They've given me something, and my head feels fuzzy, my body heavy. My arm is cold where the IV liquid is dripping in, and the hand that Damien clings to is numb.
"Is it true?" I whisper to him. "We've really lost the baby?"
He closes his eyes, his expression like cracked glass. "It's true," he says as tears trail down my face. "Sweetheart, I'm so, so sorry." He starts to reach for me, but there is a rail on the bed and tubes and rolling contraptions. After a moment, he sits in the chair again, his sigh joining the hum and rattle of the machinery.
"Why don't I remember getting into bed? I remember the ambulance, but nothing after we got to the hospital."
The last thing I recall with any clarity is Jamie pointing out the blood on my dress and Damien calling for an ambulance. I know I didn't pass out--I can remember the paramedics, the shrill of the siren, Damien's voice as he called the emergency number for the obstetrician I was supposed to see this coming Monday. But everything I remember is filtered through a drugged, gray haze. And though I recall arriving in the ER, nothing after they started the IV is clear.
"Damien?" I press. "What did they do to me?"
He rubs the fingers of his free hand against his temple, and when he speaks, the words come slowly, and I know that he's fighting for control. "Dr. Tyler got here right after we did. He took care of you, sweetheart, but he had to--he had to make sure you were okay, and they put you under for the procedure."
"Oh." I swallow. "There's something else wrong, isn't there?"
"Sweetheart, no." He stands, then lets go of me long enough to fiddle with the rail of the bed again, trying to lower it. It refuses to cooperate, and he curses and sits farther down, beside my legs, his hand resting on my thigh.
"Miscarriages happen all the time, Damien, especially in the first trimester." I have no personal knowledge of this, but I've read enough that I'm pretty confident. "They don't admit you for a miscarriage."
"They do when you donate as much to this hospital as I do." His hand tightens on my thigh. "There's nothing else wrong." But he says it in his boardroom voice, as if he expects to will it and make it so.
And while Damien is certainly powerful, even I don't think his control reaches that far.
The door opens, and Dr. Tyler steps in. He's the obstetrician that Dr. Cray in Texas contacted for us. I hadn't met him before today, and my memory of him from earlier is choppy. But he has kind hands and a warm manner, and his smile is full of comfort.
"What else is wrong with me?" I demand while he palpates my abdomen.
"Nikki--" I hear the censure in Damien's voice, but I know I'm right, and my fear is confirmed when Dr. Tyler nods slowly.
"I'm sorry," he says. He turns to Damien. "I'm afraid your wife is correct. You have a bicornuate uterus," he says, looking at me. "It's a type of Mullerian defect," he continues, although at this point all I'm hearing is that I'm broken. When I hear him say, ". . . of course, the prognosis isn't entirely negative," I tune back in.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I know this is a lot to take in," he says gently. "But even though most women with this condition miscarry with a statistically high frequency, it's still possible to carry a child to term. And if you do make it past the first trimester, the risk of miscarriage decreases significantly."
"You're saying if I get pregnant again, the odds are that I'll lose the baby before the third month. Over and over and over again."
My voice cracks as I speak, and I see sharp lines of pain cut across Damien's face.
"That doesn't sound like a good prognosis at all," I whisper.
He inclines his head, acknowledging my words. "I know, Mrs. Stark. I'm truly very sorry. You can--"
But I don't want to hear anymore. So I just roll over, shut my eyes, and let the pull of my own pain drag me back down into sleep.
I sleep in the hospital until Saturday morning, then doze in Damien's arms at home with our cat, Sunshine, curled up beside me, her low purr filling my mind so that I don't have to dream.
Throughout the day I drift, getting out of bed only to go to the bathroom. I stand at the sink, staring at my eyes that seem sunken. My skin like paper. Damien's razor sits in a cup on the counter, and I think how easy it would be to just twist the handle and open the compartment that the blade fits in. To take the blade out and run the honed edge gently over my skin. Just a shallow cut. Just enough to make a few beads of blood rise.
Just enough so that I know that I'm alive.
But I don't.
Because right now even that seems like too much effort, and I move like a sleepwalker through the darkened room and back to bed.
We rarely close the blackout drapes, preferring to keep the door open to the balcony that looks out over the ocean. But today they are closed, rendering the room so dark I can barely see my hand.
Today?
Maybe it's tonight. I don't know. All I know is that I want to get sucked under again. I want Damien's arms around me, and I want to drift away, falling far into a place where the pain and the loss can't reach me.
And so I slide back into bed and mold my body to his. His arm drapes across my waist, and I hear him murmur my name. I don't answer, and as soon as I close my eyes, sleep grabs me once again.
I don't know how long I sleep, but I wake to the vague sound of movement in the house. A moment later there is a light tap at the door and beside me, Damien stirs, then lifts his head. "Come in."
The door opens slowly, sending a triangle of light cutting across the room. Gregory, Damien's longtime valet and overall house manager, steps inside. "I'm very sorry to disturb," he says, his voice low, "but Mrs. Stark's mother is here."
I sit up, pulling the sheet up to my neck like a shield as Damien holds me tightly. "No," I say. "I--I'm sorry. Can you tell her I'm not available?"
He nods solemnly. "Of course."
He leaves, and the room returns to black.
"We don't have to see her," Damien says, stroking my shoulder. "But we should get up, sweetheart."
"I know. But I can't." I close my eyes against the darkness in the room, and slide down into the darkness inside me. "Not yet."
He says nothing, but a moment later I feel his lips brush my temple as his arm slides over my waist to pull me closer. And I lose myself in the safety of his embrace and hide from reality for just a little bit longer.
20
A day passes. Then another and another.
I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep some more. And each time I wake, Damien is there. Holding me. Watching over me.
I slide in and out of dreams, finding comfort in his presence. In the cool sheet against my hot skin. In the darkness that permeates the room, revealing nothing of the outside world, and hiding even time herself under a fake, permanent night.
But then my safe cocoon disappears, and I open my eyes to find a room bathed in light. A brisk ocean breeze is blowing in through the open patio door, Sunshine is bathing herself at the foot of the bed, and Damien is nowhere to be seen.
I have no idea what time it is--or what day it is, for that matter. My eyes ache from the unfamiliar light, and my head throbs in protest of a returning consciousness that is not entirely welcome.
Still, as much as I'd like to stay hidden, I know that it's time to ease back into reality. To sit up. To put my feet on the floor. And then, finally, to walk out of this room.
I can do this, I think, and then I push myself upright. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand to my belly, then choke back a little sob because there is no child growing there anymore. And that's so sad and horrible, but what makes it worse is the knowledge that there probably never will be. That I'll never have Damien's children. That the life I'd started to see spreading out before me has been shut down so brutally.
But it's time to leave this bed. I d
on't have to shed the sadness, but I need to start moving through the world.
I stand, feeling creaky after spending so many hours asleep, then head into the bathroom wearing the loose sweatpants and tank top in which Damien must have dressed me. I splash water on my face and generally try to come alive, and when I emerge, I notice my phone sitting on the table near the bedroom door.
I pause in the doorway as I scroll through my text messages--condolences from pretty much everyone I've met in my life, either in a text or sent by voice mail. I know I should reply, and I will. Soon.
Just not quite yet.
My stomach growls and I try to remember when I last ate. I have a vague memory of Damien bringing me soup, but I don't know how long ago that was.
I put my phone back on the table, then head out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen, thinking that if I have an appetite that must be a sign that I'm healing.
I expect to see Damien in the third-floor sitting area, but it's empty. Well, not empty. In fact, every flat surface is covered with flowers and plants and unopened boxes. I blink, staving off tears as the reason for these gifts stabs me straight in the heart. But I look at the cards as I pass. A pot of daisies from Jamie and Ryan. A beautiful climbing vine from Sylvia and Jackson. A spray of wildflowers from Evelyn. And a small bonsai garden on the pass-through bar that opens between the sitting area and the third-floor kitchen.
There is an unopened card with it, and I slide my finger under the flap, then pull out the thick cardstock. It's from Damien's father, Jeremiah, and there are only two words--I'm sorry. But whether he means about the miscarriage or all the trouble he's caused for Damien and our marriage, I don't know. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.
I head into the kitchen, and as I walk that direction, I hear Damien's voice drifting up from the mezzanine below. He's on the phone as if it were just another day. But, of course, it is another day, and I'm the one who is stuck. Who wants to just pull the blinds and go back to sleep and run away from it all.
Coffee, I think. And with a pang I remember that I can actually drink it now. Gallons and gallons if I want.
There's a pot already brewed, and I pour myself a cup, then take a long, bitter swallow.
I put the cup down and open the drawer beneath the coffeemaker. It's filled with kitchen knives, the ones with mismatched handles that aren't pretty enough for the knife block that rests on the small island. I stand there, just looking down at those blades, and though I know I shouldn't think it--though I definitely shouldn't want it--I know that they will help.