Page 141 of 12 Months of Mayhem

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.”

Beaux’s small arms wrap tightly around my neck. “I was so scared, Mom,” he mumbles into my hair.

“I know, baby. I know. But you were so brave. Both of you were.”

Over their heads, I lock eyes with Rex. His face is a storm of emotions - relief, anger, guilt. But there’s no time to address any of that now. Another contraction rips through me, stronger than the others.

I grit my teeth against the pain, forcing myself to focus on Meredith’s outraged face. “You said you’d help me!” she screeches, her bleached hair wild around her flushed face.

Despite the agony coursing through my body, I manage a cold smile. “I never said when,” I reply. “We’ll be in touch.”

Meredith’s face contorts with fury, but before she can lunge at me, Maya and Harlow step between us, their stances protective and threatening.

“Rex,” I gasp through another contraction.

He’s there in an instant, his strong arms scooping me up as if I weigh nothing.

“I’ve got you, baby. Just hold on.”

Chapter Six

Rex

The rhythmic beeping of the fetal heart monitor is the only sound piercing the thick silence in the dimly lit hospital room. As soon as we arrived, the emergency room staff whisked her away directly to the maternity floor. A flurry of activity ensued as nurses, doctors, and a host of other medical personnel flooded her room, their movements swift and practiced. They connected her to monitors, inserted an IV with precision, and conducted scan after scan, each one adding to the gravity of the situation.

I watch Rem, her emerald eyes fixed on the ceiling, deliberately avoiding my gaze. The gentle swell of her belly rises and falls with each breath, our unborn child still nestled safely within. I ache to reach out and touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips, but the invisible wall between us is as solid as concrete.

“Rem,” I start, my voice low and gravelly in the quiet room. She doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge me, but I see the slight tightening around her eyes. “Baby, please. Talk to me.”

“Not yet,” she declares under her breath, holding up her hand.

I shift in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the creak echoing in the room. Her jaw clenches, a telltale sign of her anger. I want to soothe her, to tell her everything will be alright, but the words stick in my throat.

Linny bustles in, her presence filling the room with a warmth that had been lacking. She’s a whirlwind of motion, adjusting the pillows and smoothing her daughter’s hair with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. Her eyes meet mine, a silent question in their depths. I give her a slight nod, assuring her that I’m holding it together.

“The kids are fine, sugar,” Linny says. “Beaux is keeping Birdie entertained. Cheyenne and Harlow are out there with them.” A ghost of a smile flickers across Rem’s face. Fuck, my kids are brave. Braver than they should be at this age.

The doctor enters, clipboard in hand, and the tension in the room ratchets up a notch. I stand, my hand instinctively moving to hers. She doesn’t pull away, and I take it as a small victory.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Laveau?”

“Better,” she croaks. “The contractions have slowed down. They’re not as bad.”

“Good. The medication we’re administering is working then. All good things considered with pre-term labor.”

The doctor’s words hit me hard, and I feel her stiffen beneath my hand. Pre-term labor? My mind reels, trying to process the implications. I glance at Rem, her face a mask of shock and disbelief, mirroring my own emotions.

“But...I thought it was just Braxton Hicks,” she whispers. “I’ve been having these pains on and off for weeks.”

The doctor shakes his head, his expression grave. “I’m afraid not, Ms. Laveau. The contractions you’ve been experiencing today are real labor pains. You’re about two centimeters dilated. We’ve managed to stop them for now, but you’re at risk for delivering early.”

My throat constricts, and I struggle to find my voice. “So, what does that mean?” I ask, the words coming out harsher than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. “What happens now?”

The doctor turns to face us both, his eyes flickering between us. “It means we need to be very careful from here on out. You’re only at 28 weeks, Ms. Laveau. While babies can survive at this stage, it’s far from ideal.”

I feel the burden of his words settle on my shoulders like a lead blanket. My mind races with a thousand questions, each more terrifying than the last. Will our baby be okay? What if she goes into labor again? I look down at her, and for the first time since we arrived at the hospital, I see fear. The fear I see there mirrors my own, and instinctively, I tighten my grip on her hand.

“We’ll need to keep you here for observation, Ms. Laveau,” the doctor continues. “At least for the next 48 hours. We’ll continue with the medication to suppress the contractions and give you steroids to help develop the baby’s lungs, just in case.”

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