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I’ve lost count of time when the door at the end of the hall opens and a doctor exits. Quincy and Rhett get to their feet. They stare at the doctor as if he’s grown horns. With sure steps, he walks over, stopping short of me. His look is direct and factual, void of emotion. Standing––praying, hoping, despairing––I await the news. The stones are grinding on each other in my chest. Every breath I take hurts.
He looks at the three of us. “Mr. Louw?”
“That’s me.”
“It’s a boy.”
15
Gabriel
“It’s a boy,” I murmur.
I’m a dad.
Rhett, Quincy, and I stare at the doctor. None of us speak. We wait in the worst silence of my life.
The obstetrician gives me a tired smile. “Your wife pulled through.”
The earth tips under my feet. I have to grab the chair back to stay upright.
She lives.
A boy.
Thank you, thank you.
I’m conflicted and raw, knowing the sacrifice I’ll pay for her life, but my joy far outweighs the torment of giving up my child and the woman I love.
“He was born at thirty-six past three,” the doctor continues. “One point one kilo. Thirty-nine centimeters.”
My voice is gravelly. “How are they?”
“They’re both doing well. You can see your wife in an hour, when she comes to. Your baby has been placed in an incubator. A nurse will take you to see him.”
“He’s only twenty-nine weeks. What complications can be expected?”
“Anything, but, statistically, survival rates for his age are above ninety percent and disability less than ten.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
He pats my back. “Wait here. And congratulations.”
Rhett is at my side the minute the doctor is gone, grabbing my arms as if he senses my physical weakness. “Congratulations, Gabriel.”
A smile transforms Quincy’s face into a goofy mask. “You have a son.” He pulls me into a hug and slaps my back. “Well done.”
“She’s alive,” I say, still needing to convince myself. “She’s going to be all right.”
There’s a note of pride in Rhett’s voice. “She gave it a good fight.”
“She’s a strong one,” Quincy agrees.
They wait with me until the nurse returns to take me to my son. I stop in front of the incubator that separates us. For now, this is as close as I can get to him. He has patches on his tiny chest, a pipe in his nose, and an IV in his leg. Damn, he’s small, drowning in the white diaper. So fragile. So perfect.
I place my palm on the glass. “Connor.” I ache to touch him, to hold him against my chest and feel his heart beat in his brave little chest. “You made it. You’re going to grow up big and strong. A good man.” With a mother like his, he won’t have a choice.
Big, shameless tears run through my beard into my smile. They’re happy tears. Tormented tears, tears to welcome, and tears to say goodbye.
He looks just like me, at least the me before my scars, but he has Valentina’s full lips. I don’t know for how long I stay like that, drinking in his features while he sleeps like only the innocent can, but my hip is aching from the long stand when a nurse touches my arm.
“Would you like to see your wife?” she asks in a bright voice. “She’s awake.”
Would I like to see my wife? What kind of question is that? I don’t bother to reply. I don’t even have flowers or a stuffed toy. No balloons or diamonds. Only lies, deceit, and freedom.
The nurse stops in front of a door in the maternity wing. “Here you go. She suffered blood loss and is still weak, but you can stay as long as you want. No visiting hours apply. Don’t tire her, though.”
That’s part of the advantage of a private clinic and room. I brace myself and push the door open. Valentina is surrounded by white sheets. Her eyes are closed, and her lips slightly parted. Her breathing is even, but her skin reflects the color of the sheets. My gut turns inside out. It’s hard to see her like this.
I make my way over quietly, trying not to disturb her, but her eyelashes lift when I reach the edge of the bed. For three hammering heartbeats, she stares at me, her soft eyes awash with emotions. Fuck, that look unsettles me. The twisted, tormented expression coils around my chest and squeezes the air out of my lungs. The single tear that slips from her eye and spills down her cheek is a stake in my heart that leaves a hole that can never heal.
I grab her fingers and squeeze. I want to climb on top of the bed and hug her to me, but I don’t want to disturb her wound and hurt her. Instead, I will myself to be content with perching on the edge.
