Anchor Me
Page 49
“I’m warm,” I say. “Blame the hormones.”
“My producer has some powder. We’ll get you camera ready.”
Damien casts a worried eye my way, but says nothing as we hurry outside. Someone shouts for Damien, then for me. The voices rise to a chorus of indistinct sounds, and my head fills with a high-pitched whine as the producer comes over to dab powder on my face.
Then one voice stands out. A familiar one calling out, “Nichole Louise!”
Mother?
I whip around, my blood going cold, but with the camera flashes, I can’t see faces.
I turn back, then reach out to grab Damien’s wrist. “Did you hear?” I ask.
“What?”
“I—” I pause, the world starting to shift beneath my feet. “Sorry. Light-headed.”
“We should find you some food. Here, hold onto me.”
“We can wait a few minutes,” Jamie says. “It’s okay. We’ll just—Nikki.”
I look up at her, my stomach cramping violently.
“Oh, God, Nikki. Your dress.”
I look down—and see that my white dress is stained with blood.
“Roll camera!” the producer yells.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jamie retorts. And as she shoves the lens away, Damien scoops me up and sprints for the theater door, all the while yelling for the usher to call an ambulance.
And throughout it all, the only thing I seem to be able to do is cry.
19
A miscarriage. Dr. Tyler’s words echo through my head, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to drown them out: “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stark. You’ve had a miscarriage.”
A miscarriage.
They’ve given me something, and my head feels fuzzy, my body heavy. My arm is cold where the IV liquid is dripping in, and the hand that Damien clings to is numb.
“Is it true?” I whisper to him. “We’ve really lost the baby?”
He closes his eyes, his expression like cracked glass. “It’s true,” he says as tears trail down my face. “Sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry.” He starts to reach for me, but there is a rail on the bed and tubes and rolling contraptions. After a moment, he sits in the chair again, his sigh joining the hum and rattle of the machinery.
“Why don’t I remember getting into bed? I remember the ambulance, but nothing after we got to the hospital.”
The last thing I recall with any clarity is Jamie pointing out the blood on my dress and Damien calling for an ambulance. I know I didn’t pass out—I can remember the paramedics, the shrill of the siren, Damien’s voice as he called the emergency number for the obstetrician I was supposed to see this coming Monday. But everything I remember is filtered through a drugged, gray haze. And though I recall arriving in the ER, nothing after they started the IV is clear.
“Damien?” I press. “What did they do to me?”
He rubs the fingers of his free hand against his temple, and when he speaks, the words come slowly, and I know that he’s fighting for control. “Dr. Tyler got here right after we did. He took care of you, sweetheart, but he had to—he had to make sure you were okay, and they put you under for the procedure.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “There’s something else wrong, isn’t there?”
“Sweetheart, no.” He stands, then lets go of me long enough to fiddle with the rail of the bed again, trying to lower it. It refuses to cooperate, and he curses and sits farther down, beside my legs, his hand resting on my thigh.
“Miscarriages happen all the time, Damien, especially in the first trimester.” I have no personal knowledge of this, but I’ve read enough that I’m pretty confident. “They don’t admit you for a miscarriage.”
“They do when you donate as much to this hospital as I do.” His hand tightens on my thigh. “There’s nothing else wrong.” But he says it in his boardroom voice, as if he expects to will it and make it so.
And while Damien is certainly powerful, even I don’t think his control reaches that far.
The door opens, and Dr. Tyler steps in. He’s the obstetrician that Dr. Cray in Texas contacted for us. I hadn’t met him before today, and my memory of him from earlier is choppy. But he has kind hands and a warm manner, and his smile is full of comfort.
“What else is wrong with me?” I demand while he palpates my abdomen.
“Nikki—” I hear the censure in Damien’s voice, but I know I’m right, and my fear is confirmed when Dr. Tyler nods slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He turns to Damien. “I’m afraid your wife is correct. You have a bicornuate uterus,” he says, looking at me. “It’s a type of Müllerian defect,” he continues, although at this point all I’m hearing is that I’m broken. When I hear him say, “. . . of course, the prognosis isn’t entirely negative,” I tune back in.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I know this is a lot to take in,” he says gently. “But even though most women with this condition miscarry with a statistically high frequency, it’s still possible to carry a child to term. And if you do make it past the first trimester, the risk of miscarriage decreases significantly.”
“You’re saying if I get pregnant again, the odds are that I’ll lose the baby before the third month. Over and over and over again.”
My voice cracks as I speak, and I see sharp lines of pain cut across Damien’s face.
“That doesn’t sound like a good prognosis at all,” I whisper.
He inclines his head, acknowledging my words. “I know, Mrs. Stark. I’m truly very sorry. You can—”
But I don’t want to hear anymore. So I just roll over, shut my eyes, and let the pull of my own pain drag me back down into sleep.
I sleep in the hospital until Saturday morning, then doze in Damien’s arms at home with our cat, Sunshine, curled up beside me, her low purr filling my mind so that I don’t have to dream.
Throughout the day I drift, getting out of bed only to go to the bathroom. I stand at the sink, staring at my eyes that seem sunken. My skin like paper. Damien’s razor sits in a cup on the counter, and I think how easy it would be to just twist the handle and open the compartment that the blade fits in. To take the blade out and run the honed edge gently over my skin. Just a shallow cut. Just enough to make a few beads of blood rise.
“My producer has some powder. We’ll get you camera ready.”
Damien casts a worried eye my way, but says nothing as we hurry outside. Someone shouts for Damien, then for me. The voices rise to a chorus of indistinct sounds, and my head fills with a high-pitched whine as the producer comes over to dab powder on my face.
Then one voice stands out. A familiar one calling out, “Nichole Louise!”
Mother?
I whip around, my blood going cold, but with the camera flashes, I can’t see faces.
I turn back, then reach out to grab Damien’s wrist. “Did you hear?” I ask.
“What?”
“I—” I pause, the world starting to shift beneath my feet. “Sorry. Light-headed.”
“We should find you some food. Here, hold onto me.”
“We can wait a few minutes,” Jamie says. “It’s okay. We’ll just—Nikki.”
I look up at her, my stomach cramping violently.
“Oh, God, Nikki. Your dress.”
I look down—and see that my white dress is stained with blood.
“Roll camera!” the producer yells.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jamie retorts. And as she shoves the lens away, Damien scoops me up and sprints for the theater door, all the while yelling for the usher to call an ambulance.
And throughout it all, the only thing I seem to be able to do is cry.
19
A miscarriage. Dr. Tyler’s words echo through my head, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to drown them out: “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stark. You’ve had a miscarriage.”
A miscarriage.
They’ve given me something, and my head feels fuzzy, my body heavy. My arm is cold where the IV liquid is dripping in, and the hand that Damien clings to is numb.
“Is it true?” I whisper to him. “We’ve really lost the baby?”
He closes his eyes, his expression like cracked glass. “It’s true,” he says as tears trail down my face. “Sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry.” He starts to reach for me, but there is a rail on the bed and tubes and rolling contraptions. After a moment, he sits in the chair again, his sigh joining the hum and rattle of the machinery.
“Why don’t I remember getting into bed? I remember the ambulance, but nothing after we got to the hospital.”
The last thing I recall with any clarity is Jamie pointing out the blood on my dress and Damien calling for an ambulance. I know I didn’t pass out—I can remember the paramedics, the shrill of the siren, Damien’s voice as he called the emergency number for the obstetrician I was supposed to see this coming Monday. But everything I remember is filtered through a drugged, gray haze. And though I recall arriving in the ER, nothing after they started the IV is clear.
“Damien?” I press. “What did they do to me?”
He rubs the fingers of his free hand against his temple, and when he speaks, the words come slowly, and I know that he’s fighting for control. “Dr. Tyler got here right after we did. He took care of you, sweetheart, but he had to—he had to make sure you were okay, and they put you under for the procedure.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “There’s something else wrong, isn’t there?”
“Sweetheart, no.” He stands, then lets go of me long enough to fiddle with the rail of the bed again, trying to lower it. It refuses to cooperate, and he curses and sits farther down, beside my legs, his hand resting on my thigh.
“Miscarriages happen all the time, Damien, especially in the first trimester.” I have no personal knowledge of this, but I’ve read enough that I’m pretty confident. “They don’t admit you for a miscarriage.”
“They do when you donate as much to this hospital as I do.” His hand tightens on my thigh. “There’s nothing else wrong.” But he says it in his boardroom voice, as if he expects to will it and make it so.
And while Damien is certainly powerful, even I don’t think his control reaches that far.
The door opens, and Dr. Tyler steps in. He’s the obstetrician that Dr. Cray in Texas contacted for us. I hadn’t met him before today, and my memory of him from earlier is choppy. But he has kind hands and a warm manner, and his smile is full of comfort.
“What else is wrong with me?” I demand while he palpates my abdomen.
“Nikki—” I hear the censure in Damien’s voice, but I know I’m right, and my fear is confirmed when Dr. Tyler nods slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He turns to Damien. “I’m afraid your wife is correct. You have a bicornuate uterus,” he says, looking at me. “It’s a type of Müllerian defect,” he continues, although at this point all I’m hearing is that I’m broken. When I hear him say, “. . . of course, the prognosis isn’t entirely negative,” I tune back in.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I know this is a lot to take in,” he says gently. “But even though most women with this condition miscarry with a statistically high frequency, it’s still possible to carry a child to term. And if you do make it past the first trimester, the risk of miscarriage decreases significantly.”
“You’re saying if I get pregnant again, the odds are that I’ll lose the baby before the third month. Over and over and over again.”
My voice cracks as I speak, and I see sharp lines of pain cut across Damien’s face.
“That doesn’t sound like a good prognosis at all,” I whisper.
He inclines his head, acknowledging my words. “I know, Mrs. Stark. I’m truly very sorry. You can—”
But I don’t want to hear anymore. So I just roll over, shut my eyes, and let the pull of my own pain drag me back down into sleep.
I sleep in the hospital until Saturday morning, then doze in Damien’s arms at home with our cat, Sunshine, curled up beside me, her low purr filling my mind so that I don’t have to dream.
Throughout the day I drift, getting out of bed only to go to the bathroom. I stand at the sink, staring at my eyes that seem sunken. My skin like paper. Damien’s razor sits in a cup on the counter, and I think how easy it would be to just twist the handle and open the compartment that the blade fits in. To take the blade out and run the honed edge gently over my skin. Just a shallow cut. Just enough to make a few beads of blood rise.
