Chapter 9

"Did you cut your leg?" he says, guiding me to a soft spot on the ground. He puts down his bag and starts rolling up my soaked pant leg.

I shake my head, "I don't think so."

Phillip kneels over my right leg and examines every surface, "You're sure? Does anything hurt you?"

I lean back on the palms of my hands, "Everything hurts."

"But nothing on your leg?"

His voice is shaken, high-pitched almost—nothing like the firm tone he used with Wyle.

"It's nothing. The blood is probably yours."

I can feel him struggle to control his trembling fingers as he forces my pants over my knee.

"No-mine wouldn't still be this red."

"I'm fine. Let's just go. We'll put something on it at the center."

He ignores my comment altogether and his eyes remain on my leg. A small furrow forms between his eyebrows, "I don't get it. Where's it all coming from?"

He lifts my pant leg as far up my thigh as it will go. He hesitates for a moment, then looks up at me, "Take them off."

"What?"

"Your pants."

"What? No."

"I can't see the injury. Come on, just take them off."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes!"

"No-we're by a main road."

"There's nobody here." He says.

"You're here."

"I've seen it all before."

"I don't think so."

His eyes remain fixated on me, waiting for me to give in. He grips my pant leg in his fists and in one solid rip, tears it apart.

"Phillip!" I say.

I can hear the threads of fabric snapping as he forces the slit further up my thigh.

"Relax, the center will get you new ones." He says.

His eyes widen as he stares at something just out of my line of sight.

"What is it?" I say.

He holds out his hand to me, "Come on. We gotta go."

"What's wrong?"

He throws the bags over his shoulder and helps me to my feet. The shreds of my former pant leg dangle through the mud. He grips my hand and starts guiding me toward the small hint of lights down the road.

"Philip-"

He doesn't turn around-only guides me forward.

"Phillip, what is it?"

"The blood-It's not coming from you leg."

"I told you it was fine."

He waves me off, "No, you don't get it!"

"So explain it to me!"

He stops suddenly and turns to face me, "It's not coming from your leg."

"Yes, I get that. You said that alrea-"

The air rushes from my chest and I drop his hand from mine. I'm suddenly standing motionless by the side of the road, trying to take it all in. He thinks I'm losing the baby? Can that even happen so soon?

He forcefully grabs my hand and continues leading, "No wonder you didn't say anything! You weren't worried-Hell, you were probably relieved."

"What? No…"

My voice trails off, powerless against his anger.

"How could you not have felt it?" he glares back at me, "Hmmm? You must have known-"

I shake my head, "No, I swear I didn't f-"

"When did it start?!"

I stumble over the rocks and branches as he drags me closer to the small cluster of civilization down the street.

"When did it start?!" he commands.

"I don't know." I say quietly.

"How could you not know!?"

The bright lights of a car cast a shadow over the rough lines of his face, "Only you, Elizabeth. Only you would keep quiet while your biggest problem drips down your leg."

He raises his free arm and waves it through the air as the lone car drives toward us.

He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, "Of all people to get paired with."

The car slows in front of us and a small man with only the slightest bit of gray hair remaining rolls down his window.

"Don't steal it." I whisper.

Phillip rolls his eyes and pulls a few dollars from his bag. He holds the fan bills in front of the old man.

"Could you get us to St. Vincent?"

The man stares blankly back at Phillip.

Phillip gestures toward me, "Please, she's not feeling well. We need to get to the hospital. Can you get us to St. Vincent?"

The man looks back and forth between us, then finally says, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English."

In perfect Russian.

Phillip shakes his head back and forth as if he didn't understand a word the man just said, "Hospital," he says. He gestures at the bandage on my head, then to the red stains on my pants, "Doctor. Can you get us there?"

"I'm sorry my English isn't very good." The old man says in Russian.

Phillip masks his comprehension once again, "The doctor. Can you get us there?"

"Phillip," I say quietly, "You really want to waste time playing charades?"

He looks down both sides of the long, empty road. He then glances behind him, where only the trees stand watching us. Leaning in close to the open window, he scans the backseat for any other visitors in the car.

Phillip takes a deep breath, taking time to recall the language he had buried deep within his mind long ago. Then, with the most words in Russian I've ever heard my husband speak, tells the driver, "I need you to get us to the nearest hospital."

He tells them we were in a car accident. He fell asleep at the wheel after driving through the night. The car went over the bridge into the river—he hurt his leg, his wife bumped her head on the dashboard.

I lean over the edge of my tiny metal bed to watch Phillip continue with the young doctor. With every word the man scribbles more in the chart-completely unaware that he's writing only fiction.

Phillip explains that we were driving home from visiting relatives in Virginia—that we had driven there for the weekend to tell his parents our big news. He tells the doctor he is worried sick about his wife's head injury and begs them to make sure I didn't have a concussion.

Then he tells them the real reason he is concerned.

I can't hear what the doctor says back to him. He just gives Phillip a reassuring pat on the back and walks away.

Phillip turns and comes back toward my bed. I adjust my hospital gown and lean against my flat pillow. Phillip closes the curtain around us and takes a seat by my bed. I lower my eyes, carefully avoiding his gaze.

We sit in our own silence. The empty space weakly filled with the sound of pages and rolling gurneys.

"Did you…" I say.

Phillip looks up at me and I struggle to get the words out.

"Did you…mean what you said back there?"

"When?" He says quietly.

I scoff, "When? You know when. When you said you wish you had married anyone else but me."

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you meant, isn't it?"

"I was upset."

"And I wasn't?"

He takes a seat next to me on my bed, "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"If I had noticed something….if I had felt something earlier, I would have told you."

He looks away from me, "I know."

"What did the doctor say?"

"He said it's too soon to tell for sure but most cases like this—don't end well."

I nod, unsure of what to say.

"So you must be pretty relieved. Huh? The center probably won't make you try again for at least another six months."

"Phillip…"

His eyes redden and he looks down at his hands, "Maybe you could get a whole year if you play your cards right."

He forces back a sniffle and clears his throat, "I guess if you want 'out,' now is your chance."

"I don't want out." I say quietly.

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and swallows hard, "It's just- I haven't seen a relative in six years, you know?"

"I know." I say.

"The baby was the only family I had left."

"Hey," I cup his chin in my hand and turn his face toward me, "I'm your family." I take my thumb and wipe a tear from his cheek, "We're in this together."

The curtain swings open and the doctor greets us both with a slight nod.

"So," he says, tightly gripping my chart, "We need to talk."