Before I Let You Go(8)

“Annie,” I interject quietly. “Will you agree to take some methadone just to get you through the next few hours? Until we can get your blood pressure stable?”

Annie’s gaze narrows.

“Can I do that?”

“Of course. You can withdraw your consent for it anytime. But taking it now will ease off the withdrawal symptoms for a while . . . so the hypertension drugs have some time to work.”

“Fine,” Annie snaps. “Just this once.”

It’s always like this with her. The big battle for her sobriety has been a marathon series of much smaller battles that each needed my careful, attentive management and focus. I’d almost forgotten how difficult she can be. In the seconds after Annie agrees to the maintenance drug, I close my eyes for a moment and try to gather myself. Sam releases my knee, but he slides his arm around my shoulders and pulls me gently against him. I feel the brush of his lips against my hair.

“I’m okay,” I whisper to him.

“I know,” he whispers back.

Sam holds me for a while as we sit and watch the staff work. I glean tiny pieces of information as I eavesdrop; there was some protein in Annie’s urine but not a lot—which may mean she has preeclampsia, and she will need to be very closely monitored. She has, inevitably, failed the narcotics test. Annie responds quickly to the anti-hypertension medication and her blood pressure finally levels out, then starts to drop.

They give her a sonogram with a portable machine right there in front of us, but Annie is becoming drowsy from the medication and is only half-awake to see her child on the screen. I watch the shadow of a smile pass her lips as the first image swims into focus. I move closer to the monitor, and while I’ve seen countless sonography scans in my time, there’s something different about this one. The baby’s body shape appears, and as I identify its form, it’s no longer a fetus. It’s my sister’s baby; my niece or nephew. For all of her faults, Annie already loves it, and in some bizarre way, I already love it, too—just because it’s hers.

The sonographer measures the velocity of the blood passing through the placenta and umbilical cord and then in the baby’s brain. The measurements are all within safe ranges, at least now that Annie’s blood pressure has stabilized. The baby’s femur and humerus lengths suggest that Annie is probably about thirty-five weeks into the pregnancy, but the baby’s belly is much smaller than it should be. This is a typical pattern for a fetus with a growth restriction, but that’s expected given Annie’s addiction and her blood pressure issues.

“Yeah, this little one is going to be tiny,” the sonographer confirms quietly. “But things look okay, considering.”

This is the closest thing to good news that I could have hoped for given the circumstances, and I flash a teary smile toward Sam, who offers an equally weak smile in response. There’s a long road ahead of us—but for now, Annie and the baby are safe. I release a long, heavy breath, and I decide I’ll shift closer to the bed so I can hold Annie’s hand as she sleeps. Sam has other ideas.

“Let’s get a coffee?”

“I can’t leave her,” I say. He offers me a quizzical smile.

“She’s sleeping. Let’s take a minute while things are calm.”

The sonographer is packing up, and the flurry of nurses and doctors is easing. Still, I hesitate—her situation could change in an instant. It’s unlikely, though. She’s on the right meds now, and even if something does change, at least there are monitors fitted so the staff can react.

“Okay,” I say with a sigh, and he rises and gently pulls me to my feet.

Sam leads the way to a table in the corner of the cafeteria, and we sit opposite one another. Hospital cafeterias are creepy places in the middle of the night. I’ve never been to this one before, but I somehow still miss the swarming mass of staff hastily eating between crises, and the overwhelmed fathers trying to inhale coffee between diaper changes, and the teary relatives grieving bad news. The cafeteria is always a place of extremes, but it’s never more uncomfortable than when it’s empty.

For a while, we sit in silence. I nurse my coffee and stare down into the black liquid while I try to collect my thoughts. There is a swirling mess of ideas and concerns and worries in my mind—and I try to pick one out to speak to Sam about—but then all of a sudden I can think of only thing one thing to say.

“Sorry.”

I blurt out the word—almost pleading with him to accept it, as if this were all my fault—as if an apology could make it all better, if only he says that’s all right. Maybe there is something to my guilt—after all, I have buried my head in the sand for the last two years. I have made a dreadful, unforgivable mistake by not checking on my sister at least every now and again. I should have known how bad things were. I should have known how desperate she was.

“Honey.” Sam raises an eyebrow at me. “None of this is your fault.”

“But this will get worse, you know. It’s never one thing with Annie.”

“Well—at least she’s asking for help now. The baby’s heart rate was all over the place. Another few days and it would have been too late.”

“They’ll have to report her.”

“I know.”

“Do you think she’ll be charged?”