I woke up in the darkness a week and a half after our return from Winston-Salem, a tight fist of pain in my belly. I’d been dreaming that a stomach bug had taken hold of me when one of the spasms finally jerked me awake. Gasping, I sat up and turned on my night table lamp. My alarm clock read 5:20 and the pain was passing. Maybe it really had been a dream. But even though the fist was gone, a vague discomfort lingered. Please, God, I thought to myself. Let this be a stomach virus and not the baby.
I got out of bed and tried to put on my robe and slippers calmly, as though there were nothing at all wrong. Once in the bathroom, though, I saw the blood and began to tremble. This can’t be happening, I thought. Please, no.
I was crying softly by the time I returned to the bedroom and shook Henry by the shoulder.
“Hm?” he said. Early morning sunlight now sifted through the sheer curtains at the windows, illuminating his face as he looked up at me from the bed. “What is it?”
“I’m spotting,” I said, although that was a gentle term for what I was experiencing.
“Spotting?” He raised himself to his elbows. “What are you talking about?”
“Bleeding. Something’s wrong.” I heard the shiver in my voice. “I shouldn’t be bleeding,” I said. “I’m only five months along. And I have some pain too.”
He was instantly on his feet, his arm around me. “Sit down,” he said, and I lowered myself to the edge of his bed. “I’ll call Dr. Poole.”
He threw his robe over his pajamas and left the room. I heard his quick footsteps on the stairs as he headed down to the kitchen and the phone, and I closed my eyes and whispered please please please. I’d seen Dr. Poole for the first time only the week before. He was a kindly man of indeterminate age who was clearly accustomed to keeping Hickory’s secrets, and he’d assured me that my baby and I were fine and healthy. He’d told me to order a special maternity girdle, but I’d seen no reason to bother with it, and now I wondered if that had been a mistake. Had my baby needed more support? I knew deep down that was crazy, but I felt crazy at that moment. Crazy and terrified.
I began to get dressed, moving very slowly as though I could keep my baby inside me if I was careful. I had put on my slip, dress, and mules by the time Henry returned to the room, ashen faced and grim.
“He’ll meet us at the hospital,” he said.
I didn’t seem able to move from where I stood at the end of my bed. “What did he say?” I asked. “It’s bad, isn’t it.”
He took my arm and guided me gently toward the door. “Let’s pray for a miracle,” he said.