9:15 p.m.
Two hours in a ballroom of a hundred plus people, and ironically, Alicia's ready to go.
After a week spent in bed, she itched to venture out.
Anywhere.Luck worked in her favor.
Peter had an invitation to a charity gala taking place two days after her bed ridden streak ended.
These events never sat high on her list of a good time, but Peter could not persuade otherwise. He suggested twice they stay home. She countered "No!" every time. Was adamant they go.
Following a no surprise appointment yesterday (baby observed "perfect" from all angles), and cleared to resume normal activity, she was ready.
Ready and thrilled when she strolled into the ballroom, holding his hand, relieved to be amongst some of Chicago's best, dressed in black-tie.
That was until the plum bliss of being in a place other than bed reached the end of its course. She received infinite questions from other women about her due date. And overheard or was subject to meandering conversations—her current dilemma.
She's seated at their designated table. Polishing off dessert while one of Peter's colleagues, across from her, goes on about working long hours and juggling twin toddlers he never wanted.
For a puzzling reason,—one she has yet to grasp—he is comfortable enough to unleash pent-up frustrations even though they just met tonight.
They are the only two at the table. Is that the reason?
A nod and smile now and then to show she's—not really—listening, to her horror, fuels his rambles. She forgot his name. His wife ran off a while ago. She forgot her name, too. But wonders if his impromptu monologues of complaints are why the wife scurried away after the last course.
If so, she wholly understands.
"I mean, you know what that's like, right?" He scoffs; takes a long swig from his glass.
Knows what, what is like, she has no idea. Dares not to ask.
She shields her mouth, half-chewing. "Can't say I do."
He segues into a tangent about diapers and sales tax, and she stops herself from screaming.
Pushing her cleaned plate aside, she reaches in her purse for her cell to call Peter when his warm hand covers her bare shoulder. She looks up and smiles wide, beyond happy to see him as he deposits a glass of water in front of her.
"Mark, you're not trying to make a move on my wife, are you?" Peter slides into the chair next to her.
Mark! Right.Mark rises from the table, brown liquid sloshing in the glass from his clumsy grip. "You know me, Pete. I'm too much of a gentleman to do that."
"Uh-huh" says Peter, smirking.
Mark belly laughs and swivels to her. "Alicia, a pleasure talking with you. Hope I said nothing to offend you."
She smiles, reaching for the water. "No offense taken, Mark."
Peter and Mark trade jokes and share a brotherly hug before he backs off and Peter angles to face her.
"Sorry I took so long. Judge Greene is gate keeping the bar and has had one, too many. Couldn't step away quick enough."
"It's okay. Mark had a lot on his mind. I was defenseless to listen."
He laughs. "Doesn't surprise me—sounds like Mark. Never a man short on words."
She brushes a curled lock of hair over her shoulder, savoring the iced water as Peter comments on the drunken mayor dancing. She turns to glance and almost chokes; her hand jets southward mid-sip. Steady jabs pulse along the underside of her left rib cage.
"Omph …" She sets down the glass, eyelids fluttering.
"What is it?" Peter leans in close, his breath tickling her neck.
"The baby is … very active, tonight."
(In two days they find out if it is a boy or girl; a last minute reschedule. They were to find out yesterday during her appointment, but Peter had a conflict and couldn't make it.)
He rests one of his hands beneath hers. She blushes.
The second time she felt pronounced kicks, he was away at work, as is typically the case when the baby makes its full presence known.
He's been dying to feel the action.
"Peter …" Alicia scans the room, checking for onlookers.
"Hm?" His eyes are glued to her middle. "Show me. Where did you feel it?"
"Someone might be watching," she mutters, trying not to smile.
"I'm sure they're looking at you, and not me." His gaze lowers to her bust, sweeps down, and her cheeks flush hot.
She counts it as the third time tonight he's regarded her this way. Her choice of dress is to thank for his heated, fixed gaze.
Kate deemed the floor-length single shouldered, sweetheart neck emerald gown a winner during an impromptu shopping adventure post-doctor appointment.
After trying on three fails, this one stretched and flattered in all the right places. A left-hip train detail added an extra boot of éclat (which earned her endless compliments). Kate joking, "They'll think you're the charity president's wife wearing this" sealed the deal.
And she felt every bit a woman who could turn heads in the curve molding satin, despite a slight waddle, once she emerged from their bedroom to head out. Peter stood at the bottom of the stairs, in his tuxedo, fiddling with the bow tie, waiting for her to come down.
On her descent, his movements slowed, and expression sang all the praises he could not voice.
"I'm the luckiest man alive," he had uttered the moment she reached the last step and straightened his crooked tie.
Inexplicable warmth tumbles through her at the memory.
Smiling, she covers his hand and guides it along the left side of her stomach, firmly pressing against the spot the baby's attacking.
"Feel it?"
She studies his face, assuming the wrinkle of his brows and nose means he doesn't, when at once, the muscles in his face relax. He beams up at her.
"I feel it."
With each movement, his smile grows and eyes float between her bump and face in a series of adoration before he holds her gaze.
"I love you," he whispers.
Flutters whirl in her chest; she links their hands. "I love you, too."
"Up for a dance before we leave?"
"I am."
After the baby calms, and she empties her glass, she takes his hand and follows his lead as he carefully waltzes them around on the dance floor until she's breathless.
. . .
1:35 a.m.
She floats in a safety of peaceful sleep. Of boundless happiness. A taint smile is on her lips when she startles awake.
Stares into the tray ceiling. Unsure of why she's woken.
Rolling onto her back, she gently pushes Peter's arm, like a dead weight, from above her waist and lies still. Waiting for the usual late night movement.
Is that what it was? Why she woke? The baby moving? A quick-fast kick?
Time ticks on.
Nothing else occurs.
Glancing at Peter sleeping sound, she moves her head near his on the pillow and closes her eyes, drifting back to sleep.
. . .
2:48 a.m.
She is dreaming of her unborn baby, of its sweet scent and perfect face.
The two of them are in a nursery. Settled in a rocking chair. Hums vibrate her lips. A soft coo in response fills her whole. She's peeling back swaddled layers of cotton for a better view when pain shatters the dream and quakes her, from the belly down.
Her eyes shoot open.
That was not a dream. This pain is real. Unmistakable as it lingers and spreads.
Before she can triage the situation, another hits, at a different intensity.
She jolts upright.
"Mmph." Cupping the bottom of her stomach, she hunches over, legs falling to the side.
This is not normal.
This is not the usual movement.
Hedging into nineteen weeks, this type of pain signals one thing. She plants a hand behind her, the other still in position as her breathing leaden with every second.
"What are you doing, baby? What's wrong?"
A distinct cramp strikes at the same her muscles tighten like a fist.
Oh no.She's certain her uterus just split in two.
No no no no no."Mmmmmmm …" She bites her tongue to stifle a sob while peeking at the clock. Noting the time. Thinking to track these.
Contrac—? No! No.
She rubs her stomach in sweeping circles as she dips her head back, eyes closing, willing calm thoughts.
Minutes pass.
Her breathing returns to a slow rhythm, and the pain subsides.
Actions to take first warp in her mind, but a pressing urge to go to the bathroom dominates.
She doesn't have the strength for the five-second trek. Maybe if she lies down for a few, that will help.
Yes, that is the best plan of action right now.
Lie down.
Recover.
Bathroom.
She can do it.
About to recline, another cramp hits, accompanied by a heavy gush, which seeps through her underwear.
Tears spring in her eyes.
There is nothing left to guess. One thing she feared most after being told she's high risk, she knows is happening.
Her underbelly and lower back constricts as she flails a hand out to her right.
"Peter," she gasps.
She blindly taps across crumpled sheets until she lands on his arm. Shakes him.
"PETER," she says through clenched teeth, "Wake. Up!"
"Wh-wh-what? What's wrong?"
She's riddled mute because one hits stronger. Harder. Damned hard. She lurches forward, bent, unable to suppress a loud groan.
In between pain and panic, he flicks on the light and her worst fears doubly confirm.
A stream of cloudy, scarlet fluid oozes from her body, saturating the sheets.
He stands at the base of the bed. Eyes round. Face blanch.
She looks at him—frozen—and cries at him to do something. For an erratic minute, they argue about what is happening. Mid-sentence, her head drops between her knees.
The pain escalates, rippling through her limbs.
Every part of her from the waist down is in a vicious torment.
All she can focus on is how much it hurts. How to make it stop!
"NO," she grits out after he says he's going to phone her doctor. "Hospital. Need to go. First. I'm in—" She pants; struggles to anchor a breath. "Baby ... coming."
A/N: Promise to try and make the next set of chapters not too painful. Happier times will come again. ;(