Page 51 of Penn

Proving, once again, women are the superior gender. But I can’t say that out loud in most rooms.

“I’m hungry,” Bernie says. “Can we get something to eat? My tummy is making noises.”

Panic flashes on Zep’s face, and I wish there was something I could do to make this better for him. For all of them. “Um…”

“I can stay with her if you want to take Bernie to get something to eat. You should probably eat, too,” I say. “I won’t leave, I promise. Even if I have to pee. I’ll wait.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “You don’t have to do that. That’s asking a lot of a pregnant woman.”

“I might not actually be able to keep that promise, but I will make it as quick as possible. Cross my heart.”

Bernie takes his hand as she hops off the bed and heads him to the door. “Come on. We gotta eat something fast so we can be with Mommy. And we don’t want Dixie to have an accident.”

Great. Now I’m like a child. Or a puppy. “I’ll be okay. Eat, Zep. You can’t take care of anyone until you take care of yourself.”

He pats the door with his large hand as Bernie leads him away, and I sit down in the chair he vacated. The baby’s graduated from the NICU and should be able to go home in a day or two. It should be joyous news, but I know Zep’s dreading it. Going home with the baby while leaving her mother in the hospital has to be difficult.

Leaning back, I take in the sight of Misty. We don’t know each other well, but we know each other well enough for me to feel for her and her family right now. Tubes and IVs connect to her at various parts of her body, and I notice how her eyelids move.

She’s dreaming.

I reach out and take her hand, and the movement stops. I hope whatever she dreams is pleasant and happy. The thought of having nightmares while unconscious in a hospital, unable to wake yourself up, chills me to the bone.

My fingers wrap around a limp hand, and it surprises me. I don’t know why I thought she’d grip my hand back, but I did. This feels almost creepy.

“Misty, I need you to wake up,” I say, my voice trembling and quiet in the silent room. “You can’t leave Zep and Bernie like this. Or your new baby.”

There’s no reaction. In the movies, this would be the point where the patient wakes up, suddenly healed enough to come out of the coma when a declaration is made to the comatose version of herself. But this isn’t a movie.

Or maybe that’s more of a soap opera thing.

“I’m scared, Misty,” I confess, hating how the words sound to my own ears. “Ever since this happened, it’s only added to yet another fear I have. I need another mother to talk to. Someone who has been through this before.”

I squeeze her hand, hating how weak I sound. Admitting I’m scared has never come easy, and I’m glad she’s unconscious for this. I might not have the strength to say this to her if she was awake.

“I’m terrified, actually,” I say. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of it. And I don’t trust my instincts.”

There, I’ve said it. Not to someone who can give me real advice or actual feedback, but we’re tackling one problem at a time.

“My dad is a whore. There’s really no nice way to put it, and Mom is crazy. Like, legit crazy. Locked away because of what Daddy put her through. So, that’s my parental upbringing.”

I’ve thought about calling my dad. Telling him I’m going to have a baby, but I can’t shake the feeling he’d want to come and stay here. Be near the baby.

And all the new women he could bed.

God, he might even visit Velvet Desire. No thank you.

“Then the father of my baby tried to take me out in a fire. All because I didn’t get an abortion, and he didn’t tell me he was married with three kids. I’m kind of starting to think I’m just a lightning rod for terrible things to happen to me.”

I cringe. How the hell can I say that to a woman in an actual coma after almost dying giving birth? Yeah, my life is so bad right now.

“I think I’m developing real feelings for Penn, and he’s been amazing. But I don’t know if I can trust him. Or me. Not at that level. It’s hard for me to imagine him wanting to raise another man’s baby. I don’t know if it’s even fair to ask.”

Any hope I had that she would magically wake up and have all the answers diminishes with every moment I speak. The only real answers I’m going to get will come from me.

“You raised Bernie alone while you were a teenager. You did what I couldn’t, and I’m scared to death that I’m going to fuck it all up. That I won’t be a good mother. That Penn won’t stick around. That my baby daddy might try to kill me again. You know… totally normal pregnant woman situations.”

I laugh to myself. I have to laugh. If I don’t, I’ll cry, and I hate crying. I do it. A lot more than I want to, but I hate it.