“I’m not abdicating.”
“We have to decide together.”
“We will. I just . . . you heard what Dr. Wagner said.”
She said Bristol’s body will keep preparing for what’s supposed to happen. It doesn’t know to stop. Her pelvic bones will still stretch. Her ankles will still swell. Her milk will come in. Her body will ready itself for a child whose death is a foregone conclusion. No matter what course of action we choose, she won’t live. If she does come into the world, these pictures on Bristol’s phone, heavy in my hand, are her short-lived destiny.
“It’s your body, Bris.” I grit my teeth, but the words escape and I prepare myself for whatever she decides. “I want you to . . .”
The words hang in my throat, choked and unsaid.
“What do you want to do, Grip?” She moves quickly, settling on my lap, facing me with her knees on either side of my legs. I stare down at the little mound of baby taking up the small space between us.
Dwell in possibility.
It’s a practical joke now.
“What do you want?” Bristol dips her head to catch my eyes in the weak light.
“Dr. Wagner—”
“Is not my husband.” Bristol’s words cut over mine. “Tell me what you want.”
“This decision—”
“Is ours, not just mine.” She leans forward until our foreheads press together, the contact reminding me of who we were before this thing took over our lives, reminding me of our honesty, our intimacy that transcended flesh.
“Please tell me, Grip,” she whispers, her cool breath fanning over my lips like a kiss, begging for entry.
“I want her.”
The words fly from my mouth like arrows, aiming for Bristol’s heart. If she wants to know what I’m feeling, I’ll tell her and hope that she feels it, too.
“I want to meet her and hold her.” Tears flood my throat and then spill hot down my cheeks. “I don’t give a damn if she’s here three minutes, three hours, three days. I want her to know that as long as she is in this world, her parents love her unconditionally, that we loved her so much, we had to have her . . . even if we knew it couldn’t last, even though we knew it would kill us to lose her, we had to have her.”
I immediately regret saying it. I understand the power Bristol has over me, that what she wants, I want to give her, and I hold that same power over her. If she goes through with this because of what I just said, and it’s too much . . .
“Yes.” For the first time, Bristol meets my eyes squarely. A new fire has burned away the haze. They’re lit again, lit with determination and the fierce love few are capable of. “I want that, too.”
“Are you sure, Bris?” My question is a raggedy-roped bridge between us. One wrong step and it could fall—we could fall.
“I’m sure.” She shifts until she’s no longer straddling me, and presses her shoulder into my chest. Her head tucks under my chin. “I can’t terminate, Grip. I wouldn’t judge another woman who did—I’ve always been pro-choice, you know that.”
She looks up, her lashes damp, her lips stung and swollen from her teeth. God, she’s breaking my heart. I thought Dr. Wagner’s diagnosis drove a stake through me, but seeing Bristol suffer through this is a level of agony I can’t even put into words.
“But this is my choice,” she says, eyes locked with mine, searching mine. “This is our baby, and I want to have her.”
I can’t resist rubbing the subtle roundness of her belly, twin shafts of pain and joy coursing through me at the contact. Our little girl. If we do this, every moment of joy will be shadowed by pending pain. Can we do that? Endure that?
“Bris, this isn’t something you can un-decide later.” I push unruly tendrils of her hair back, needing to see her face clearly. The eyes that stare back at me are clearer than I’ve seen them since Dr. Wagner first told us what she suspected. Bristol’s backbone is reinforced with steel, and I see evidence of it in her eyes: a steely determination, a certainty I can’t argue with.
“I understand what this means,” she says, closing her eyes briefly. “That once she’s born, there’ll be more pain than we can fully comprehend right now. I’m going into this with my eyes wide open.”
Stretching to grab her phone from the floor, she opens a new browser window, quickly bypassing the photos that disturbed me when I first came in.
“Tell me again what you used to whisper to her,” Bristol says.
The words “used to” grab me by the throat. Ever since we found out Bristol was pregnant, I talked to our baby every day, several times a day, every time I got the chance. For the last ten days, I haven’t said a word to the baby. It’s like I was preparing myself for the fact that she was already gone, or that she would never come. Shame spears me.