The Choices We Make (19 page)

41

Growing up in San Francisco means living with the reality that the next earthquake could be the “big” one. In school we learned Southern California has about ten thousand earthquakes a year, which basically means you'd never hang any sort of picture or mirror at the head of the bed, and safely strapping table lamps to side tables is perfectly normal—as is having gallons of water stored in closets and under sinks. If you eat the supply of candy bars in the emergency earthquake kit, you're sure to be grounded for weeks. It's simply part of life, and generally you put it out of your mind.

But in the first few years after Dad died I became anxious about all sorts of things I hadn't worried about before. There were obvious ones, like getting cancer myself or having my mom or Claire or my grandmother die. But one unexpected thing that consumed my thoughts during that time was the risk of a devastating earthquake. I became obsessed with the screws holding the straps down—checking them every morning to make sure they hadn't loosened overnight. I timed how long it took to get from my bed to the closet, where I would hide if an earthquake struck while I slept. I quizzed my mom, sister and grandparents on the safest places in our house to take cover. They indulged me, even though I'm sure they talked in concerned, hushed tones about my mental state when I wasn't listening.

Later, when I looked back at that time in my life I realized it had a lot to do with lack of control—I mean, is there anything you have less control over than seismic activity? It's not that everyone doesn't talk nonstop about earthquakes when they happen, or worry about them, but it can't be an all-consuming anxiety. If it is, you're going to need to move somewhere else.

Technically, the quake that struck the October I was thirteen wasn't all that bad—a magnitude 4.9, which caused a feeling of the ground suddenly shifting underfoot, and the rattling of cups and dishes in my grandparents' kitchen cupboards. It was a Saturday, and Kate was over so we could work on our science project, which was due the following week. We were trying to power a clock with a lemon, and had just completed the circuit—to a round of cheering as the second hand started moving—when it happened.

At first I thought a big truck was going by—the vibration and rattle I felt through the wood floors into my bare feet didn't initially cause me to panic. But then the world tilted slightly, and our alarm clock attached to two lemons slid off the kitchen table, crashing to the floor. I screamed so loud my throat hurt, but I stayed statue still—fear locking up my limbs.

Kate, however, was quick and confident. She grabbed me by the shoulders—even though I was significantly taller than she was—and pulled down hard until my knees gave out and I fell to the ground. Then she dragged me under the kitchen table and while the table rattled and the kitchen came alive with sounds of dishes doing an earthquake dance, she shouted at me to hold one of the table legs and hang on tightly. I did as I was told, the physical memory of clutching a table leg while crouched into a ball on the ground coming back to me—we had just done a “Drop, cover, hold on!” drill at school the week before.

I didn't realize I was crying until Kate let go of her table leg and came to crouch beside me—holding on to me instead of the much sturdier wooden table. “Shhhh, shhhh,” she murmured into my ear while I sobbed. “It's almost over.”

And in another ten seconds it was done. Everything stopped shaking. The kitchen quieted, and then got noisy again when my mom and grandmother came rushing down the stairs to make sure we were okay.

Kate didn't make a big deal out of what happened, simply asked my grandmother where she kept her broom and dustpan to clean up the smashed glass from the front of the alarm clock. Then she asked me to go out back and pick another two lemons from the tree and proceeded to sweep up the glass while excitedly telling my mom about how well the experiment had worked. My mom said she'd go get us another alarm clock at the store, and as I walked to the backyard to pick the lemons, I decided not to be afraid of earthquakes anymore.

Leaning against that celery-green hospital wall, I have the sudden desire to hide under a table or one of the gurneys. To have something solid to hang on to until the shaking stops—until I know Kate is okay, our baby is fine and life goes back to normal.

42

I compose myself and find someone willing and able to give me information, but all they can tell me is that Kate is with the doctors. David is nowhere to be found, and I expect it's because he's wherever Kate is. Heading back to the waiting room I find Ben sitting in one of the chairs, David's phone in his hand and the same bleak look on his face.

“Do you know anything else?” I ask.

He shakes his head, then puts his free hand on my knee when I sit beside him. “You?”

“No one would tell me anything except that she's with the doctors,” I say.

“I called Cora. She's on her way to stay with the girls.”

“Is the babysitter still with them?”

“She is. I just spoke with her and everything is okay there.”

“I'm glad Cora's on her way, but maybe one of us should—”

“I'll go. You stay here.” Ben gives me a quick hug and hands me David's phone. “But call me the second you know anything more. I'll come back after his mom gets there.”

He kisses me, lingering for a moment and holding my face close to his once our lips part. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“See you soon.”

And then he's gone, back through the ER doors and sprinting toward the parking garage.

* * *

An hour later, Ben calls to let me know he's sent the babysitter home and is playing video games with the girls while they wait for their grandmother to show up. Kate has gone up to surgery, I tell him, and David and I are told it could take anywhere from three to five hours.

I've finally been able to get some information on her condition and that of the baby, thanks to the guardianship document Kate filled out with the fertility attorney—which essentially gives me and Ben medical decision-making power on the baby's behalf, as his intended parents. I've kept a copy in my purse because our attorney told me to, which seemed unnecessarily cautious at the time but something I'm now grateful for—without that document I'd still be cast out in the waiting room, panicking about Kate and the baby.

David sits opposite me in the surgical waiting room in a vinyl chair with wooden arms, one leg bouncing up and down, up and down. He leans his elbows on the armrests, and when he sits back I can see red groove lines on his forearms from the pressure.

We're currently the only ones waiting, but signs of people having been here recently litter the space—on one side table there's a take-out cup half-f of coffee with a deep pink lipstick stain on the rim, a candy bar wrapper lying beside it. Magazines are strewn across the other table, and I consider picking one up to try and distract myself. But then I see the magazine on top—a parenting issue with a cherub-cheeked, blue-eyed infant on the front cover holding a yellow rubber duck—and I turn away so I don't have to look at the happy baby.

Glancing at the clock on the wall I see another five minutes have passed, and I become irrationally angry at how slowly things are moving. I sense David feels the same, as he keeps staring at his watch and bouncing his knees. Then in a rush he's up and pacing the room.

“You okay?” I feel stupid as soon as I ask. “No, of course you're not.”

“I should have pushed her about the headaches,” David says, still pacing and seeming to have not heard a word I've said. “I'm a fucking paramedic. I should have known something wasn't right.”

I stand up but stay put because his pacing is erratic—he's more circling the room than going back and forth now—and I don't want to make things worse by getting in his way. “David, there's no way you could have known about the aneurysm. Her migraines were worse when she was pregnant with the girls, too. Why would you think these were any different?”

He's mumbling now, hand running over his skull, pausing on his neck to rub the spot decorated by the tattoos. “Maybe if I had made her see the doctor, maybe they would have scanned her? Figured it out.”

I put my hand on his arm and am nearly pulled over when he doesn't break his pace. “David, stop. There is nothing you could have done. Nothing anyone could have done. And even if you made her see a doctor, they would have never suspected an aneurysm. She's had migraines her whole life. They would have just thought these headaches were pregnancy related.”

“Exactly, Hannah.” He stops abruptly and stands in front of me, his eyes wild with worry. “Everyone would have thought they were pregnancy related. And maybe if she weren't pregnant, none of us would have written these migraines off. Maybe then she would have had a workup. Maybe then...”

Swallowing my own guilt, knowing exactly where he's going even though he stopped just short of coming right out with it, I sit back down and duck my head. “No one could have seen this coming. No one. Not the doctors, not you, not me—”

“She did this for you!” he shouts, the room too small for the loudness of his voice. He's as far away from me as he can get, standing in a corner on the other side of the room beside a potted plant I'm fairly certain is fake. But I can see him quivering—with shock, fear or anger, I can't be sure. “She did this for you, Hannah.”

I think about what I should do—apologize? Hug him? No, I'm too shocked to do anything but sit there, gaping at him. My instincts tell me to fight the accusation—to stand up for myself and tell him he's not the only one who's scared. That what's happening to Kate is not my fault. That she had been determined to do this. That it had been her idea from the beginning.

But the problem is he's said exactly what I've been thinking since I found out Kate collapsed. She did this for me. And here we are.

Before I can sort out the right thing to say David turns and walks out of the waiting room, smacking his palm on the door frame as he does, causing me to jump. A moment later I am alone with my thoughts and my guilt.

* * *

David still hasn't returned an hour later and I'm having a hard time sitting still. So I pull out my phone and make the call I probably should have made—to Todd & Associates and our attorney—the second we learned Kate was hospitalized.

It's only when her voice mail picks up that I realize how late it is. Nearly 11:00 p.m. She has likely left the office hours ago. I leave a message regardless.

“Hi, Annabel, it's Hannah Matthews calling.” I pause for a moment to try to figure out how to be brief with the message. “I know it's late, but I'm at the hospital. There's been a...complication and I need some advice. Could you call my cell as soon as you get the message? Thanks. Thank you.”

I hit End Call and, still restless, grab some change from my purse and buy a soda from the machine. The sickly sweet liquid is cold and the bubbles burn the back of my throat when I take a sip. Then I sit down and finish the can as quickly as I can, knowing I need the caffeine and sugar to keep me going until Kate is out of surgery.

My phone rings a few minutes later. Glancing at the screen, I see “Todd & Associates.”

“Hello?”

“Hannah? It's Annabel Porter. What's going on? Are you and Ben okay?”

“Thank you for calling me back so fast, Annabel.” I resist the urge to burp from the soda, which I'm now regretting—the sweet, fizzy liquid sloshing in my otherwise empty stomach. “Ben and I are okay, but it's the baby and I'm not sure what we should be doing.”

“What's happened? Is the baby okay?”

“He's fine. But it's...it's Kate.” I take a deep breath. “She collapsed at home tonight from a ruptured aneurysm. She's in surgery right now.”

“Oh, Hannah. I'm so sorry. How are you doing?”

“Not good, if I'm being honest,” I say, sucking in another deep breath.

“Tell me, what do you need from me?” Annabel's voice is strong yet soothing, and I feel my shoulders relax.

“Is there anything we need to do, in terms of the baby and keeping him safe?” I cringe as I say it, hating that I can't just focus on what Kate needs right now, what David needs.

“Has a neonatologist been assigned to the case yet?”

“I'm not sure.” I'm flustered and shaky. “Things moved pretty quickly once they brought Kate in. They—” My voice catches, and I try to swallow around it. “They're trying to save her life.”

“I'm so sorry, Hannah.”

I nod, ducking my head as the tears drop. “I gave the guardianship document to the nurse, which thank you for insisting I keep in my purse. I never could have imagined...well, any of this.”

“Good, that was going to be my first suggestion. That document means the doctors will work with you and Ben when it comes to the baby's medical decisions. Now remember, Kate's needs will take precedence over the baby's, but at least you'll be privy to what's happening from here on out.”

I nod again, not trusting my voice. “Let me pull out the contracts and sort a few things out, okay?” She pauses and I hold my breath, though I'm not sure why. “For now, focus on Kate and David, and take care of yourself. I'll talk with you as soon as I have more information.”

“Thanks, Annabel. I appreciate it.” After we hang up I go back to waiting alone, trapped with my own thoughts, longing for a distraction and hoping it comes in the form of good news about Kate.

Despite Mina's doomsday speech, and the horrifying scenarios we had to deliberate ad nauseam as part of the surrogacy contract, I never imagined this—waiting for news that my best friend, and my baby inside her, survived brain surgery. I suppose no one gives more than a fleeting thought to the fine print—like the zip-line waivers Ben and I signed on our honeymoon in Jamaica, which outlined a laundry list of risks we joked and laughed about, drunk on fresh love and so certain about the future.

“I'll still love you even if you fall and lose both your legs,” I'd said.

“And I'll feed you soup through a straw if you break every bone in your body,” he'd told me, kissing my bare, sun-kissed shoulder as he scrawled his name on the form.

Because when does the worst-case scenario ever really happen? It doesn't.

Except when it does.

I clutch the chair's armrests and take a deep breath. Then another.

Breathe.

I force myself to contemplate the worst-case scenario.

Breathe.

Kate doesn't survive her surgery.

Breathe.

We lose the baby.

Breathe.

I sit in the painfully quiet waiting room, alone—imagining David as he anxiously paces another hallway, and Ben as he stares at the television without really watching while the girls sleep, waiting for Cora, and Annabel Porter as she sends copies of our contract to the hospital administration and speaks with the neonatologist assigned to our case.

I keep breathing, because I can. Because while this horrible thing has happened, it hasn't happened to me. I am not lying on an operating table, a piece of my skull cut out and doctors' hands inside my brain trying to save my life.

I am still an intended mother. And our baby—trapped inside Kate's sick body, alive until someone tells us otherwise—needs me.

My next breath nearly strangles me, my eyes popping open in panic. With sickening clarity I realize my guilt isn't about Kate being on that operating table because she's carrying a child for me; it's because if I had to choose, right in this moment, from the deepest, most raw and honest corner of my soul, I would choose my baby.

I just make it to the trash can, beside the definitely fake potted plant, before I purge the soda from my guilt-racked stomach.