~6~

~Chapter Six~

And you know I see right through you
Cause the world gets in your way
What's the point in all this screaming?
You're not listening anyway

~The Goo Goo Dolls, Acoustic #3~

Okay, everything will be fine, I tell myself. You're not alone—there's no need to be so scared.

I think of Grams and brussels sprouts as I lead my mother down the corridor to the NICU, I try to tune out the announcements made over the intercom, and the attempt at my mom is making at having a second meaningful conversation with me—two in one day, how'd I get so lucky?

"… I'm so excited, Bonnie Bear, really, thank you for letting me tag along…"

I reach for the door, jumping out of the way when someone on the other side pushes it open.

Dr. Wilson expertly dodges Mom, who only barely missed getting hit, and turns to greet me. "Bonnie, I'm so glad I caught you!"

He's not frantic, so that must mean everything is alright—for the time being, though he looks tired, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. I can't even begin to imagine the amount of stress this job puts on him and to deal with emotional families on top of that… it's a wonder he's so even-keeled.

"Not for bad reasons," I say, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He gives me a wry smile, glancing sideways at my mother. "This must be your mother. Lucille told me Amelia's grandparents stopped by. "I'm Dr. Wilson," he extends a hand toward Mom, who accepts it without hesitation. "You have a remarkable daughter, Mrs. Bennett."

See? Not everybody has lost hope in me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don't say them aloud. Somehow, I feel that if Dad were around to hear it, the statement might have more of an impact on her.

"Abby," she says jovially. "Please, call me Abby."

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Abby. Can I speak to you for a minute, Bonnie?"

I nod. "Of course."

"It'll only take a minute," I don't know if he's talking to my mom or me.

It doesn't matter, though, because Dr. Wilson is guiding me over to a quiet space on the other end of the hallway. I follow robotically, anxiety washing over me despite my more rational side telling me that, if it were something awful, I would've gotten a call. I'd also be here with Damon instead of my mom…

"She's doing well, Bonnie," The doctor says evenly. "I just wanted to let you know that she still isn't able to breathe on her own. I'd hoped to be able to take her off the ventilator for some time today, but she just isn't ready for that yet. I just wanted to tell you personally—it's not bad news, it's just not the news I wanted to give. But don't give up hope, okay? There's still a decent chance she'll be home before Damon leaves."

Before this setback, the chances were good. Now, they've been downgraded to decent. The hope isn't something I feel I can give up on; it's more like something that is just out of my reach, and if I could only stretch a bit further, I might be able to have it.

When I can't find the words to respond, the older man fills in the silence. "I know this is difficult, Bonnie. But Amelia's resilient and she's improving, each day is better than the last. It's just going to take longer to reach our goal than originally expected."

"But she's had a good day so far?"

"Yes, she has."

I get ready to say goodbye, tell Dr. Wilson that I hope he has a good night, and thank him for taking the time to update me in-person, but he's peering at me with concern.

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson," I begin, forcing a smile. "I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me."

"I know you do. Did you go over any of the pamphlets your caseworker gave you?"

I want to say yes, that I have a copy of all the policies on my desk at home, and another set in the glove box on my Prius, and one saved on Damon's phone because chances are, he'll lose the papers again, just like he did with the first set. Only, the guidelines are still a fuzzy memory and I know that he's not referring to those.

He's talking about the ones geared toward helping parents cope with all the stress that they are under. And, no, I haven't. Not since she gave them to me and went over the basics with both Damon and me before she let us go.

"I've skimmed them," I finally say, because that's the truth—when the paragraphs were read aloud, I lazily followed along, nodding when she paused, smiling when she asked if I understood.

"That's good—if you need another one, let Lucille know before you go. I know how easy it is for Damon to misplace things."

"Way too easy."

"… and Marnie Rudolph is your caseworker, right?"

"Yes."

"You can call her if you need any extra information about the resources we have available to you." Dr. Wilson pulls Marnie's business card from his clipboard and hands it to me.

I'm a bit taken aback. It's almost like he knew he'd run into me. "Thank you."

He beams at me warmly. "You're welcome, Bonnie. It's a difficult situation to be in—I just want you to remember you won't be alone. You and Damon have been very supportive of each other and it's wonderful, but you may find that it will be less stressful when he's gone if you have people to talk to that are going through the same thing… with better cell phone reception."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm holding you to that," he says sternly, glancing down at his pager. "Well, I've got to get going, but you have a wonderful night."

"You, too," I reply. "And thank you—again. I won't forget we had this talk."

"Good."

And with that, Dr. Wilson heads down the hall, pace brusque, footsteps echoing even as he disappears through another set of doors. I walk back over to my mom, who is scrolling through her phone as she sits on the small wooden bench, legs stretched out, black heels tapping on the floor.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, looking up at me when she senses me approaching.

"Yeah—Dr. Wilson was just giving me an update."

"How's Amelia?" she presses, and I can't figure out the emotion behind her question.

I chew on my bottom lip, unsure of how much I should reveal. "Fine. She can't be off the ventilator yet, though. So, that sucks."

Abby's face falls. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie."

"It's okay, Mom." I tell her, and add, "at least the treatment is working," just in case she thinks my assurances are a blanket statement that absolves her from any other issues she and Dad have exacerbated.

"See? That's the way to look at it!"

"Yeah… I guess you're right…"

And do we resume our trek to the NICU, Mom praising me for being so positive, while I rework all my daydreams centering around Amelia's departure from the hospital—no Damon, just me. It's not ideal. My picture-perfect version of what my family would look like isn't lining up with the real world, and in this particular scenario, I'm not even fighting against two unwilling participants.

No, the only wrench in my dream is time. And the sucky thing about it is that I have no idea how much time I have to make contingency plans.

"So," Damon says, pelting me with a potato chip. "I did some solo adulting—now it's your turn."

I eye the bag of chips sitting between us. I should've known giving him unfettered access to the snack foods would cause a second "snack war," as Damon so aptly named it. The first one occurred the first time we went to a movie together and I've done my very best to not allow him to try to even the score.

Until now.

I reach for the bag, but Damon snatches it away before I get close enough to touch it. "I'm not going to just let you have ammunition. You have to make a deal with me first."

"And what are your terms?"

"Go to the doctor," he replies. "Call and make an appointment—right here, right now—and take the first available date."

"What kind of lame request is that?" I huff indignantly, falling back against the couch, groaning.

"A reasonable one… a boring one, but I'm hoping you'll give me a freebie for caring about your health so much."

"Damon, I'm sure if something were physically wrong with me, I'd know it."

"Bonster? There's so much wrong with you—you're judgy, not to mention anal-retentive, and not in a good way…" he ticks off my flaws on his fingers.

"I said physically, Damon."

"Sue me—I had the perfect opportunity to make a joke, I had to take it."

"I'm pretty sure you've used that one before—multiple times."

My boyfriend shrugs. "It's a classic—you get all embarrassed, I'm entertained…"

"I'm not." I snap, glaring at him.

He smiles. That cute, charming half-grin he gives me when he wants me to forget about whatever asshole-ish thing he's done. Way back when we were kids, he would look at me like that in hopes that I wouldn't tell on him for pulling on my braids or dangling a worm in front of my face.

It always worked on Elena—he even had Caroline fooled for a time, but not once did I ever let him deter me.

It also turns out that it is a lot easier said than done nowadays—but only because deep down, I know he's right and that he's only pushing me to do something I really would rather not because he loves me.

Damn Damon and his good intentions.

"I'll forgive you if you'll hand over the chips," I hedge, hoping he'll comply. But this is Damon, so the chances of that are slim.

Practically non-existent.

"Sure," he says, holding them out. Only, when I move to take them, he pulls his hand back. "After you make that call. And I'd like you to do it soon because being the responsible one is still out of my purview."

"Fine." I take my cell phone out and dial the number, stalling by pretending that I had to double-check I had the correct one.

The receptionist picks up on the third ring. "Good afternoon, you've reached the office of Dr. Cameron and Dr. Howard, how can I direct your call?"

"My name is Bonnie Bennett… Um, I'm calling to schedule an appointment. For a check-up… I uh, gave birth and um… I had to come in because of an injury." I omit the fact that I knowingly caused it.

"And when was this?"

"The eighth, I think."

"Okay… well, you're in luck—we have an opening for Thursday at seven in the morning, will that work?"

I glance at Damon, who is smirking back at me—he must've heard the time I was given. "Yes—that's perfect!"

"Okay, Bonnie—let me pull your information up… what's your date of birth?"

"February 5th."

"And the date you gave birth?"

I flinch but relay the date calmly.

"Alright—I've got you down for Thursday at seven—see you then."

"See you then," I repeat weakly.

Time stands still.

And when it resumes, it seems to go by so much quicker. I wonder if this is due to stress, sleep deprivation, or a completely inconsistent schedule. Probably a mixture of all three with a bit of procrastination thrown in for good measure. That is why I'm sitting in the waiting room of the gynecologist's office at seven 'o clock in the morning not too many people were fond of taking that time slot. Which is why this was the first opening the receptionist rattled over the phone, or so she told me when I waltzed through the door, yawning and very out of it. I'm not too proud of the fact that I must check my phone multiple times to write the correct date on my medical forms, but I guess that's what I get for dragging my feet.

My head hurts and my eyes are stinging. I can barely concentrate on the papers in front of me. I hadn't realized that lack of sleep could also cause dizziness and nausea until my bad dreams began occurring at regular intervals. I look straight ahead and attempt to focus on a singular point in the waiting room, but the elegant swirls on the wallpaper appear like they are moving up and down—like a conveyor belt.

I blink and everything goes back to normal.

The room stops spinning. I take a deep breath. You need a nap, I tell myself, a long one. I doubt I will be allowed the luxury, though. Mom will want to see how everything went, and Dad will barely hide his resentment before he reminds her that they have an appointment to get to. Then, he'll eye Damon and me warily, before telling us—for the fifth time—that it will only take an hour tops and they could return in a moment's notice.

At least Damon and I will be alone.

And when my parents get home, they (and by that, I mean Abby) will insist on going with us to see Amelia—even though I assured my newly-attentive parental unit that she did not have to put visit my granddaughter on her schedule.

Because I'm still not comfortable having either of them around.

God, I hope they will be able to tell me when my emotions will return to their pre-pregnancy state. From the information, I have been told (which does not include all the research I did in preparation for when the baby comes home) I should be acclimating to the new routine by now. Unless I misinterpreted something, which rarely happens.

I'm just about to resume filling out my address when I feel another presence enter the room.

I should have just kept my head down and minded my own business because I don't feel like dealing with the person who has decided to sit down beside me. Her blonde hair is cascading down her back in perfect loose waves, make-up dramatic, and outfit fashionable. A floral-print tank top and a pair of white shorts. The gold shadow rimming her eyes brings out the blue in them.

Rebekah always looks as if she has stepped directly off a runway.

I try not to spend too much time comparing myself to her. I'm not the same well-put-together young woman I had been at the end of my junior year in high school. I have more important things to do than think about Damon's ex-girlfriend. Too many things have happened. I'm sure she doesn't harbor any ill-will toward me.

"Bonnie Bennett—fancy seeing you here!"

Okay, never mind. The fake saccharine tone she uses puts the "she buried the hatchet" theory to shame.

"I know," I answer with the same over-bearing sweetness. "It's like this is the only office in town."

She smirks and for just a second, I can see why she and Damon hit it off so quickly. They both possess an air of arrogance—the kind that makes them impervious to the feelings of everyone else.

"I need a prescription refill," Rebekah says as if I asked her for an explanation. "For birth control… maybe you should ask about it. It would have saved you a bunch of trouble."

"Have you ever seen the movie Idiocracy? If not, you should. That's what happens when people of your intelligence level breed. You're doing the world a great service."

Her lips curl into a vicious sneer. "Too bad you didn't."

I'm more hurt than angry at her words. Rebekah is right about the trouble… not that Amelia is trouble. I just can't recall a time that I haven't been stressed out about something that dealt with my unplanned pregnancy. Shocker, huh? And now, instead of going off to Yale— in which I had ended up being accepted—I'm going to be stuck in an apartment, rooming with a practical stranger, virtually alone, with a micro-preemie while everyone else will be off experiencing the world.

I try not to glare at the advertisement on the back of the magazine Rebekah picked up. Once again, I'm faced with the snapshot of the mom and baby next to a box of diapers. It's hard to believe that I once envisioned if only for a moment, that motherhood could be summed up in that one picture. Or that things could be as simple as it made everything seemed.

When life threw me curveballs, it reveled in hitting me in the face.

Amelia is probably half the size of every baby featured in the waiting room. On the wall, in magazines splayed out on the table in front of me, and in person. Another new mother is checking out, carrying a healthy-looking red-haired infant in her arms.

They are both grinning from ear to ear.

They are also thirty-two years old.

I turn back to Rebekah, who has begun to write her information down. She exudes an aura of triumph. She won this verbal battle. I have nothing to say. Usually, Damon and I fight to get the last word. Elena and Caroline typically let me have the final say in our spats—I'm always right, after all. I guess I should just accept the stigma I've brought on myself. Why waste my breath?

Rebekah catches me staring and flashes a smile at me.

I open my mouth and close it again, floundering.

My name is called before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

I walk toward the nurse, clutching the clipboard so tightly the papers crinkle. I throw a glance behind my shoulder. Rebekah is waving at me, her bangles clinking together as she moves her hand. Her facial expression gives me a sense of discomfort that I try to push away as the door closes behind me.

This exam room is pink.

The walls are covered in the same damask pattern like the ones in the waiting room. The only difference is the color. It seems that whoever designed this room wanted to make it elegant. Right down to the basket of flowers on the side table.

Too bad it doesn't make me feel any better.

~~X~~

I throw my purse down next to me as I plop down on the cushy pink armchair. I want to avoid the exam table at all costs, though I know deep down that I won't be able to avoid any part of my check-up.

"Hello, Bonnie! It's been a while."

I nod sheepishly. "Hi, Dr. Cameron. Nice to see you again."

"How are you doing? How's Amelia? Damon?" she smiles at me warmly, encouraging me to share my feelings.

"Fine," I answer cautiously. "They are doing great."

"Are you practicing good self-care?"

"Yes."

"I would have liked you to come in three weeks after your Cesarean. I understand you had a lot going on, though. You just graduated, correct?"

I cast my eyes downward, unable to meet her gaze. I wonder how many patients she's had this exact conversation with. Probably not many. Contrary to stereotypes, my hometown doesn't contribute to the rising rate of teenage pregnancy.

"Yes. I had to give a speech—so I was really busy after Amelia was born." Pathetic excuse, but it's all I could come up with.

"I know. I was at the graduation—my cousin was in your class. You know, I can't imagine many young women with your particular set of circumstances would be able to achieve what you did."

I look up. The look on her face tells me she means every word. "Thank you."

"Of course."

She instructs me to get changed into a gown and leaves the room for a few minutes. Memories of the appointment I made at Planned Parenthood come back to me. When I went into that room, I thought that would be the end of it. I underestimated what ten minutes could do to change a person's course in life. That had been the duration of the conversation I had with Damon.

When Dr. Cameron re-enters the room, I tense up.

She detects my nervousness and she emits sympathetic vibes even before she opens her mouth to speak.

"It will be over before you know it."

Her statement unsettles me.

She's right, though. I squeeze my eyes shut and the procedure is done in a matter of minutes. After the pelvic exam, she inspects the incision site on my abdomen. I haven't looked it over since it healed enough that pain is no longer a constant issue. Damon checked it out a few times and assured me it looked fine. I'm not sure I trust his medical advice, but as long as I didn't have to acknowledge it, I let it be.

She offers me a hand, which I take gratefully. She helps me sit up. Smiling. I don't think she has displayed any other emotion besides happiness since I arrived.

"Everything looks good, Bonnie. You seem to have healed up nicely. You can resume your normal activities—driving, lifting above your head, light exercise, intercourse. I recommend you use condoms and another form of birth control, though. Even if your periods haven't become completely regular, it is better to be cautious."

"I agree," I reply quietly. As much as I would like to say I have not thought much about sex since the last time it happened, I would be lying through my teeth. Miserably.

She turns to her computer, types a few things down, and swivels back to face me. "Now, there are several options—"

"I'd like the shot."

Dr. Cameron looks taken aback. "That is a good choice. It comes with side effects, however. Irregular bleeding is the biggest one. There's mood swings, weight gain, and it's a bit more expensive than some other methods."

"I've researched it," I assure her. I don't think I would remember to take a pill every day at the same time and the IUD seems way too invasive for my liking. My uterus needs a break, at least that's what I tell myself.

"Okay, then. That's wonderful." She claps her hands together. "I just want to go over a little emotional checklist with you. Then you are good to go. I've sent your prescription over to the pharmacy."

The phrase emotional checklist makes me wish I am back on the exam table.

"Now it's quite common to feel a bit sad, but if it's affecting your life drastically then there are things we can do to mitigate that."

"Oh—I'm fine. I'm just exhausted." The words spill out of my mouth before I even think about it.

The doctor and I volley a few more questions back and forth before she tells me I'm free to leave.

I exchange goodbyes with her, booking it as soon as she leaves the vicinity. I had opted to walk for obvious reasons—the main one being my desire to avoid a lecture from my parents and physician on driving before the restriction was lifted.

And it gives me time to think.

I decide it's time to begin a new resolve. No more constant worriment. Time to make an honest effort of enjoying the good moments. Things are going to be different, the changes will make my head spin, so I can't take the good times for granted.

I can be like that—I hope.

I think this idea repeatedly. It has yet to work for me, but maybe it will this time. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.

I begin to relax as I stroll through town, hands in the back pockets of my shorts. The weather has been extremely nice as of late. And today is a milder summer afternoon. Not nearly as hot as it has been earlier in the week. There are a few wispy clouds in an otherwise clear sky. There are a few brown patches in the grass, but most of it remains green. The chalk drawings on the sidewalk alert me to the fact that children have been doodling here. Before I can stop myself, I imagine Damon and I took an older Amelia to this exact spot, watching over her on a nearby bench while our daughter draws pictures of rainbows.

And I let those daydreams carry me home.