Chapter 3
The doctor gave me another instruction. Ruth offered her hand.
I took it.
PART 2 — THE WOMEN WHO STAYED
Lucy arrived twenty-three minutes after Garrett left.
The doctor lifted her toward me, and for one startled second, all I could see was her tiny face.
Then she cried.
Someone said she was doing well. Someone placed a warm blanket around us.
Her cheek rested against my chest, and I could feel her breathing.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whispered.
My voice sounded like somebody else's.
Ruth helped me settle my arm around her. I looked at the chair Garrett had pulled close to the bed earlier, his jacket still hanging over the back.
I started crying again.
Ruth didn't tell me to stop.
“Would you like us to call someone?”
“My mother.”
She helped me find my own phone. Another nurse made the call while Ruth stayed with me.
Mom lived twenty minutes from the hospital. She arrived wearing the cardigan she'd thrown over her pajamas and carrying a tote bag with a pair of clean socks sticking out.
She had been waiting at home because Garrett said labor would take hours and promised to keep her updated.
He hadn't called her once.
Mom looked at Lucy first.
“Oh, Audrey.”
She kissed my forehead, then looked toward the empty chair.
“Where is he?”
“Outside.”
“Do you want him back in?”
“No.”
“Then he can stay outside.”
I told her in pieces.
The message. Paige. The little boy.
Mom listened without interrupting. Her hand rested on my ankle beneath the blanket, warm and still.
When I finished, she took a breath.
“Have you eaten?”
I almost laughed.
“Mom.”
“I heard every word. You can tell me more after you have something in your stomach.”
She asked what food was available and whether I needed help reaching my bag. She made the small decisions that I couldn't manage.
When Lucy needed care, Mom stepped back and let the staff help us. When I needed to cry, she pulled the chair closer.
Garrett called six times.
I watched his name appear until Mom asked whether I wanted the phone silenced.
“Yes.”
“You don't have to decide your whole life tonight.”
“What if I can't forgive him?”
“Then we will talk about that when you've slept.”
“What if I can?”
“We'll talk about that too.”
It was the first time since the screen lit up that I felt allowed to be uncertain.