“At the house. I’m waiting for Kris to arrive to stay with Charlie. As soon as she gets here, I’ll go to the hospital.”
“How did this happen? Did she lift something heavy?” Dear God, did she…? “Did she fall?” I should’ve been there, dammit. Maybe she tried to clean under the bed again or carry the laundry basket downstairs.
“I don’t know.” Rhett sounds lost. Frightened. “Magda arrived, I went for a shower, and the next thing I knew, Valentina’s in labor.”
“Wait.” Magda arrived? My hackles grow ten inches long. “What did Magda want?”
“I don’t know. I assumed it was a social visit.”
It doesn’t add up. I’m in the lobby, scanning the street for Quincy. “Did you see her?”
“No. I only opened the gate. Valentina met her at the door. I went for a shower to give them privacy.”
“Is she still there?”
“She left before Valentina’s water broke.”
Spotting the Jaguar pulling up to the curb, I race for the passenger side. “Good.” I don’t want Magda there when I’m not home. I get inside and cover the phone with a hand. “Broadacres Clinic,” I say to Quincy. “Hurry. Valentina’s having the baby.”
Quincy pales. He puts the car in gear and takes off with screeching tires.
“I’m on my way,” I say. “We’ll be there in twenty.”
Luckily, at this hour, there’s little traffic. We take the quieter roads and make it to the clinic in just under my predicted time.
Quincy drops me off at the front entrance. “Go. I’ll park the car.”
As a short month ago, I rushed to the reception desk, but this time I ask for my wife. As a month ago, the receptionist tells me to stay put. A doctor is on his way to meet me. I turn to stone. My organs transform into lead. I haven’t been directed to a lounge, but it’s the same.
A young man in a white coat approaches me. He doesn’t waste time with a greeting.
“Mr. Louw, your wife is in labor.”
I’m like a lion ready to pounce. I want to be with my woman. “I know. Take me to her.”
“Shortly.” His tone is assertive. “First, I need to bring you up to speed.” He turns and starts walking, not looking to see if I’m following.
When we enter a small visitor’s room, everything inside of me turns heavy. My stomach is a ball of granite. My chest cavity is filled with rocks.
He closes the door and turns to me. “Your wife has severe preeclampsia as a result of hypertension. The only way to prevent further risks is for the baby to be delivered immediately, but we’re battling to stabilize her blood pressure. We’re administering magnesium sulfate intravenously. If her body doesn’t react to the magnesium, she may develop eclampsia. In other words, she may have seizures. We’ve already explained the condition and possible consequences to her. Before you go into the delivery room, we need to do the same.” He takes a breath and plows forward. “There’s a chance she may not survive the birth.”
My legs turn to stone pillars. My fault. My doing. “How big a chance?”
“Right now, I’d say fifty-fifty, but it depends on how she reacts to the medication.”
My first irrational reaction is anger. “Our private doctor examined her every two weeks. Why didn’t he pick this up?”
“Preeclampsia often only starts at the onset of labor.”
“She wasn’t due for another two months. What went wrong?”
I’m screaming at nature, at God, and at the day I replaced her birth control pills with placebo ones. If I can find what triggered the untimely contractions, maybe I can go back in time and change it. Maybe I can find the mistake and flog myself to reverse this process, to take her back to before her water broke. Or maybe I simply need to punish myself for not carrying that laundry basket for her. If I flog my back to bloody strips for letting her bend down and clean under the bed, maybe God will forgive me and spare her life.
“It’s hard to say,” the doctor says. “A physical shock could’ve triggered the birth, emotional trauma, illness… there are many factors. What matters now is that you support her.” He grabs my shoulder. “You have to be strong for her, Mr. Louw. It’s what she needs most.”
I haven’t realized that big, fat, slobbering tears are streaming over my face until he hands me a tissue from a box strategically placed on the table. If she dies… No, no, no. I can’t face it.
“Ready?” The doctor gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We should go.”
Another minute later, I’m showering and scrubbing in a change room, donning the scrubs a nurse put out for me. My chest is so tight it’s difficult to breathe. The beat of my heart is like the slap of a hammer on a block of marble, chipping away at the corners and edges, carving deep grooves into the memories of my moments with Valentina.