Chương 4
“Your mother.”
“Decline it.”
He did.
A second later, she called again.
“Block her,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
That word again.
So small.
So useful.
He blocked the number.
Then my father called.
I watched his name appear.
For most of my life, Dad had been the easier parent.
That was what I used to tell people.
Mom was intense, but Dad was easy.
Dad did not scream.
Dad did not slap.
Dad did not demand things.
Dad simply stood nearby while they happened.
I let the call ring until it stopped.
A voicemail appeared.
I did not listen to it.
The ultrasound technician arrived with a portable machine.
She dimmed the lights and spread warm gel across my abdomen.
Gray shapes moved across the screen.
I had seen enough ultrasounds by then to recognize nothing.
Evan leaned closer anyway, as if proximity might turn him into a radiologist.
The technician measured quietly.
“Can you tell us anything?”
Evan asked.
“I’ll send the images to the doctor.”
He nodded.
Hospitals were full of sentences designed not to become promises.
When she finished, another nurse entered with medication.
“Dr. Patel wants to give you the first steroid injection.”
“Where?”
The nurse smiled.
“You’re not going to like the answer.”
Five minutes later, I was lying on my side while Evan tried not to grin.
“If you laugh, I will divorce you before this baby is born.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m nervous.”
“You’re about to be single and nervous.”
The nurse gave the injection in my hip.
It burned.
I swore.
The nurse said, “That’s about the reaction most people have.”
For twenty minutes afterward, nothing happened.
No catastrophe.
No new emergency.
The contractions even seemed to slow.
Evan sat beside me and peeled the label off a bottle of water in tiny strips.
I watched him.
“You do that when you’re anxious.”
“Do what?”
“Destroy labels.”
He looked at the naked bottle.
“I’ve never noticed.”
“You do it on flights.”
“I hate flying.”
“You also do it at the dentist.”
“I hate the dentist.”
“I work at a dental office.”
“That does not make drilling pleasant.”
The ordinary conversation felt almost obscene.
An hour earlier, my mother had knocked me into a pool.
Now my husband was complaining about dental drills while a fetal monitor clicked beside us.
I wanted to stay in that stupid little conversation forever.
Then someone knocked on the door.
A woman in navy scrubs stepped inside.
She introduced herself as a hospital social worker.
My stomach tightened before the monitor even registered another contraction.
“I understand there may have been an assault before you arrived.”
Evan sat straighter.
“Yes.”
The social worker looked at me, not him.
“I’d like to talk with you about safety and whether you want law enforcement contacted.”
My first instinct was immediate.
No.
The word rose automatically and stopped behind my teeth.
Calling the police on my mother felt impossible in a way I could not explain.
It sounded like something families on television did.
Not us.
We argued.
We went too far.
We apologized.
We pretended.
We had Thanksgiving.
The social worker waited.
She did not fill the silence.
Evan did not answer for me.
That mattered.
Finally, I asked, “Did the paramedics already report it?”
“They documented what you told them.”
“But the police?”
“Not automatically in the way you mean.”
She folded her hands.
“You’re an adult, and you can decide whether you want to make a report.”
Evan’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.
I looked toward the window.
The blinds were half closed.
Through the narrow gaps, I could see the top level of the parking deck and one crooked pine tree beyond it.
A woman pushed a stroller toward the entrance below.
A man hurried after her carrying a diaper bag that kept slipping off his shoulder.
Normal people coming to a hospital on a normal afternoon.
“What happens if I report it?”
I asked.
“That depends on what law enforcement determines after speaking with you and any witnesses.”
“Would they arrest her?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Would I have to see her?”
“We can put security restrictions on your room regardless.”
I picked at the tape over my IV.
My mother’s voice replayed in my head.
You are blowing this completely out of proportion.
Maybe that was what she had counted on.
Not my forgiveness.
My embarrassment.
My lifelong need to keep private things private.
Evan reached for my hand again.
He did not squeeze.
He simply left his palm open beneath mine.
“I want to make a report,” I said.
The social worker nodded once.
“All right.”
My phone lit up on the bedside table.
Brianna was calling.
I watched it ring until the screen went dark.
Then a message appeared.
You really called the police on Mom?
My chest went cold.
I had not yet spoken to the police.
I turned the phone toward Evan.
He read the message.
“How does she know?”
The social worker leaned forward slightly.
“Know what?”
I handed her the phone.
She read the message without touching it.
“I haven’t contacted law enforcement yet.”
Evan looked toward the door.
“Then someone else did.”
Another message arrived before anyone spoke.
This one was from Denise.
Police are at the house.
I told them what I saw.
Do not let anyone make you feel guilty for telling the truth.
For the first time that afternoon, I felt something other than fear.
It was relief.
Not because the police were involved.
Because Denise had chosen reality over family loyalty.
I read her message twice.
Evan read it over my shoulder.
“Good,” he said.
The social worker gave him a brief look.
He raised both hands.
“I know, not my decision.”
“No,” she said.
“But support helps.”
My phone vibrated again.
Brianna.
Mom is crying.
Then another.
Dad says this is insane.
May you like
Then another.
Are you seriously going to let Denise destroy our family over one mistake?
