutching her stomach. "I saw the midwife...we never talked about it. It was too early."

"What's her name?"

"Melanie," she breathes.

You've got to be fucking kidding me. "Last name," I say.

She just shakes her head.

"Jack, use your phone. Google hospitals," Peyton says calmly. "We'll take her to the closest one."

"St. Luke's," I say. "Seven minutes north on Highway 59."

Peyton asks me to hand her my jacket, which she balls up and places against Bree's door. "Try to put your feet up, Bree." She helps Bree get her legs up so she can recline with her head against the pillow of my tuxedo coat.

Bree has her eyes closed, whimpering quietly. Her legs are over Peyton's lap, her black dress contrasting with Peyton's white one.

Peyton rests her hand gently on Bree's.

It's all so surreal.

Marshall screeches up to the emergency room entrance, and I hop out of the truck before it comes to a complete stop. Peyton holds onto Bree while I open the door and scoop her into my arms. Peyton scrambles out after me as I head for the door carrying Bree.

"Jack!" Peyton calls.

I turn my head to look at her over my shoulder.

Peyton glances down at the front of her white dress and back up at me. It's soaked in dark red blood that blooms in giant scarlet splotches where Bree's legs had been.

Holy fuck.

I try not to completely come unglued as I carry her into the emergency room.

The lady behind the check-in counter looks up and smiles. "How can I help you, sugar?" she asks.

"My fiancé...she's bleeding," I say.

"Oh no. Was there an accident?"

"She's pregnant." I scan her name plate hoping it says Melanie.

Margie. Fuck.

"Oh, bless her heart," Margie says glancing at Bree's belly and then to her face. "Is she asleep?"

I pull back and look at her. "Bree? Are you awake?" No response. "Can you just get the doctor?" I want to crawl over the desk and throttle this woman.

"Sure, sugar. But first, who's her doctor?"

I shake my head. "I don't know...Melanie?"

"Lyla!" Margie shouts. A woman wearing hot pink scrubs ambles over. "Do we have a doctor named Melanie?"

"Doesn't sound familiar," she says, placing her pointer finger on her lip.

"Hi ladies." Peyton steps forward. "As you can see," she says, gesturing to her blood-soaked dress. "I'm doused in blood." She points at Bree. "It's hers. We need to wheel her back and get her the care she needs, now."

Lyla nods. "I'll get the gurney."

Margie puts a clipboard with paperwork on the counter. "Just fill out as much as you can, sugar," she says.

Lyla and two other attendants rush out, get Bree onto the stretcher, and beckon for me to come too. They wheel her into a room, quickly followed by a doctor and three nurses.

"How far along is she?" he asks, as he puts her heels into the stirrups.

"Twenty-eight weeks."

He nods. "Okay, let's see what's going on."

The nurse takes a pair of surgical scissors and slices Bree's dress up the front in one motion. The material is stuck to her like seaweed because of the blood.

It's everywhere.

Dark rivers of crimson streak down her thighs.

"Likely placental abruption. She's hemorrhaging," the doctor says. "We need to prep for emergency cesarean."

"No! It's too early," I plead.

One of the nurses puts her hand on my arm and nudges me into the hall. "We need you to wait out there," she says pointing to the lobby.

"I'm not leaving her," I say.

Her mouth is in a grim line as she studies the panic in my eyes. "I understand. But we gotta do this surgery, or she'll die. If she dies, they both die. Do you understand?"

"Can I stay?"

"Not under these circumstances. It's not safe for her. Or the baby."

I nod and walk in a daze back to the waiting room.

Peyton's eyes grow wide when she sees my face. "What's going on?"

I shake my head. "There's so much blood."

"Why? What did the doctor say?"

"I don't know. Something about the placenta. Hemorrhaging."

"Can they stop it?"

"They're taking her into surgery," I say like a man in a trance.

"We need to contact her parents. I don't know any of this information." She points at the clipboard.

"Okay," I say, but I just keep sitting there.

"Jack?"

I gaze over at her. "Yeah?"

"I'm so sorry."

"Me too," I say, then I open my phone and search for Gram's number. After I talk to her, I call my Ma to let her know what's happening. They're both on their way over.

"I sent Marshall to find her purse," Peyton says.

I nod.

A million thoughts race through my mind. But the main one I can't block out is what the nurse told me. If she dies, they both die.

"I can't just sit here," I mutter to myself with my head in my hands. "I'm so fucking worthless."

She rests her hand on my shoulder blade. The comfort it provides is almost too hard to bear. I don't deserve to be comforted.

"Why don't you go for a walk?" She says trying to get me to look at her. "I'll talk to Bree's Gram when she gets here."

I nod and silently stand. I have no idea where to go.

*****

I'm in the hospital chapel. It's dark, nobody else is here. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. I really shouldn't be alone with my thoughts right now.

I've gone to church my whole life because Ma always insisted. Dad rarely went with us.

Ma has this spiritual side, and she encouraged us to pray to God. She said that the prayer itself is healing, whether God answers it or not.

I think I could use some healing right now, so I fall to my knees in front of the altar.

But I can't pray.

I know He'll see right through my bullshit. Because the thing is, I wanted this to happen.

I wished for this to happen. I prayed that my problems would disappear.

And now, she could die. Our baby could die. All because of my selfishness.

I think back to all the things I should have done for her. But instead, I just resented her, pushed her away.

All the things I should have said but I didn't say. All the things I should have done that I never did. I want to go back and do it all over again, with a pure heart and a good soul.

Maybe if I had been better, this never would have happened.

It's all my fault.

"Oh, God. Please forgive me," I whisper. My throat fills, and I choke out sobs that rise from the bottom of my gut up through my heart. "God, please let them live."

"Jack?"

I turn and see her standing in the doorway, backlit by the light from the hall. In her white gown, she appears to be an angel sent to deliver me from my own personal hell.

She walks slowly toward me. "Your mom is here," she whispers.

I stand there looking at her, this spirit from another world. When she touches my hand, I fall apart. I fall into her and just sob.

"It's all my fault."

She holds me close to her. "Shh, it's okay," she says. Then she takes a deep breath and sinks into me. "I understand."

We begin to sway, slowly side to side. She's rocking me in her arms.

And all I can do is hold fast to her. Because if I don't, I know I'm lost forever.