Page 170 of First in Line

I want to stay there until it stops, until I can breathe normally again. But as I look over her shoulder, I see Evie on the bed, which is adjusted to keep her half seated up.

My mom lets me go when I pull away, and I walk to my wife. Her face is twisted toward the window and the dawn slowly lighting up the sky outside. She looks so small and frail in the hospital bed, her blue gown too big for her.

“Evie, princess,” I say, the words as tight as my throat. “Evie, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

I’m in front of her now, but she doesn’t look at me. Her face is a mask of neutrality, her eyes still fixed somewhere on the window.

“Evie, my love,” I beg, bending over to kiss her forehead as I graze her hair back. “Princess, talk to me.”

She doesn’t, but at least her gaze meets mine. I take her limp hand, which has an unattached cannula in it, and kiss its cold palm.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, princess,” I say once more, pressing her lax hand against the side of my face. “I should never have left.”

Again, no response from her. She remains stoic, as if there’s nothing left of her behind her hazel eyes.

“They gave her a sedative,” Mom explains, coming closer. “She hasn’t slept since… since Ophelia passed away.”

I wipe the back of my free hand over my cheeks, trying to dry them, and sniff. “Do they know what happened?”

She nods, then looks back at the open door. “I’ll see if I can find the doctor. He’ll know how to explain it better.”

After a forced, compassionate smile, she leaves me with my unresponsive wife. I focus on my princess again, torn apart by her blank stare.

She looks so pale in the cold light of the room. And she seems so tired, as if she hasn’t slept in weeks. Under the blue cover, her stomach is still round and swollen. It’s hard to believe the life that was growing there when I left is gone.

Not trying to get her to talk or acknowledge me any longer, I kiss the inside of her hand again, still mindlessly soothing her hair back. I failed her. I failed them both. My girls. My reasons to live.

Several minutes after her departure, Mom returns, accompanied by the obstetrician who’s been following the pregnancy.

“Mr. Reyes,” he greets me solemnly. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. We did everything we could for your daughter.”

“I know. My mom explained some of it. Can you tell me what exactly happened?”

He glances toward Evie, who’s back to staring silently out the window. Understanding immediately, I press one last kiss to her hand before gently setting it down. “I’ll be right back, princess.”

We step into the hallway, and the obstetrician lowers his voice. “I believe your wife’s partial placental abruption worsened a few days before she was admitted. The detachment became large enough to compromise the baby’s oxygen supply.”

My stomach twists violently. “And nobody noticed?”

“It can be very insidious,” he carefully explains. “It was what we call a concealed abruption. In those cases, much of the bleeding remains trapped between the placenta and the uterine wall instead of exiting the body immediately. Symptoms can be difficult to identify until the situation suddenly deteriorates.”

“And it did?”

He nods. “The night she was rushed to the OR, it developed into a complete abruption. The accumulated blood suddenly began releasing, and the increased abruption contributed to the hemorrhage, which is why she bled profusely. By the time she got here, the baby was already too far down for a C-section to be a safe option, so the team proceeded with an emergency vaginal delivery to save both the mother’s and the child’s lives.But despite my colleagues’ best efforts, it was already too late for your daughter at that stage.”

“Why?”

“She had suffered profound hypoxia before delivery. The lack of oxygen for a prolonged period of time damaged her brain. The neonatal team placed her on a ventilator, but she wasn’t able to sustain oxygenation. Her organs went into failure, and she passed away about five hours and forty minutes after the birth.”

I swallow his words, digesting the pain they cause for a moment, then ask, “And Evie? How is she doing?”

The doctor looks into the room, where Mom is sitting by her side, holding her hand. “Physically, she will be alright. She lost a lot of blood, so we had to give her two transfusions. The recovery will take a little longer than after an uncomplicated delivery, but she will return to her former self. Her reproductive organs will, too, and she will be able to get pregnant again without an issue. Emotionally, though… A neonatal death is always a tragedy, and everyone handles grief differently. Our psychiatrist has come to see her twice, but she hasn’t been very responsive. Now that you’re back, I’m sure things will get better.”

It’s my turn to look at her, chest tight at the sight. “I’m not so sure. I think she blames me for leaving. She begged me to stay. She begged me to stop racing until Ophelia was born. But I didn’t listen.”

Guilt makes my skin crawl, and I fight the tremor threatening to take over.

“If I may,” the doctor softly continues, “I believe she blames herself more at the moment. For not noticing the signs. For not coming in when the light spotting returned. But I told her, and I’m telling you, there’s nothing you could have done differently. Sometimes, these things happen. They are, sadly, one of the hard facts of life.”