~29~

~Chapter Twenty-Nine~

lightning crashes, a new mother cries
her placenta falls to the floor
the angel opens her eyes
the confusion sets in
before the doctor can even close the door

~Live, Lightning Crashes~

I've lost track of how long I've been relegated to my bedroom. At least a few days, but there's a very strong possibility my mind is playing tricks on me. I've never been stagnant for more than a day or so, excluding the year I had the flu, so, this is a real irritation for me. All of the days have started to blur together, into one giant unending day. My time has been filled with homework, staring idly at inanimate objects around my bedroom, and strange YouTube videos. Also, I've watched a variety of different shows thanks to Netflix and finished that book I started to read in August. It sucks ass, as Damon would say, and my resolve to just go with the flow is crumbling pathetically.

Especially since I'm running out of stuff to do.

Everything that was sent home to me via Enzo is done. I gave it to Caroline to turn in to the appropriate teachers earlier.

Now, I'm at my wit's end.

So bored that I've opened up the book of crossword puzzles my mom bought me. You know, despite my intense dislike for them. Personally, I believe that there are way too many words in the English language that mean the same thing, to narrow them down based on vague clues.

I've muddled through half of one puzzle when I get stuck on eight across: an eight-letter word for bad grammar. I'm ninety percent sure the eight boxes are a misprint—mistake is the only suitable answer, but it's only seven letters long.

I toss my pen aside and grab my cell phone. My only recourse will be to look it up, it seems. I get distracted, though. By a silly text, Damon must have sent when he went to have another meeting with the recruiter.

I'm waiting to pee in a cup. It's so exciting!

How can I ignore that?

Okay. I didn't need to know that.

And then when I realize there's another message below that one, it becomes clear that Damon thinks I have evidenced by the row of question marks after Earth to Bennett—you okay? And the very theatrical: text pickle if you're not. That'll be our safe word.

I'm fine. What's an eight-letter word for a grammatical error?

Solecism, my vocabulary-challenged little cream puff.

I refuse to respond to that one. The last thing I need is another Damon Salvatore-appointed nickname. That list is way too long already.

~~X~~

After I've abandoned the crossword puzzles and opened up an email from my English teacher that details the next assignment, I stare out my window forlornly.

The sky is dark and cloudy. I have to squint to see the few visible stars. And on top of that, it's raining heavily. A clap of thunder sounds, overshadowing the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the roof. And then a bolt of lightning rips through the sky, illuminating the entire front yard for a split second. The grass is long and weighed down by puddles of water. The tree by my bedroom window looks ominous and imposing as the branches sway in the wind.

It's absolutely beautiful.

I've always loved thunderstorms. There's something so… calming about them. At least for me. I love to sit outside and watch them. Stand in the rain with my arms outstretched, getting completely soaked. My favorite moment is when everything just stops. The sun forces its way out of the clouds and a rainbow appears in their place. It reminds me that, even under difficult circumstances, things can still turn out alright in the end.

I tried to explain that to my parents one afternoon. I was nine at the time, and Grams had come over to babysit me while my parents went on a romantic weekend getaway. On the night they were supposed to come home it stormed for hours. When the sun dipped below the horizon, she took me outside and we danced in the rain. She gave me some advice that I've always had a bit of trouble following enjoy life. It's not perfect, there will be trials, but they will be yours. Embrace it because those will be the things that will make you who you are.

Mom and Dad didn't think the same way. I repeated those exact words to them, and they were more concerned about the puddle I was dripping onto the floor. Mom had also been completely desensitized to Grams's "new-age" beliefs at that point. As I got older, I figured out that she was embarrassed by her mother's attitude toward life. So, I just stopped bringing those things up around them and after she died I feel as though I forgot about them completely.

I turn back to my laptop screen, where a document with only my name on it is displayed. I have been tasked with writing an essay about whether or not life—specifically my life—has a purpose. How cliché. It's the kind of writing prompt you assign your students if you want to read a bunch of angsty prose. And I should be in luck, my life has been nothing but agonized teenage frustration lately. But I don't want to pour my heart out to a computer right now.

And I'm beginning to feel very uncomfortable. I'm not in horrible pain or anything, but it's the kind of feeling I'm wary of. And I'm home alone. I should have known better to think that my mother and father would utilize that dumb office they built in the basement Mom stayed home for a day after I returned to our house. Dad went back to work immediately. My mom texts me throughout the day though, which is okay… I push away the hurt I feel over their lack of concern by telling myself that I wouldn't want to be fussed over constantly.

It helps sometimes.

The minutes on the clock tick away and I've yet to do anything—except text Damon and beg him to bring me a pint of fudge brownie ice cream. He told me he just got done and would be over soon. I let him know where the spare key is and wait for him to arrive. I scroll through a list of movies I think we will both enjoy (some of which I've seen twice already) and the discomfort I'm experiencing grows noticeably.

You're good. It'll be okay. You just have a stiff back.

I breathe in deeply and make those statements my mantra.

It doesn't work though, and by the time Damon arrives with my ice cream, I'm freaking out internally.

"Are you still fine?" He asks me and he has trepidations.

I mull this over as I feel an eerily familiar stabbing pain in my stomach, followed by an extreme amount of pressure. Anxiety shoots through me and I know I can't brush these symptoms off again.

I squeeze my eyes shut and let my breath out before responding. "I think you need to take me back to the hospital."

"Okay." He says, taking my arm and helping me to my feet. "I'll get you downstairs and then I'll grab your stuff—please tell me you're still on top of your game and everything is all packed."

I point to the bag Care and Elena gave me, stuffed to the brim with a change of clothes for myself, a onesie, a blanket, a handful of diapers, my robe, and my textbooks. I probably have too many things, but I want all my bases covered.

"I can grab this, too." He expertly swings the bag over his shoulder and helps me walk down the steps.

It's nice to see that cool, calm, collected Damon has made a reappearance. I know during my previous hospital stay, the doctors gave me a shot to help the baby's lungs develop faster, but that doesn't soothe me. It's still way too early for this to be happening—again.

~~X~~

Once we are in his car and traveling in the direction of the hospital, I give my doctor a call. I do my best to articulate what is happening, but I feel like nothing I'm saying makes any sense. I hang up my cell and press my forehead on the cool glass of the window. I really tried to follow the obstetrician's instructions to the letter. So much for that—I'm still in the same situation I was just days ago.

Damon places a reassuring hand on my thigh. "It's going to be alright, Bon. You can do this."

"I don't want to," I whisper. I feel hopeless. I couldn't protect my daughter—at least that's what it feels like.

"I don't think that's how labor works, but what do I know? I'm a guy." He keeps his tone light as if we are having one of our normal conversations.

"My thoughts exactly."

"Go ahead… tell me some more things I don't know about," he encourages.

"I don't think we have that kind of time."

"If I weren't so high on adrenaline right now, I would be offended by that."

"Oh, that's another one. You can't control how arrogant you are…"

"Okay, I get it. Come up with some new material."

"Come on, that's classic—" I stop short, gritting my teeth when my pain level increases.

I realize how bad this is going to get when I can't think of anything new to tease Damon about.

It's going to be a long night.

I'm admitted immediately.

Everything is the same. The only difference this time is the room itself. They placed me in the one closest to the entrance of the maternity wing. I sit in my bed, arms across my chest, frown plastered on my face. The constant beeping is grating on my nerves. I want to scream, but I'm not sure if it's from the pain or annoyance.

I tilt my head back and groan. This fucking hurts—worse than before and last time had been awful. I was hoping that would be the extent of it. Again, I was wrong. Why does that keep happening to me? I'm supposed to be right, God damn it! I ball my hands into fists and slam them into the mattress over and over and over again. A garbled scream forces its way through my clenched teeth.

Damon leans back in his chair. "Do you want ice chips, a priest maybe?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe, but it's becoming harder and harder to do.

"Sorry. That was insensitive."

My eyes open and the lights above my head are blurry. I turn my head and look at Damon, whose blue eyes are cool, his face a mask of strength, jaw set. "It's fine, Damon. I'm more concerned about her… later. Can you hold my hand?"

"Of course."

When Damon's hand is in mine, I let my eyes find the huge whiteboard on the wall. The goal, written in a curly script, says healthy mom; healthy baby. How can she be healthy if I give birth at twenty-six weeks pregnant? I think of the pictures I had shown Damon after I was discharged earlier in the week. Babies born sooner than planned don't look like babies. They seem so fragile. I won't be able to hold her. More than likely, she will be whisked away before I can even see her.

"How about we come up with a name?" Damon suggests. "I think if we call her hey you for the rest of her life she might have a complex."

I nod. My head and my hair are drenched in sweat, even my pillows are soaked.

"How about Damiana? In honor of the awesomeness that is me."

"Nice… to… know… your… ego… is still… in-tact."

"I will take that as a no," Damon says, smiling at me.

My grip on his hand tightens as another contraction hits me. I let out a cry. I sound like a wounded animal. I feel Damon yank his hand away from me, but he can't free himself from my grasp.

"Bon, I'm going to need to retain the use of my hand."

I don't disagree with him, but I don't think I can let go of him. Not now. Not when I need him the most. Damon's phone starts ringing and if I could've, I would have laughed at how awkwardly he answered it.

"Mrs. B, you got my text? Yeah… we are at the hospital now. She's doing fine. You want to talk to her?"

"No." I choke out. "I'm not—" My words stop short and I yelp again.

It's not the pain that's stopping me from talking—not completely. I am also pretty mad at her, and I don't know if I'm being rational or not, but I'm upset that she wasn't there for me, that she was at work when she could have been home with me. Work always seemed to come first for both of them.

Damon politely tells my mother that I've declined her request and hangs up.

He looks up at me with a forced smile. "Your mom is on her way and so is your merry band of teenyboppers. All of 'em. Yay." He can't even fake enthusiasm.

Everything else ends up being a pretty fuzzy memory later on, but at the moment it feels like every single aspect of the birthing process is burned into my brain.

I end up needing an emergency c-section and I can't control the fear shooting through my entire body like a fast-moving poison. And then numbness. The operating room is dark except for the bright overhead lights.

I hear the muffled voices of my doctors and then feel the pressure. Extreme pressure. I am supposed to hear a cry, but I don't

And for a long moment, I don't think I will. Just as the weight of the world is about to come crashing on my shoulders, I get a reprieve.

I do hear it. An ear-piercing wail hit my consciousness and I've never been more relieved in my entire life.I A see a quick flash of sterile blue, and she is taken away. The APGAR scale. A test to make sure she is alright. And Damon says something, but I don't understand him.

And now I'm back in the maternity ward, trying not to puke from all of the pain killers in my system. I feel like a zombie and it hurts to move even a fraction of an inch. Damon has taken it upon himself to tell me how she's doing—which I'm thankful for—but it doesn't help because I haven't seen her myself. Not in-person. Damon has assured me that, while she doesn't look like a typical newborn, the doctors said the prognosis is good. She's alive. She needs help breathing, so she's on a ventilator. She can't suckle so they feed her with a tube. It breaks my heart, but I try to remain positive. She is in the best care humanly possible and the neonatologist has promised Damon that his figure of ninety percent is fairly accurate.

The medical professionals have reiterated this to me, but I won't believe them until I see her myself.

She's also still nameless. And that is horrific to me. She's in the NICU and she doesn't even have a name yet. I haven't even been a mother for more than a couple of hours and I'm already fucking up. My brain is a bit foggy, but I need to be able to convey to Damon how important this is. I tug on his arm, sucking in a sharp breath when I realized I shouldn't have moved so fast.

"She needs a name!"

Damon shrugs me off. "First off, ouch. I still haven't recovered from your death grip five hours ago. Secondly, I already gave you my suggestion. You're the one that didn't like it."

I feel frantic. "Yeah, I know and they're probably calling her Jane Doe or Baby Something-or-Other."

"They call unidentified dead bodies Jane Doe, Bon Bon. That's an awful comparison for multiple reasons."

"So, you see my point!" My voice goes up several octaves. I'm hysterical.

He takes a deep breath and kisses me on the forehead. "I wish I could have whatever you're on. I get it—I think. I also don't think you'll remember all of this conversation later. But what do you think her name should be?"

I draw a blank.

I thought that I would just know who she was and everything she is meant to be once I held her in my arms, but things obviously didn't go that way. But her name should be special to both of us. "Her middle name should be Lillian. In honor of your mom."

She meant the world to him and if I weren't on so many drugs, I'd say that he may have teared up a bit at my suggestion.

"I like that idea," he says, giving me a peck on the lips. "You're brilliant—even when you're high as fuck. What about her first name?"

"How about Amelia?" I ask, looking up at him hopefully. It had been my great-grandmother's name and Grams' middle name. That way, both of us will carry a piece of the woman who raised me.

"I like it. Still think my name is better, though."

"No."

"Okay… we will go with yours. Bossy."

"Oh, good."

"Are you ready for visitors yet? Blondie and Elena have been annoying me for I don't know how long."

"No. I want it to be just us. And I want to go see her."

"We will. The doctor has to check on you first, though."

"Damn it!"

As upset as I am about the waiting period, I'm just glad she's doing alright. And then I find myself relaxing a little.

"I can show you a picture though. I snapped one when they took me down to the NICU to explain everything." He pulls the photograph up.

She is so tiny—so small that she could fit comfortably inside my hands. The tubes coming out of her are scary, but I don't pay much attention to them. She's perfect. And I already love her more than words could explain.

"You know, I love you, but I love her more."

"Ditto." I lean my head on his shoulder, his phone still in my hand.

And we stay like that for a while, blissfully happy, until I find myself drifting to sleep.