“Let’s head inside,” I say to The Sheriff. He stretches in that downward dog style that only canines can truly master, then trots beside me through the sand as we head inside.

I drop my bag at the kitchen table, and take two Tylenol. Then I root around in the fridge for a snack. I find an orange, grab a bowl, and return to the deck. As I peel it, I’m reminded that I’m sharing space with someone else, and that someone must have been kicking my ribs while I slept, because my side is killing me. I drop the orange peels in the bowl for a minute to rub the right side of my abdomen.

“You have strong feet,” I say to my belly as I rub. “Because you made your mama really sore.”

When Debbie stops by later, we sit on the couch and chat about her day and mine, then she cues up a romantic comedy. “It’s more like an anti romantic-comedy, but it’s still funny and still romantic,” she explains as the title credits for a little indie flick I Give It a Year flash across the TV screen. And she’s right; the film is laugh-out-loud funny, a cheeky reversal of the popular genre, but after a while I can barely keep my eyes open. “I’m so tired,” I murmur, as I try to shift into a more comfortable position on my left side because the right still hurts.

“The last few weeks are like that,” Debbie says, and turns the volume down as I doze off.

The next couple of days continue in that same rhythm. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and my ribs are still so sore. My headache wakes me up each morning, and each time I down a few red pills. I must have whacked my head harder than I’d thought on the headrest. My naps turn epic, the heavy kind that last for hours, and when I wake up from them I feel sludgy and sleepier than when I started, a bone-heavy sort of fatigue.

When Trey returns from walking The Sheriff on Sunday morning, he finds me in front of the bathroom mirror rooting around for the Tylenol, with a hand on my forehead, the other one on my ribs, and he asks what’s going on.

“Stupid fender bender. My headache won’t go away,” I mutter. I start to return to bed, but the floor is coming at my face, and I grab onto his shoulder, gripping him hard. He’s so fuzzy, all black and hazy, like a TV on the fritz, and if I let go I might fall because everything around me is bobbing up and down. He grabs me firmly, but carefully, and guides me back to bed.

“I’m calling the doctor,” he says. “This isn’t normal for a minor car accident.”

Two hours later, I’m diagnosed with severe preeclampsia.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Trey

“But how does this happen?” I ask again, standing outside the ER room with the doctor. I’m stuck on repeat, asking for the fiftieth time how Harley has high blood pressure in her pregnancy. He’s already told me how, but I refuse to accept the answer.

“Some things just happen,” he says one more time, crisply enunciating each word.

No. No. No. That’s what doctors say to explain all the bad shit in the world. That’s their reasoning for death, and pain, and heartbreak. Things happen. When I used to say things happened to my shrink, she called me on it. She practically smacked me, and told me to take responsibility for my actions. Why can’t doctors do the same? Things happen is a euphemism for people die.

I hold my hands out wide, as if that will transform the information into something that makes sense. “How does she have preeclampsia?”

“It happens to some women,” the doctor says calmly. The OB on call with the practice, he’s a tiny guy and he has a baby face, as if he’s never shaved and never had to. He wears glasses and looks like he aced all his classes in school.

Admittedly, that’s a good look for a doctor. But still . . .

“She’s fucking twenty. How does it happen to a twenty-year-old? Her doc in New York said her being young was the best thing she had going for her.”

“And it still is,” he says.

“Then why does she have this preeclampsia thing?”

“Because one of the risk factors is being young. The risk of preeclampsia is higher for pregnant women who are younger than twenty, and for women in their first pregnancy. Both of which apply to your wife.”

“My wife isn’t younger than twenty. She is twenty,” I point out, as if this fact will suddenly clear up Harley’s health. She’ll sit up in bed, he’ll detach her from the machines, and he’ll send her home.

But that’s not what he’s saying.

“I understand,” he says calmly, nodding. “Even so, this is what we are dealing with. And technically, she has advancing preeclampsia.”

“So, what’s next?”

“She’s getting magnesium sulfate right now,” he says.

“Right. I know. And then after that?”

“My recommendation is that as soon as we stabilize her with the mag sulfate, which should be within a few hours, that we deliver the baby then. That’s the only treatment for preeclampsia.”

I shudder. “Is that safe?”

“She’s nearly thirty-seven-weeks pregnant, and that’s essentially full-term. When patients present with preeclampsia earlier in their pregnancies, this is about the gestational age we try to get them to. In her case, she’s there, so that’s very good. And at nearly thirty-seven weeks, the baby isn’t considered premature, so won’t need to be admitted to the NICU. You should be able to take the baby home with you.”

I exhale, and push my hand through my hair. “Whew,” I say, then breathe out hard again. “Thank god. I thought you were going to say . . .” But I trail off, because I don’t know what I thought he was going to say. I just assumed the worst, because that’s what I do. But this isn’t so bad, right? “Does any of this have to do with the accident, though? The car accident,” I add, and then quickly explain what happened a week ago.

“Hmm,” he says, tapping a pencil against his chin, as he considers. “I don’t think so. This is entirely separate. But it sounds as if her symptoms—headaches, dizziness, and tiredness—could easily be confused with the minor trauma from a fender bender. And the pain she said she was feeling in her abdomen was likely epigastric pain from her liver, since preeclampsia can impact that organ.” Then he points his pencil high in the air. “It’s a good thing she almost fainted, then. If she hadn’t, we might have thought it was all accident trauma. You caught it in the nick of time. I’ll be back shortly to see how she’s responding. And to get the results of some other routine tests we need to run for preeclamptic patients.”

He heads off, and I’m left scratching my head over his chipper attitude. But cheery is better than the alternative, I reason, as I return to the room where Harley’s nurse has started the mag sulfate drip, and is recording some information on the chart. Harley’s lying on the hospital bed, a flimsy blue gown tied at her back, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She turns her gaze to me, and smiles weakly, and then lifts her hand to wave. “Hi.”

I close the distance between us quickly. “Hi,” I say softly, standing by her side, taking her hand in mine. “How do you feel?”

“Well, the nurse said the side effects of mag sulfate include headaches and blurry vision . . . so about the same,” she says, her voice slow and sluggish, the sound of it digging hard into my heart. I wish I could take the pain away from her, bear it myself so she wouldn’t have to go through any of this.

“This should kick in soon, and reduce the risk of seizure,” the nurse says, flashing a business-like smile as she drops the chart in the holder at the end of the bed with a clang. But all I hear is that last word. Seizure. Sharp, like a nail in my back.

“What? Nobody said anything about seizures? Is this from the medicine?”

The nurse shakes her head. “It’s one of the possible side effects of severe preeclampsia. That’s why we’re doing the mag. To reduce the risk of seizure.”