Page 19 of The Golden Hour

Her father stops screwing the crib pieces together and looks over to her, concern on his face.

“Braxton,” she gasps, fingernails digging into the arms of the chair.

“What do you need, honeybee?”

“For this little girl to make her arrival,” Honey hisses. She then adds once the pain eases and she can breathe again, “Safely.”

Every night, she’s been having nightmares about the delivery.

About blood and Mason not being there because he’s busy downstairs in the ED. She’s terrified about being alone through it, or Daisy crying and Honey not being able to reach her. About them taking away Daisy and never seeing her again. About Daisy being confused and scared because she doesn’t know where her Mommy is.

And she can’t help but think that it’s not just nerves.

That it’s a warning.

Of course, she can’t bring it up to her husband since he’s off saving the world, and every single issue she brings up with Dr. Mortimer gets folded into something she should be able to handle better.

All pregnant women go through it, so why can’t you?

The excessive sickness, the dark thoughts swirling in her head, the headaches and nausea and her high blood pressure are just regular old pregnancy symptoms.

It’s more than that, though.

Honey feels it in her bones that something is wrong.

But Dr. Mortimer is a trusted doctor. Everyone says so. He delivered Mason, and he delivered half the staff at the hospital where Mason works. He’s older, but that’s because he’s experienced.

He’s the best of the best.

Mason wants to be the best too.

“Look at what Aunt Lisa made,” Melissa says, walking back into the nursery and showing Honey a little crocheted bumblebee. “Isn’t it so cute for our little flower?”

Honey smiles and reaches to take it from her mother’s outstretched hand, grimacing at her swollen fingers and her wedding rings that can’t come off anymore. Her ankles and feet are in the same shape. Normal. Her doctor said so.

“The cutest,” Honey smiles, affection running through her body for her family.

This morning, her parents came over to finally finish the nursery. She felt like such a complainer in the early months of her pregnancy when she spoke to people about her Hyperemesis Gravidarum. It kept her from working on the nursery and she saw some of the condescending looks they gave her.

“You can’t do it because of morning sickness?”

Without understanding that it is not just morning sickness. It’s not just throwing up a little. It is near constant. Any scent her body deems unsafe that day can send her running to the nearest toilet or trash can. She can’t even go to the grocery store anymore—her mother and Marlene mercifully taking care of shopping because the smell of chicken, coffee, or someone’s perfume can ruin her for days.

Her nurse at her last checkup said she was a little underweight and to try to keep eating any safe food she could since her daughter was relying on her body for nutrients. She probably imagined it, but she felt as if the nurse and Dr. Mortimer were scolding her when they told her she needed to eat and drink plenty of water. The bad-mom tone scalded her.

She wanted to scream, “I know! I’m trying to eat! But my body can’t keep anything down!”

Her mind tells her that she is overreacting, that women get pregnant every day, and that she is just weak. She literally forces herself to drink broths or eat bread or crackers or anything that won’t make her throw up.

Only to throw it all up anyway.

And it’s so disappointing because she had this idea of pregnancy in her head. She held babies in her arms at work, smiling at their gummy little grins and pressing her nose to their soft hair to catch that addictive baby smell.

And here she was—pregnant with the daughter she used to dream about.

Yet all she ever feels like doing is crying.

“How are you feeling?” Melissa asks Honey.