Page 44 of Because of Them

I’m sobbing as the contraction subsides and I’m left to dwell on the love left in my heart. The love I have no time for right now.

Michael eases away from me, gently closing the door so he can step around to the driver’s seat. When he climbs in, his hand falls right into my lap. Squeezing gently at my thigh.

I want to say something, anything. I want to tell him how I feel and I want him to remind me that he feels it too. Not just the undeniable attraction, but somethingmore. I want to know if this is what he meant or have I romanticised each moment a little bit too much.

Before I can find the words—never mind build up the courage—Michael pulls into the parking lot of the Women’s Hospital. I hadn’t even noticed us leaving the driveway. He rushes around the car to help me out.

We walk like a married couple would, his arm draped around my waist, a little too much of my weight leaning on him. I wonder if people will assume. I hope they do.

The same blend of bleach and citrus from the ultrasound clinic assaults my nose when we walk through the automatic doors. I cough it back and Michael turns to support me with both his arms. Another wave of tightening, somehow even less intense again, washes over me.

A midwife runs around the desk to help guide me into a chair. She asks questions and Michael answers, and then she leads us to a consultation room down a long hall.

She checks my blood pressure. I go to the bathroom to bring back a urine sample. I’m guided to the bed. It all feels like I’m watching someone else go into labour seventeen weeks early. This isn’t my life; it wasn’t the plan. But I have put all my trust in Michael. Trusting him to be my voice, trusting him to make the right decisions. Trusting him to be the adult when I’m not strong enough.

Tiny monitors held in place with a long elastic band are wrapped around my bulging stomach. A jug of water and a plastic cup are placed on the little bedside stand. I’m only half paying attention when the midwife tells me I need to drink plenty of water, and hands me a little remote with a solitary button.

“Any movement you feel, press here,” she says with a smile. She turns to Michael to add, “And if she feels another contraction I need you to take note of the time, and how long it lasts, so we can match it to what the monitor shows.”

She whisks out of the room with a promise to be back soon to check how I’m going.

The machine murmurs away. Michael seats himself at the end of the bed. His muddy work clothes leave deep brown marks on the white sheets. Resting a hand on my foot, he sings under his breath. Something unrecognisable at first, but then I realise what it is, Twinkle Twinkle. The melody floats around the room, the deep rumble settling within me, adding another layer to this new feeling.

“Maisie is at her cousins’ house.” I remember, the guilt of forgetting sits heavily on my chest.

Michael picks his phone off the bed, and rifles through the duffle bag he packed to find mine. “I’ll message Callum.”

I wish I could hug Maisie. It wouldn’t take away any of the fear, but there’s a certain kind of comfort that your child brings, and I’d feel better with her in my arms. Michael wipes the tear away, humming the same melody.

The minutes tick by. I press the button once, twice, then a bunch more as the babies have a kicking match. My stomach tightens and just as he was asked, Michael makes a note of the time and duration on his phone.

“I don’t know if you should include that one, it wasn’t that bad.”

He scrunches his nose, typing on his phone. “I made a note that it was mild.”

When the midwife returns, she brings a doctor with her. I turn to Michael because if the doctor is here somethingmustbe wrong. He squeezes my ankle, then rubs small circles on the sole of my foot with his thumb.

The obstetrician explains that I’m not in labour, and my whole body sighs with relief. Michael looks up, pausing his gentle massage, no doubt to ask a question, but she continues before he has a chance.

“You were experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions. Probably pretty tough ones, by the sound of it. They can feel worse due to exhaustion and dehydration.”

I think about how little sleep I’ve been getting; how draining work has been and how I can’t switch off at night, worrying about all the things I need to do. As a collective, all four of us look to the jug of water beside the bed. The still full jug of water.

“I want to give you a bag of fluids to get your hydration back up, but you need to stay on top of drinking water from now on. Having twins is incredibly hard on the body. You need to nourish it so that it can do the best job at helping those two babies grow for as long as possible.”

I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. I hate needles. But I will do it. For them.

So, I squeeze my eyes shut and I squeeze Michael’s hand as hard as I possibly can while the midwife inserts the drip. Once it’s all set, she kindly covers my arm with a blanket, so I don’t see the cannula.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Michael once she leaves.

The cool fluid spreads up my arm, leaving tingles in its wake.

“You’re not allowed to be sorry, remember?”

MICHAEL

Slowly, as the fluid drizzles into her veins, Audrey gains a little of her colour back. But she still has a sorrowful look painted over her as we thank the midwives. She melts into the car seat while I drive us home, hugging herself and letting her head fall forward.

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