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Please, God, save her.
I’ll give my life, instead. Don’t make her pay for my mistakes. Don’t let her pay the ultimate price for my selfish lust and hardheaded will to keep her. Save her and I swear I’ll make this right. I’ll take a vow on my knees to undo every wrongdoing, every self-serving sin I committed against her. Even if it kills me, I’ll set her free.
I’ll let her go.
Fuck, that thought cuts crisscrossed lashes into my heart. Retribution is a bitch, and I deserve every bit of it.
“Let’s go, Mr. Louw.”
The nurse leads me down a long hallway with too bright lights. It’s like walking down a tunnel toward the end. There’s mercy in life and peace in death. I don’t want her to have peace yet, not before she’s lived the full and happy life she deserves. I want her to grow old and see her grandchildren married. I want her to have whatever she wants. I want her to have the mercy.
The woman in the white uniform holds a door and motions for me to enter. My world crashes to pieces before those pieces are reconstructed to form the picture facing me. My wife lies on a bed, straining with all her might. Her face is as white as pottery clay, and her slender legs are shaking in an unnatural way, as if she’s having a fit. She’s trying to give life to the baby I put in her womb, and suddenly her frail limbs look too vulnerable for the task. Her hair is plastered to her brow, and her skin shiny with perspiration, but the set of her mouth is determined. Strong.
Jerking from my immobile state of shock, I rush to her side and take her hand. The stump that used to be her thumb is another reminder of who I am, one more piece I took away from her.
“You can do it, beautiful.”
What lies in front of me is a broken creature, an angel with torn wings and pieces of her soul and body missing. Despite the injuries, she still fights to fly. I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her fingers. Her skin is cold.
“Please, Valentina.” I beg for forgiveness. I beg for her to fight harder and not to leave me. “Fight,” I whisper.
For all her brave efforts, things are going wrong. The nurses are tense, and the doctor’s instructions are strained.
“The baby’s not descending,” the obstetrician says.
Valentina wails when he pushes a forearm on top of her abdomen and works it down. I want to tear the motherfucker’s limbs apart. I want to rip the cause of her pain away and crush his skull against the wall. It’s only sheer willpower that prevents me from stabbing him with the scalpel. My anger is directed at the wrong person. The root of all this agony is standing next to the bed, clutching her hand.
“Emergency caesarean,” the doctor declares with a new note of urgency.
One of the nurses lays a hand on my arm. “Please move aside, sir.”
I jerk free. “I’m not leaving her.”
“Mr. Louw,” the doctor’s voice is stern, “for the sake of your wife and child’s lives, leave. We don’t have time.”
Grabbing her face, I kiss her like I may never kiss her again. There’s too much to say, but no time, because orders are being called, and Valentina is pulled from my arms onto a gurney. I strain to hold back when they take her. Walking next to her, I keep one hand on her stomach and grip her fingers in the other.
I press her palm against my mouth, stifling the emotions that won’t let me speak, because I have to say this.
“I love you.” Each word is broken. Each word is meant. Each word is beautiful in its own, ugly, wrong way.
We approach the operating wing doors.
“You can wait in the visitor’s area, Mr. Louw.”
“Wait.” Valentina grips my wrist. “What’s his name?”
“Connor,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “His name is Connor.”
And then she’s gone.
The doors to the operating wing swing shut, and I stand alone in the long hallway with the bright lights.
Tearing out of the hospital clothes, I pace and pray, repeating my vow. I feel like dying. Is this punishment for my sins?
Rhett and Quincy arrive. They’re here more for Valentina than me, and I can’t blame them. She has that effect on people.
“How’s Charlie holding up?” I ask Rhett.
“He’s fine. Kris is cooking dinner. You don’t have to worry about him.”
“Val?” Quincy looks as if he fears my answer, but couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I give them a brief explanation of the situation.
“Fuck.” Quincy clenches his hands together and flops down in the nearest chair.
“Coffee?” Rhett asks.
Sensing he needs to keep busy, I agree.
Armed with dark, bitter coffee, we nurture our fears, thoughts, and blame as we wait. When I can’t stand it, any longer, I limp up and down the hallway. It’s taking too long.
