He texted Megan. Then he called my mother. Then, somehow, he got the number for the hospital room phone, and I lay in the bed and watched it ring until the nurse unplugged it from the wall without my having to ask. He left two hours later, and the quality of the silence that settled into the room afterward was different from any silence I had experienced in years. It had no edge to it. It did not feel like the pause before something worse.
The next morning my doctor sat at the edge of my bed and told me that the baby had stabilized and the risk of premature delivery had decreased significantly, but that I needed strict rest and careful monitoring for the remainder of the pregnancy. Stress, dehydration, and physical strain had pushed my body much closer to early labor than it should have gotten at this stage. She spoke directly and without drama and I appreciated the steadiness of it.
Megan helped me shower and sat beside me while I ate breakfast and stared out the window at the street below and tried to get my bearings on what my life now looked like. The shape of it had changed in less than twenty-four hours, or perhaps it had been changing for much longer and yesterday was simply the first day the change was visible to everyone, including me.
“You can come stay with me when they discharge you,” Megan said. “You don’t have to go back there.”
“I know,” I said.
“I mean it, Claire. You don’t have to.”
“I know,” I said again, and this time I meant it too.
