Page 321 of Wicked Brutal

Ally’s face crumples. “She never gets to hear it. She’ll never hold them.” Mom gets out of her chair, bends carefully over Ally, and wraps both arms around her. Ally breaks. Completely. “I need her. I need my mom. I don’t know how to do this without her.”

“You don’t have to know today,” Mom sobs.

“I wanted her there. When I have the baby. I wanted her to hold our baby.”

Mom cries into Ally’s hair. Darla turns away again.

I can’t look at any of them. I look at the screen. At that tiny flicker. Alive. Jane is dead. Our baby is alive. There is no version of those two facts that fits together.

When the doctor comes in twenty minutes later, I’m ready. I’ve already opened a note on my phone.

Darla notices. Of course she does. “Ryan.”

“What?”

“Of course you have a list.” Her eyes are soft.

“I’m making one.”

“I know.”

The doctor pulls a stool toward the bed. I sit forward. “The ultrasound is reassuring. The pregnancy is viable. Baby is measuring appropriately, and cardiac activity is present.”

I type. Viable. Measuring right. Heartbeat.

“But she was bleeding.”

“Yes. There’s a subchorionic hematoma — a collection of blood between the chorion and the uterine wall.”

I stop. “Is it dangerous?”

“It can raise the risk of complications depending on its size and how it progresses. But many resolve, and many pregnancies continue normally.”

“Will hers?”

“I can’t promise you that.”

My fingers stop over the screen. Ally goes still. Mom’s hand closes around hers.

“What can we do?”

“Ryan,” Darla says quietly. I look at her. She gives me the smallest shake of her head. One thing at a time.

I look back at the doctor. “What can we do?”

“Right now, we monitor. Follow-up with her OB. Repeat imaging. Watch her symptoms.” I type it. “Increased bleeding, worsening pain or cramping, dizziness, fainting, fever — any of those, come back to the emergency department.”

I type every one. She gives me the thresholds she wants us using before I have to ask twice, and I write those down too. “Anything else?”

“Rest. Given the bleeding and the trauma today, I want her taking it very easy until her OB sees her. Nothing strenuous. No heavy lifting. Short walks around the house if she’s steady. Someone nearby when she showers, in case she’s dizzy. Pelvic rest until her OB clears her.”

Ally closes her eyes. I don’t care. I make the doctor define pelvic rest, because I am not guessing, and I write down exactly what she says.

“School?”

“Not right away. Reassess with her OB, especially given the trauma.” I type it.

“What else?”