“I’d like you to start taking it easy,” she says. “No heavy lifting, try to limit your stress, and prioritize rest when you can.”
“Am I still able to work?” Charley asks, making me tense up. She’s had the past couple of days off, but she’s back tomorrow. “I’m still fairly new, so I’d like to work as much as I can before the baby is here.”
“I think that would be fine. This isn’t bedrest, but it is a strong recommendation to slow down.”
Gritting my teeth, I say nothing, even though I want to demand her to stop working. There’s no way her job isn’t causing her stress, and it’s not like they can fire her for taking the time off if it’s doctor recommended. What if she responds to a call, like the one she had last week, and it causes her so much distress, her blood pressure spikes, and she has a seizure? What if she passes out behind the wheel? Granted, she’s not driving the ambulance yet, but still. What if it spikes so high, something happens to the baby? Or Charley dies? There’s so much I want to say, but I know it’s not my place to do it in front of the doctor, so I bite my tongue.
“I’m going to send a report to your OB so she can follow up with you, and I’d like you to continue monitoring your blood pressure twice a day at home. If you notice anything like persistent headaches, blurry vision, swelling in your face or hands, or any decrease in baby’s movement, come in right away. Sound good?”
My mind races while we wait for the discharge paperwork, every bad scenario possible running on a loop. The weight on my chest gets heavier by the minute, it’s hard to breathe deeply, and sweat lines the back of my neck and my palms. By the time we make it to the car, it feels like I’m going to explode. Turning on the ignition, I sit for a moment, making no effort to back out of the spot. There’s a throbbing in my ears and my throat is tight. I consider not saying anything at all, because I don’t want to overstep, but I love Charley, and this is my baby too. How am I supposed to sit back and say nothing? I’m a part of this.
Shifting my body toward her in the seat, I meet her gaze. “I know you don’t want to, but I think it’s worth considering taking a leave from work, given what’s been going on.”
Even in the dark, I don’t miss the way she clenches her jaw as she breathes through her nose. “I’m not doing that,” she replies firmly. “The doctor said it would be fine. I don’t want to take a leave unless it’s absolutely necessary. My blood pressure has been steady all week.”
“Until today,” I grit out. “And you’ve also been in the emergency roomtwicein the last week. Yeah, the doctor said it would be fine, but she also said to limit your stress, and you don’t exactly work a low-stress job.”
“Graham, it’ll be okay,” she murmurs, scrubbing a hand over her face.We don’t know that.“I’ll continue monitoring it, and if it changes, then we can reconsider, but I don’t think I should jeopardize my job because of what could happen.”
Why is she being so fucking stubborn?
“You wouldn’t be jeopardizing your job, Sunny, and I highly doubt anybody there would think any less of you for doing what’s best for you and our child.”
“The doctor said it was fine to keep working. She’s a medical professional, who probably sees this all the time. If she thought it wasn’t okay, she would’ve said that. Besides, I have an appointment with Dr. Mitchell at the end of the week. I’m sure she’ll give her recommendation too if she disagrees. Can we just take it day by day, and can you please trust that I know my body?”
Everything inside of me wants to argue with her, wants to tell her she’s being so fucking naive, but doing that isn’t going to help matters any.
“Fine.” I huff a breath as I put the car in reverse, praying Dr. Mitchell puts her on bedrest because, apparently, that’s the only way she’s going to listen. She’s so fucking worriedabout jeopardizing her job… What about herself? Why isn’t she worried about that? Neither of us says another word the whole ride home, and once we get home and Georgia and Fletcher leave, I undress and climb into bed, staring up at the ceiling as my mind races. It never stops racing.
Charley climbs into bed about fifteen minutes later and immediately comes over to my side and places a hand on my chest while using her other to prop her head up. “Kiss me,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Turning my head, I meet her gaze, and even though I’m upset about the decision she’s making, I kiss her anyway, because she’s Charley—she’s my Sunny—and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Parting my lips with her tongue, she kisses me deeply, her mouth minty fresh from having just brushed her teeth. Her hand slides down my chest and over my stomach, clearly wanting to take this further, but as she’s about to slip underneath the sheet, I grab her wrist, stopping her as I break the kiss.
“Not tonight, Sunny,” I murmur against her lips. “I’m sorry, I’m just really not in the mood.”
She pulls back, her gaze holding mine for a moment. “Alright,” she huffs. Climbing out of bed, she announces, “I’m getting a glass of water,” before walking out of the room.
Clenching my jaw, I stare up at the ceiling again and heave a sigh.
I hate this.
The tension.
The way we aren’t on the same page.
But most of all, I hate that all of this is completely out of my control. I can’t stand knowing something very real could happen to her, and there’s nothing I can do to keep her safe from her own body. I can’t make this go away. I can’t ensure nothing bad will happen to her. I can’t even fucking talk her into taking time off.
I hate this.
29
Charley
Standing in front of the sink, empty glass in hand, I’m stalling.
Biggie Smalls meandered out of Ellie Mae’s room when he heard me go down the hall, and now he’s sitting in front of the cabinet by my feet, staring up at me, almost like he can sense something is wrong.
Petting the top of his head, which surpasses the height of the counter now, I whisper, “I’m okay, boy.” It’s a lie. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll eventually start to believe it myself.
