Frayed (Connections, #4)(62)

He opens the door and once again says good-bye to my mother and Jack.

“Bye, thanks for stopping by to check on me.”

A devilish grin crosses his lips. “Anytime. Call me later if you need anything,” he replies with a wink.

When he leaves I collapse against the door. My body is taut with tension but also tingling at the same time.

“Bell, I think we should have a talk.” My mother’s voice is stern, but soft. And I hope to God she doesn’t want to give me the sex talk again. She gave it to me when I was sixteen and again after I told her I was pregnant. I think I get it.

Jack busies himself putting the fruit in Tupperware containers my mother also brought over. Even though he isn’t my father, he has always treated me like a daughter. His love and concern have meant a lot to me, but he also knows when to keep quiet—like now.

Standing straight, I slowly make my way to the kitchen. “Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was seeing him. I just didn’t want you to judge him.”

My mother stops what she’s doing. “Bell, I would never judge him. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“But you are judging him. I can tell by the look on your face.”

“Charlotte, he seems like a nice boy. Respectful, concerned about Bell,” Jack says, and my mouth drops. I wouldn’t have counted on him as an ally.

“I’m not judging him.” The tone of her voice rises. She glances at me. “I am not one to judge anyone. What happened years ago when he was with Dahlia is for you and him and your brother to come to terms with, and I’m sure you know that isn’t going to be easy.”

“Ben and Dahlia have talked. They’ve made peace.”

She raises her hand. “Like I said, that is between the four of you. My concern right now is only for you. Have you told him about the baby?”

I shake my head no.

She levels with me. “Secrets become lies.”

“I’m not you,” I snap back.

She ignores me and I know I shouldn’t have said that.

“Bell, honey, not telling him isn’t any way to start a relationship. You can’t keep a secret like that. It’s not fair to him. Everyone in our family knows. You know I think you should have told him years ago, but since he wouldn’t return your calls I let you make the decision not to.”

I tremble at the painful memory.

She reaches across the counter to grab my hand. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Tears spill from my eyes. “But, Mom, I’m hurting now. Every time you bring it up, it hurts me. Don’t you get it? I want to forget it.”

“I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t and I can’t let you—not this time.”

I run to my room crying and throw myself on the bed. My hand goes to my belly button, then to my scar, and the memory comes back as if it were yesterday.

? ? ?

There were no breathing exercises, no Lamaze classes. It was nothing like Rachel giving birth on Friends. I had been diagnosed with preeclampsia and was being monitored closely. Corticosteroid shots were part of my daily regimen to help mature the baby’s lungs. Magnesium sulfate also became part of the ritual to help prevent seizures, but that drug wasn’t an easy shot; it was given in IV form and I hated it. I was warned that when delivery time came the magnesium sulfate dosage might need to be increased. I didn’t understand what that meant, but the nurses looked as though they felt sorry for me.

On March seventeenth, almost eight months after the baby had been conceived, I understood why. My already high blood pressure had risen to an unhealthy level, putting the baby’s life in danger. The doctors had decided it was time to induce me. So with Pitocin in one IV and mag in another, I was in pain, burning up, and dry-heaving in a basin my mother held for me. Her tears only made me cry all the more. The contractions came on quickly. They were nothing like what I thought they would be. They were the worst kind of cramps and so painful I was screaming before I was even close to being fully dilated. I had opted to remain drug free, but the pain was so bad I begged the nurses to call an anesthesiologist. The fear of a needle stuck in my back seemed so small compared to what I was feeling.

However, before relief could even arrive, I was being wheeled down a sterile hall with the words emergency C-section being thrown at me. My blood pressure had reached an alarming level and the doctors could no longer wait for the birth-inducing drug to kick in. My mother wasn’t allowed in and I was terrified. With fear and pain all I could fathom, a mask went over my face and as I counted backward, blackness came. I awoke sometime later in the recovery room. I patted my stomach but couldn’t feel anything. I looked around for my mother, my brothers, but sleep called to me. The next time I woke up I was in a different hospital room. It wasn’t the same one I had been recovering in since the accident. The one I had to stay in even after the trauma had passed while we waited for the baby to come.

I remember the nurse asking, “Do you want to see the baby?”

“I don’t know,” I cried out.

I had told them I didn’t. All I could think about was why were they asking me? The adoption was already arranged—I had selected the people I thought would make the most perfect parents, but having my baby taken from me before I expected left me empty, wondering. I started to second-guess myself. I became hysterical and screamed for my mother. The nurses brought her to me.