Chapter 7 - The Breaking Point and The Delivery
Saint Mary’s Hospital smelled of antiseptic, cold tile, and fear.
I walked into the third-floor maternity ward at four in the afternoon. The waiting room was empty except for two people: my mother and David’s father, who was pacing near the vending machines with a paper cup of black coffee.
My mother looked up as the automatic doors slid shut behind me.
Her face was transformed. The manicured, untouchable Evelyn Vance was gone. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks, her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, and her hands were trembling against her designer handbag.
She saw me and stood up, her mouth twisting.
“Did you come to gloat?” she hissed, her voice hoarse from crying. “Did you come to see the mess you made with that horrific video? Your sister’s water broke while she was reading the comments! If she loses this child, it’s Amanda’s fault, and it’s *your* fault!”
David’s father, an older man with graying temples and kind, weary eyes, turned around sharply.
“Evelyn, shut up,” he said.
The silence that followed was absolute.
My mother blinked, her mouth frozen half-open. “What did you say to me?”
“I said shut up,” David’s father repeated, stepping between us. “I saw the video. David showed it to me this morning. You and your daughter acted like spoiled, cruel children. Claire didn't put that blanket in the trash. Lauren did. And you laughed. You ought to be on your knees asking for forgiveness instead of pointing fingers in a hospital corridor.”
Mom looked around the empty waiting room as if searching for someone to defend her, but there was no one left. Her social capital had evaporated; the veneer of perfection had cracked, showing the hollow emptiness underneath. She slowly sank back into the vinyl armchair, clutching her purse to her chest, looking older than I had ever seen her.
David came out through the double doors ten minutes later.
His scrubs were rumpled, his hair damp with sweat. He looked bruised from exhaustion.
“David?” I said, stepping forward.
He looked at his father, then at Evelyn, and finally his eyes settled on me. A heavy, shuddering breath escaped his chest.
“She’s here,” he said. “A little girl. Six pounds, two ounces. She’s breathing on her own. She’s in the nursery incubator for observation, but the doctors say she’s strong. She’s going to be fine.”
David’s father wrapped his arms around his son in a fierce embrace. Evelyn stood up, sobbing loudly, moving toward them, but David held up a hand.
“Not yet, Evelyn,” David said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual deference. “The nurse is checking Lauren’s vitals. Lauren needs to rest.”
Evelyn stopped, her face pale. “I’m her mother! I have the right to see my grandchild!”
“She’s resting,” David repeated firmly. Then he turned to me. “Claire. Lauren wants to see you.”
Evelyn let out a sharp gasp. “Claire?! Why would she want to see Claire?!”
David didn't answer her. He kept his eyes on me, pleading. “Please, Claire. Just for five minutes.”
I looked back down the hall toward the waiting room doors. I could have walked away. I had every right to turn around, get in my car, and go home to my husband and my daughter, leaving Lauren to drown in the bed she had made.
Then I thought of Molly sitting on the stairs, asking if handmade things were junk.
May you like
I nodded. “Take me back.”
***
