Lost You Page 17

  “What about me? What about my life with this child?”

  “You signed that away, Anna. You put your name on that contract and you can’t take it back. I won’t let you.”

  Now she turned her face to him, and he saw the hatred there. He felt it, burning hot. The rage that dwelled in him stirred. He inhaled, a deep breath, to cool it.

  “You don’t own me,” she said. “You don’t own my baby.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “And you won’t be free of me until you hand the child over. You must understand that, Anna. There’s nothing you can do to change that now.”

  “I could go to the cops.”

  “And what do you think they can do? If it comes to it, this is a matter for lawyers and courtrooms, not the police. Either way, I’d strongly advise against it. I’ve no desire for things to get any more…difficult than they are.”

  He let the threat hang in the air between them. She wept again, harder than before, hiding her face in her hands. Hiding from him. Mr. Kovak got to his feet and straightened his jacket.

  “I’ll leave now,” he said, “but I’ll check in with you tonight. You have a final checkup at the clinic next week. Don’t miss it. And you’re booked in for the C-section two weeks from Friday. You will be there, Anna. I will bring you myself. If you aren’t here when I call that morning, if you run, if I have to look for you…your mother’s name is Philomena, right? And your sister has, what, two kids now?”

  “Fuck you,” she said.

  “I’ll see you in a little over two weeks,” Mr. Kovak said.

  He let himself out.

  Back in his car, he clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. The rage writhed and snapped inside him. He commanded it to be still, and thank God, it obeyed.

  32

  ANNA FELT THE FIRST CONTRACTION an hour after Mr. Kovak left.

  She had sat on the couch, crying with both rage and sorrow, torn between her fear of him and her desire to visit harm on him. But beneath it all lay the utter helplessness. She had never experienced such a feeling in her life, a complete inability to choose a path. The knowledge that she would keep her baby remained as certain and solid as before he came, yet his threats still hung in the air like poisoned fruit. So, she had lingered there, unable to move, to do anything but weep and worry.

  Then that cramp, almost but not quite like a period pain, low down in her stomach, hitherto unknown muscles flexing through no will of her own. She froze, one hand hovering an inch over her navel.

  Was it?

  No, couldn’t be.

  First-time mothers were almost always late, weren’t they? It couldn’t be now. Just couldn’t.

  Anna felt the sudden and engulfing urge to be up, to be busy, to be active. Things to do, things to do, things to do. Cleaning, tidying, vacuuming. All these things had to be done right now, this second, this very moment.

  She set about gathering up the few mugs and glasses that sat around the place, brought them to the sink, turned the hot faucet, squirted some dish soap into the tumbling water, and began washing with furious intent. This morning’s breakfast things too. A pot off the stove she’d forgotten to do last night.

  As she drained the sink and began to dry, a sense of calm returned. It had been just a twinge, a spasm of muscles, a cramp. That was all. Nothing to worry about. Besides, she had bigger things to concern her right—

  It came again, like a belt tightening painfully around her middle. She dropped a mug and it shattered on the tiled kitchenette floor as she bent forward, using the countertop for support as her knees weakened.

  “Oh shit,” she said. “Not now. Oh God, please not now.”

  Anna ignored the scattered shards on the floor and made her way toward the bedroom, using items of furniture as waypoints. She reached the bed and lowered herself down, lay back, used her heels to push herself up so her head rested on the pillows.

  “Just you stay where you are, Little Butterfly,” she said. “It’s not safe out here.”

  She circled the mound of her belly with her hand, a soothing motion she often found herself making without knowing it.

  “Stay put,” she said. “It’s not your time yet.”

  And again it came, gripping her tight, squeezing her like a fist.

  She screamed at the ceiling in pain and fear and anger and prayed to God, not now, not now, not now…

  * * *

  —

  ANNA ENDURED IT until the sun had sunk low in the sky, darkening the apartment. The pains had subsided for a while, maybe an hour or more, and she wondered if it had been nothing after all. Maybe those Braxton-Hicks contractions she’d read about, the ones that get your body ready weeks in advance. Lying on the bed, she had sunk into an uneasy slumber, strange dreams that seemed to carry portents and omens she could not understand. Then another pain woke her, stronger than before, and it didn’t let up for a good thirty seconds. When it passed, she lay on her back, breathing hard.

  She gently eased herself over onto her side, and she felt something inside, a sensation of breaking, a release of pressure. Then warmth spreading around her groin, soaking through her underwear and leggings, and into the bedclothes.

  “No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

  Anna heaved herself upright and dropped her feet to the floor. She used the nightstand to haul herself up, and she heard liquid patter on the floor as she staggered to the bathroom.

  “Oh God,” she said, stripping the leggings and panties off. “What’ll I do? What’ll I do?”

  Her first thought was to call Betsy. But then she remembered Mr. Kovak’s threat. Could she put her friend in that position? The less Betsy knew, the better.

  “What do I do?”

  Anna thought of the community hospital in Superior. It was small, but they had an emergency room for minor injuries. Dr. Holdsworth had told her to go straight there if anything happened. The baby’s safety came first, always. Well, something was definitely happening now. Didn’t mean she had to call the clinic or Mr. Kovak.

  For an insane moment, she considered getting the mop and bucket from the closet in the living room and cleaning up the mess. No time, no time.

  That decided, she cleaned herself up, changed into a loose maternity dress, the bottle-green one she’d bought just a few weeks ago, and began gathering what she needed. The bag from the bottom of the closet, a nightgown, a change of clothes, a few sets of underwear, a thousand dollars in cash, pausing only when another contraction hit. Then, following some instinct that she could not identify, she packed a handful of diapers and onesies.

  After yet another contraction, Anna left the apartment and locked the door behind her. She paused at the balcony, looked down at what she could see of the street from here, watching for a large well-dressed man. As satisfied as she could be, she made her way downstairs and out to the street. She stopped outside the gate, looked up and down the street. No sign of him. She opened the driver’s door of her Civic, tossed the bag over to the passenger seat, then groaned as the next contraction hit.

  She leaned her forearm against the roof, her head on her forearm, and counted the seconds until it passed. When it had receded, she looked up and saw an elderly man with a small dog on a leash.

  “Miss, are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need any help?”

  She smiled at him and said, “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  “You sure? You don’t look so good, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I’m fine,” she said again. “Thank you.”

  Slowly, she lowered herself down into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed. As the man watched, she started the engine and pulled away from the curb without checking her mirrors. A car horn blared somewhere behind her, but she ignored it, concentrating on the road ahead.

  The hospital was maybe ten minutes away. She figured the co
ntractions were not quite five minutes apart. If she timed it right, she could pull over and wait the next one out, then set off again.

  Three and a half minutes later, while she waited at a set of lights, the contraction came, a full minute before she expected it. She gripped the steering wheel tight, clenched her jaw, and breathed hard. Counted the seconds, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty, and more. Horns sounded and cars pulled around her, drivers glaring at her.

  “Fuck,” she said as the pain ebbed away.

  Anna put the car in drive and pulled away from the lights as they changed back to red, accelerating through the intersection. She checked the time on the dash and told herself to pull over in three minutes.

  A deep ache had settled into the small of her back, and the muscles around her midsection and thighs tingled with fatigue. She ignored the signals of pain that came in from all over her body and focused on driving, on closing the distance between her and the hospital. When the third minute ticked by, she pulled to the side of the road, didn’t care that she blocked someone’s driveway, and waited. It came right on time, the giant fist squeezing her hard around the middle. She let loose a string of curses and rode the pain to the end. When it had subsided, she pulled away once more.

  At last, the hospital came into view. A squat building, taking up one corner of the block. She followed the signs into the small parking lot and didn’t care that she left her car across two spaces. The walk to the building seemed to take an age, the bag slapping against her thigh as she trudged down the sloping driveway. No one around to help. Full dark now, the windows glowing like beacons.

  The next contraction came, overwhelmed her so the pain and the pressure were the entirety of the universe. If not for the car she used for support, she would have collapsed to the ground. Once it had passed, she stood upright and resumed walking.

  She saw the word “Emergency” above a set of doors, glowing green. She fixed her gaze on the sign, refused to stop until she reached it. The doors hissed open as she approached, and she shuffled through, her legs losing strength with every step. Ahead, she saw a reception desk. A woman behind it, talking to a security guard. She noticed Anna, and her eyes widened. She pointed, and the guard turned to see.

  Another contraction hit, and she dropped her things to the vinyl-tiled floor. She saw the security guard running toward her, then the world spun away, the floor rushing up, strong arms circling her, catching her, bright light everywhere, sparks and fireworks, then a choir singing the most beautiful melodies she had ever heard.

  33

  LIBBY AWOKE WITH A START, no idea what had roused her, only a sense that something was very wrong. Then the fragments of the dream reassembled into a blur of images. The baby writhing, trying to find a way out. The pain of the contractions, even though the belly was no more than a mass of silicone. Waters breaking. The panicky rush of fear, thinking, It’s now, it’s now, it’s now.

  She lay trembling on the bed for a time. Alone, Mason hadn’t come upstairs. He had developed a habit of falling asleep on the couch and staying there for the night. In the mornings, he would rouse, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, then shave and shower before going to work. Then they would see each other at dinner, inquire about their days, before he would go to the living room or his den while she went to the small upstairs study she’d made for herself to write in. Short stories, mostly, but she had the beginnings of an idea for a novel. She indulged in fantasies of her child playing on the floor while she composed flowing sentences and beguiling plots.

  All of that seemed so far away now. All she had at this moment was a hollow dread for which she could find no source. She shifted onto her side, the weight of the prosthetic belly following her, and wrapped her leg over the body pillow that had been recommended on a pregnancy forum. Sleep would be slow to return; it had been hard enough to come by at all in recent weeks. She closed her eyes, tried to focus on her breathing, in, out, in, out, to wash away the sense of fear and—

  A giant invisible fist gripped her around the middle, a tightening band of pain low down in her back, circling around to her stomach. She opened her mouth, wanted to cry out, but could only find a low groan from deep in her throat. The pain kept coming and coming until she thought she might pass out. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, it faded again, leaving behind flutters and tingles in the muscles it had seized.

  Libby remained still for perhaps a minute, breathing hard, gathering the courage to move. When she felt she could manage it, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, shoved the body pillow out of the way, then swung her legs out of the bed, feet to the floor. It seemed an unholy effort for such a simple maneuver, and she rode a wave of dizziness as the room found its balance.

  What the hell was that? She went to put a hand to her stomach but found the prosthesis in the way. Maybe she should have taken it off, but she dismissed the idea. It hadn’t left her body in weeks, except for when she showered, and she would not remove it now.

  A bright craving appeared in her mind and her throat: cold water, from the filter built into the fridge. At that moment, there seemed no better thing in the universe. She hauled herself to her feet and went to the bedroom door, opened it, and stepped through, out onto the landing. From the stairs she could hear the television, a man’s voice giving a monologue, punctuated by the laughter of an audience, one of the late-night talk—

  The fist gripped her once more as she descended the stairs, draining the strength from her legs. She gasped, then cried out, reached for the handrail, but it had somehow become slick and slippery and she could not grasp it. The steps shifted under her feet, and then up was down and up again, and something slammed into her shoulder, jerked her neck, kicked her thigh, punched the side of her head, and then there was darkness, and finally floating somewhere she could look up at the ceiling above the stairs, many miles away, and here was Mason, so handsome, looking down at her, worry on his good face, and then it was dark again.

  * * *

  —

  SHE CAME TO in an ambulance full of dazzling lights and shrieking noise. Her eyes could not focus, there was too much to see, but she was aware of a man to her right. She reached out, touched a shirtsleeve, an arm too thick and heavy to be Mason’s.

  “Libby, everything’s all right,” the man said.

  She tried to turn her head to see him, but it would not move. Oh God, no, she thought, please no, not that. The thought of crushed vertebrae and severed spinal cords flashed in her mind, horrifying in their possibility. She heard a rising wail, a woman’s voice, taking flight in terror, up and up and up, only vaguely aware that it was her own.

  “Libby,” the man said. “Libby, listen to me.”

  A big hand on her arm, squeezing.

  “Libby, it’s all right. You have a concussion, and maybe a few pulled muscles in your back and neck. There’s a brace on your neck to keep your head still. You’re going to be fine. Libby, can you hear me?”

  He appeared in her vision now, leaning in. A moon-shaped face, black hair, brown eyes. He clicked his fingers once, twice, three times, snapping her focus to his hand.

  “Libby, can you hear me?”

  She opened her mouth to say yes, but it came out as a dry croak.

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  “I fell,” she said.

  “That’s right,” he said. “You fell down some stairs. Can you remember how you fell? What made you fall?”

  “The pain,” she said.

  “What pain?”

  Her hands went to the mound of silicone beneath her nightgown, circled it, and she felt a moment of relief in realizing that she could move them at all.

  “Here,” she said.

  “In your stomach?”

  She spread her fingers across the prosthesis. “Here,” she said.

  “Libby, I know that isn’t real. Your husband explained i
t to me. Was the pain in your stomach? Your real stomach?”

  “Don’t know,” she said truthfully.

  “We’ll make sure the emergency-room staff checks it out, okay? They’ll have to remove the prosthetic belly to—”

  “No, they can’t,” she said.

  “They’ll have to. Your husband asked us not to remove it at your home, but in the ER, there won’t be any choice. It’ll have to come off.”

  She did not answer. She couldn’t. The unseen fist had taken hold of her again, stealing the words from her mouth, the voice from her throat.

  * * *

  —

  IN A BAY in the ER, as a nurse and an orderly helped her onto the gurney, Libby asked, “Where’s Mason?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be right along,” the nurse said.

  “But I need him,” Libby said. “He should be here.”

  “I think he was following the ambulance,” the nurse said. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  “No, you don’t understand, he should be here.”

  “All right,” the nurse said. “I’m going to need you to calm down. Todd, will you see if you can find him?”

  The orderly nodded and drew the curtain as he left the bay.

  “Now, let’s see if you can lie back for me.”

  The nurse eased Libby from a sitting position onto her back, making soothing noises as she did so. Libby gasped as the muscles in her upper back and neck protested. The brace still held her head locked in place, but it didn’t stop the spasms that shot up from between her shoulder blades to the base of her skull.

  The curtain whisked aside and a doctor stepped through, clipboard in hand. He closed the curtain behind him and approached the gurney.

  “Hi, Libby, I’m Dr. Garner. How are you feeling?”

  “Sore,” she said. “Scared.”

  “You took quite a spill,” he said. “We’ll get you down to radiology for some X-rays, but I don’t think you’ve done anything too serious to yourself. Right now, I’m more concerned by the abdominal pains. If you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a quick examination. I believe you’re wearing a prosthetic pregnancy vest, correct?”