what now? | outerbanks

• ninety-nine •

Sarah

Nothing feels okay. John B. is in the hallway trying to get in contact with Rafe, and Kie's running back to the house to pack up everything I know John B. forgot. She was supposed to be the one to help me pack my bags anyway, but I kept telling her it could wait.
The IV next to me is dripping at a rate so constant that it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Every soft plink, barely even there yet still too loud, is a reminder that time moves without my permission and that my body is doing things I can't control.
The door clicks open and my head snaps up, heart jumping to my throat, but something changes when I see Dr. Patel walk into the room. Finally, someone I know. The sight of her is enough to make me let out a deep sigh.
She moves slowly and carefully as if she isn't afraid of bad news. "Hi, Sarah." She pulls out a stool and sits beside my bed. "I heard what's going on." She glances at the monitor and then back at me. "I know it's scary, but we know how to handle this, and we are going to get you both through it."
My lips move faster than my brain, but I get it all out anyway. "I don't—the bleeding? What does it mean? Any of it? I can't understand what anyone is talking about in this place."
"Because of the abruption, it likely means that the placenta has separated from your uterus. It's dangerous, but for right now, vitals are stable for you and baby girl. We're keeping an eye out for changes, but things look better than worse."
I fidget with the IV in my hand. It hurts like hell. "How could things be better? I'm in early labor. This is exactly what wasn't supposed to happen."
Dr. Patel doesn't rush to answer. She leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. "Because you came in before things got critical. Because she's still showing a strong heartbeat, and your body is giving us time to make a plan. That matters more than you think."
I shake my head, tears threatening to spill over again. "I'm terrified something will go wrong."
"Fear doesn't mean you're failing, Sarah. It means you love her."
"I don't want to do this wrong," I whisper.
"There's nothing you can do to make things go wrong," she says gently. "Your body will do what it needs to do."
She stands then, brushing her hands on her scrubs. "I'll be back soon. Try to rest. Even if you can't sleep, just... breathe."
And then she's gone.
The silence closes in again, heavier this time. I stare at the ceiling, wishing for John B.'s voice, for Kie's chatter, for anything to keep my brain from spinning.
Instead, my thoughts scatter—Did I leave the lamp on in the living room? Did I ever switch the laundry loads? Did I fold the newborn onesies, or are they still in a messy pile on the dresser? All the small things I thought I had time for, the things I was saving for the last minute, are now sitting undone at home.
My hand drifts to my belly with the tightening of another contraction, and she kicks. I wonder if my mom felt that too. If she was terrified, like me.
If she whispered "Please stay" into the hollow space between her breaths.
If she felt her body slipping away even while Wheezie fought to stay.
I hope she didn't feel alone. I hope she knew she was strong. The thought of it makes me sick—some twisted form of fate connecting us in this cruel way. Maybe part of me always thought something like this would happen. That, of course, things would go to shit and I'd end up in the same spot my mother was before she died.
    "Hey," John B. says softly, closing the door behind his back. "Kie's on her way back. Rafe and Sofia should be here soon, too, but they thought it'd be better if Wheezie stayed back a little longer."
"Okay," I whisper, though I'm not sure what part I'm responding to—maybe just the fact that he's here now.

It's not even an hour later when things start feeling worse. My water breaks in the hallway when John B. takes me on a walk around the floor. Back in the room, a tightening in my back and across my ribs pulses hotter than before, sharp and deliberate, stealing my breath every time it comes.
My knuckles turn white as I grip the bed's metal railings, and I try not to cry when the nurse comes in to check my progress.
"Four centimeters," she says simply. I can't respond. "We need you to get a little further along before we consider the epidural."
I nod as well as I can without letting out a sob.
"Hold in there, honey," she says before slipping back out.
    The moment the door closes, I curl onto my side, panting. My whole body aches from holding myself so tightly.
    "Here," John B. murmurs, helping me sit up again. Kie's on my other side, tucking pillows behind my back, then moving them again when it's all wrong.
    Nothing helps. Every time I think I've found a position I can survive in, another contraction hits like a freight train, and I have to move again—hands on the railing, knees tucked under me, leaning forward onto the raised head of the bed while John B. rubs my lower back.
    "Breathe, baby, breathe," he whispers, and I try, but it's too much.
    The pressure builds and builds until I don't even have time to warn them before I'm vomiting into the basin Kie shoves under my chin with milliseconds to spare. My whole body spasms with it, shivering as bile burns my throat.
    "Okay, okay," Kie says softly, wiping my mouth with a wet cloth. Her hands are shaking too.
    Somewhere between contractions, she kisses my hair and murmurs, "I'm gonna grab Sofia, okay? Just for a bit. I'll be right back."
    I nod, dazed, and she's gone.
    A few minutes later, Sofia slips in quietly. She looks nervous, trying to hide it, her big brown eyes darting over me like she's checking for damage.
    "Hey," she says gently, brushing hair off my sweaty forehead.
    "Hey," I manage. I feel weirdly aware of myself, like I have to pretend I'm doing better than I am, like falling apart in front of my sister-in-law is some line I shouldn't cross.
    But Sofia doesn't give me room for that. She perches on the edge of the bed, takes my trembling hand, and just holds it, steady and warm.
    "It's okay if it's ugly," she says softly, like she can read my mind. "You don't have to be anything for me."
    I let my head fall against her shoulder as another contraction tears through me. She lets me crush her hand in return, her voice quiet and steady in my ear.
    By the time Kie comes back—with a nurse this time—I'm sobbing from the pain, begging under my breath for it to stop.
    "She's been at it for hours," John B. says, frantic now. "Please—can she get the epidural yet?"
    The nurse hesitates. "I'm not sure she's far enough along—"
    "She's in agony," Sofia says firmly, her hand still tangled in mine. "Please. Just ask."
    The nurse studies me for a long moment, then nods. "I'll page anesthesia."
    Sofia kisses my forehead before she goes, her voice trembling for the first time. "I'll be in the waiting room, okay? You've got this."
    And then it's just John B. again, and the quiet hum of the monitors while they move me to labor and delivery.
    The epidural takes time. The sting of the needle, the icy numbness creeping down my legs. It's all strange and surreal. The pain doesn't vanish right away, but it starts to blur at the edges, like fog rolling over sharp glass. The contractions are still there, just duller than before.
    For a little while, it's bliss. I can breathe again. My body stops flinching every few minutes. I can even close my eyes.
    But then the shakes start. Subtle at first, just a tremor in my hands, then full-body trembling I can't stop. Sweat prickles across my skin, and a wave of heat washes over me so suddenly it makes me gasp.
    "John B.," I croak, clawing at the gown clinging to my skin. "Please get this off. Please."
    He blinks. "What—your gown?"
    "Get it off of me," I snap, my voice breaking. "It's wrong—it's sticking—I can't—"
    The nurse in the room, older and tight-lipped, shakes her head. "Oh no, baby, you have to keep that on. Those are your clothes."
    "I need it off," I say, louder.
    "You'll be naked, sweetheart," she tries again.
"I don't give a fuck if I'm naked; get it off of me!" The words come out primal, raw, like an animal trapped.
    John B. doesn't hesitate. He's already untying the strings, peeling the damp fabric from my skin while I thrash against it. He yanks the sheets up to cover me, papery and light, and I nearly sob with relief when the air hits my overheated skin.
    "There," he whispers, brushing damp hair from my face. "There. It's off. You're okay."
    I'm still trembling, but the heat fades. The air feels cool on my shoulders, the sheets soft instead of suffocating. My body starts to melt back into the bed.
    And for the first time all day, I can rest. Not sleep, not yet, but rest—my eyes closed, John B.'s hand laced with mine, the world finally, mercifully quiet.