We Are Us

Chapter 40 New York City

Three hours later

The words of a doctor I’ve never met until today wash over me, leaving a filthy grime.

My son is dead.

According to him, my baby boy was dead when I walked from my apartment to the Madison Avenue store, had probably been dead for several days. Dead, and I didn’t know it.

If what he’s saying is true, it means that I stood in the nursery this morning, supervising the delivery of the cribs and changing table and dresser. That I’d sat in the rocking chair with my hands over my belly, humming nursery rhymes and envisioning the day I would bring my babies home and put them to my breasts, knowing everything was just as it should be.

But it wasn’t. It isn’t.

Today, nothing is as it should be. Nothing.

My son is dead.

My daughter, though, is very much alive. Through a flat screen hung on the wall of my hospital room, I watch her squirming inside me as tears streak down my face. Does she know, somehow, that her brother is dead? I try to read her expression, looking for signs of distress that her playmate isn’t playing with her anymore. My vision is so blurred, I can barely see.

There are tests, tests, and more tests. Hushed whispering by doctors, strained expressions from sonogram technicians, pitying glances from nurses. Save my daughter, please.

“I’m afraid there’s an infection in your uterus, Mrs. Stockton.”

“An infection,” I repeat, a tiny pinprick of hope piercing the layers of anguish pressing against me. An infection can be treated. An infection can be cured

“How did she get an infection?” Tucker asks, standing by my side. “My wife hasn’t missed a single doctor’s appointment. She is getting the best care money can buy.”

“Unfortunately, there’s no way of knowing. There are some mysteries medicine can’t solve.”

“What do you know?”

“Well, I believe the infection is what led to fetus A’s death. His placenta ruptured this morning, which is what preceded your wife’s trip to the hospital today. It was her body’s way of attempting to expel the fetus.”

I wince at the clinical terms he’s using to describe my perfect little boy, now frozen and unmoving inside of me. He looks like he’s sleeping. “What does this mean for my daughter?” Cut me open, do anything you need to, but please, save my daughter.

“Your daughter is only nine ounces. She has less than a ten percent chance of survival outside of the womb, and a zero percent chance of living without major health problems. If we don’t treat this infection immediately, your uterus will be compromised, which will mean a hysterectomy. And if the infection spreads, the toxins will invade your bloodstream. You will die, Mrs. Stockton.”

“How long?” I ask, gripping Tucker’s hand.

“How long… ?” There are too many variables, the doctor doesn’t know what question I’m asking. How could he? He’s not a mother.

Through gritted teeth I complete my thought. “How long must my baby girl stay inside of me to have a fighting chance?”

His face twists with impatience. He’s tired of my questions and is eager to treat the problem. “By the time she has a chance, you will be dead.”

No. No, no, no.

I would trade my life for my daughter’s in a heartbeat. But that isn’t an option. She can’t live outside my body, and if I delay treatment, neither of us will live.

So, no chance. No options. And no time.

After that, I don’t have any more questions. Just grief.

Grief for my son, floating inside my belly like a fossil suspended in amber. Grief for my daughter who is still so alive—beautifully, gloriously alive, but for whom death is imminent and inevitable.

She is swinging her hands, kicking her feet, bumping into her brother. Sometimes it appears that he is moving, too. But the sepia flutter of his heart is still. So fucking still.

I want to turn away, to close my eyes and hide my head. But I don’t. I force myself to watch every last second I have left with my babies. I barely allow myself to blink, needing to sear the memory of them into my brain.

I am numb, and yet electrified with heartache. It’s a roar in my skull as I listen to the doctor speaking to Tucker. Nothing to be done, he says, except to suction and scrape every last bit of my babies from me so that I can start over.

Suction. Scrape. Start over.

Foreign, awful, chilling words. I want to put my hands over my ears and scream fa, la, la, la, la until the doctors and nurses stop talking. More than that, I want to will myself back in time, to the last minute I felt both babies move inside me. When was that, exactly?

Panic rises up inside me, hot as lava. When was the last time I could feel both of them? Their final soccer match. When? Think, think. If I can just remember, I can will myself back to that moment. Think hard, damn it. Immerse myself in that last, perfect moment and everything else will fade away, like a terrible nightmare. Because this can’t be real, it just can’t.

Think, damn it. Think!

And then I remember. Two nights ago, in bed. Tucker was home and he’d rolled over in his sleep, jostling me. His arm had closed around my hip, and I’d pulled it over my belly, pressing his palm against my skin. Our children had danced then, in our darkened bedroom, high above the racing cabs and dirty streets of Manhattan. My little prince and princess.

Their movements thrummed beneath my belly, and Tucker had been roused from sleep when dancing became kicking. He’d moaned, kissing my shoulder and rubbing my belly drowsily. “Go to sleep, babies,” he had whispered. They listened, growing quiet soon after.

And I had lain awake for hours, imagining future dance recitals and soccer games. Park playdates. Ice cream cones on sweltering summer days, hot chocolate on bitterly cold ones. Potty training and training wheels. Boo-boo bu

So much to look forward to.

I want to go back in time. Two days. I wouldn’t have let Tucker tell them to go to sleep. No. I would have drank orange juice and lain on my left side. I would have let them play soccer forever.

Two days. Is that really too much to ask? Just two days. I’ll stay in bed. I won’t move. I’ll spend the next few months eating the healthiest foods.

I will be the best mother-to-be ever. A perfect incubator.

Two goddamn days. Please!

“Poppy, look at me.” Tucker’s breath is hot on my face. I turn away, rolling over and curling my knees up to protect my belly. He’s ruining everything. I need to focus. Need to concentrate on that magical hour. I can get back there, I know it.

But his hand is on my shoulder, he is shaking me. “Poppy, enough. Let the doctor take care of you.”

“Forget about me. He should be taking care of them. The next generation of Stocktons, remember?” I am begging, desperate. Emotions charge at me, thudding in my chest. Fury and fear held together by the thi

But I can see that Tucker doesn’t understand. He buried both his parents and was back at work the next day. We don’t process grief the same way. Is he hurting at all?

Tucker takes a long, ragged breath and for a moment, it’s as if I’m looking at a rainy puddle that reflects the sky above, and there is an instant of confusion. Up is down and down is up. What am I looking at—the puddle or the sky? What’s real?