Ski told me when her mom died, cirrhosis of the liver, which I’m not surprised, considering what I knew about Celleste. I contemplated telling Leo, but I decided that if she wanted to know, she would either ask or go find out herself. I knew it was something she had to seek out on her own and I am glad that she decided to do so.
That is a relationship that was never going to mend. The damage was too great. But I hope that Leo can let her go, realize that all that Celleste did was a reflection of herself, not Leo.
“She is better. A lot better. She came back different. Stronger. Give her a few days, and she will come back to you.”
“I trust you, old man. Let me know if you guys need anything. I’ll be there.”
“You got it.”
“And tell Rune I love him and miss him.”
Ski chuckles, “I will. He is a bright young man, Everett. And damn, he looks just like you. You should be proud.”
“I am.” Is all I can reply without breaking down.
When Ski hangs up, I make my way back to the ER and continue seeing case after case. It’s busy tonight. Both a blessing and a curse.
Around one in the morning, Nat calls.
My heart immediately starts hammering in my chest. Why is she calling so early in the morning? Something is wrong. It has to be.
“Nat? What's going on?”
“Everett. Everett, God, it hurts so bad. Something is wrong. I need you.” Her voice is shaking. Nat is one of the strongest women I know. She can be vicious, but hate breeds hate. She knows no different. But right now, she’s scared. Right now, she’s my Nat again.
Despite the persona she gives to the outer world, Nat is vulnerable. More so than anyone I have ever met. Her family is worse than mine when it comes to the expectations they hold her to, and her insecurities are many.
“Where are you? I’m on my way.”
She gives me her address, and thank fuck, I only had two hours left of my shift. The other doctors on shift are able to cover.
I pull up to the expensive and elaborate hotel she is staying in and make my way to the thirteenth floor. I pound on her door, and she opens it, tears running down her slim face. She’s clutching her abdomen.
But that’s not what makes my heart stop beating.
It’s the blood.
So much blood.
She has a towel between her legs. A white towel. With red coating most of it.
“Everett. Help me. Please.”
I scoop her up bridal style and carry her from the room, down to my truck, and to the closest hospital. I don’t need an ultrasound to know. Our baby girl is gone.
“Do you think she’ll be okay? She’s okay, right, Everett?”
Part of my job as a physician is breaking the most horrendous and heartbreaking news to families. But I'm not a physician right now. I’m a man who’s lost his daughter, who’s carrying the weight of a grieving woman, a grieving mother who will not get the chance to experience motherhood with this baby girl.
She grabs my hand in hers as another cramp comes and cries out, “Everett, please make it stop! It hurts too much…” The way her voice breaks on that last breath, I know she means it more than physically.
We’re rushed back quickly to a room, the amount of blood covering Nat’s legs and the white towel concerning the triage nurses. Nat’s blood is drawn, an IV started, and Morphine administered for her pain. Shortly after, as Nat is finally resting in the stretcher, an OB comes in with an ultrasound.
I sit next to her, holding her hand. Right now, she’s not my ex. Not my enemy. She’s my friend. My Nat. And she’s hurting more than any woman should ever have to.
The OB places the cold jelly and ultrasound probe to her flat stomach and confirms that there’s no heartbeat.
Nat’s sobs fill the room.
