what now? | outerbanks

• one hundred two •

Sarah

    The days after Willa's birth mesh together into something that feels half dream, half endurance test. I don't remember where one ends and the next begins. Mornings don't really exist here, just nurses with soft voices switching out shifts, thermometers slipped beneath my tongue, blood pressure cuffs squeezing too tight around my arm. My arms look different from what they did before. Every piece of me does. It makes me wonder if everyone else notices as well.
    Nights aren't nights either. They're broken hours, short rests between feedings, diaper changes, and pain medicine alarms.
    Time folds in on itself, but Willa is the thing anchoring me. Every time I look at her, I remember exactly where we are and exactly why we're here.
    Healing is harder than I imagined. I know what happened to me was brutal, and I know it will take time, but knowing and living it are different things. Every time I try to sit up, my abdomen screams. The scar feels hot and raw, tugging every time I move the wrong way. My legs shake when I finally get up to shuffle a few steps down the hall, a nurse gripping my arm on one side and John B. steadying me on the other. I feel weak, almost pathetic, but when I glance sideways and see John B. watching me like I've just climbed a mountain, I don't feel so small.
    Visitors come in waves, though not too many, and never for long. I'm grateful for that.
    The Heywards stop by one afternoon. They don't bring a crowd, don't overwhelm me; they just slip in with quiet smiles, Pope leading them in. Mrs. Heyward has tears in her eyes the whole time she's holding Willa. She whispers, "She's beautiful," like a prayer. Mr. Heyward squeezes John B.'s shoulder, telling him how proud his dad would be. They don't stay long, but the kindness lingers after they're gone.
    The visit that undoes me, though, is Nanny and Pops.
    When they come in, I feel my throat close before anyone says a word. Pops's hands are shaking when John B. places Willa in his arms. He cradles her like she's glass, bending down to kiss her forehead. Nanny leans against my bed, her hand on my arm, whispering, "You named her for us."
I nod, tears already streaming. "I wanted her to have a piece of you. Both of you. And Mom. Always."
Pops can barely speak. His voice cracks as he says, "She'll carry the Williams name proud, just like you do."
And then it's all of us crying—the four of us huddled in this hospital room, love filling every corner. Willa sleeps through it, of course, but it's enough just to look at her. We don't need anything else.
The days are filled with small victories. My milk starts to come in just enough that the nurses tell me not to worry. Willa's stomach is too small to need much anyway. John B. changes his first diaper alone and ends up with pee arcing across his shirt. He curses under his breath, and I laugh so hard my scar throbs. We learn how to swaddle her tighter, how to angle her head just right when she spits up, how to take shifts so one of us can close our eyes for twenty minutes at a time.
    It's exhausting and relentless, but it's also more beautiful than anything I've ever lived through.

One afternoon, I've just gotten Willa latched when there's a knock on the door.
"Come in," I whisper, adjusting the blanket over my shoulder.
It's Rafe.
He slips inside like he doesn't want to be noticed, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room like he's checking for threats. When he sees me nursing, he freezes.
"Oh—sorry. I can, uh, come back—"
"No," I cut in quickly. My voice is tired but firmer than I mean it to be. "It's okay."
He gives me a small, awkward smile and steps further inside. He looks wrong, like his shirt doesn't fit, like his skin is stretched too tight. He's not here to see the baby. I can tell before he even sits down in the chair at the corner.
I rock Willa gently, watching her tiny lips flutter against me. "What's wrong?"
Rafe exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face. "She knows."
My stomach tightens. "What do you mean—she knows?"
"Wheezie." His eyes flick to mine, then away. "She knows about Rose."
The words slam into me.
I almost forgot about Rose. Sure, the picture of her was still burned in the back of my mind, but between everything else that's happened, the memory faded a little. But now, it's like I'm seeing it all over again, reminded of the fear and blood and guilt. Part of me is afraid that Willa can feel the difference in my mood. I try to lock the image away again.
My throat dries. "What?"
"She saw it on the news," Rafe mutters. "Sofia didn't realize she left it on. She feels awful. As soon as I got home that night, I told her what happened, but we decided not to say anything yet. She didn't mean for Wheeze to..." His jaw tightens. "But she did."
I shake my head slowly, as if I can undo the words. "No. They told Shoupe. They told him not to let it get out—"
"I know," Rafe cuts in, sharper than he probably means. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "But somebody else must've leaked it. Maybe a hospital staffer, maybe a deputy who can't keep their mouth shut. I don't know. Point is, Wheezie saw."
My arms go tighter around Willa, protective without meaning to be. "She was supposed to hear it from me." My voice cracks. "She's my sister. She deserved to hear it from me."
Rafe doesn't argue. He just sits there, jaw clenched, fingers digging into his knees.
I can feel the tears welling, burning hot. "I was going to tell her when it was right. When I could... when I could sit down with her and explain. Not like this. Not from a sick news crawl."
Willa stirs at my raised voice, pulling back and letting out a weak cry. I bounce her instinctively, whispering, "Shh, baby, shh," even though my chest feels like it's collapsing.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair, looking older and younger at the same time. "I didn't want you to hear it like this either. But I couldn't... I couldn't keep it from you."
For a moment, it's just silence. Willa fusses softly, and my tears drip onto the blanket while Rafe stares at the floor like he's trying to dig a hole in it.
Finally, I whisper, "What did she say?"
He swallows. "I don't know, but she went upstairs after and shut her door." His voice drops. "She cried, too."
That guts me. My chest heaves, and I press my cheek against Willa's head to hide my face. "She shouldn't have had to find out like that," I choke out.
"I know." His voice is rough and uneven.
    Rafe doesn't stay long after that. He leaves with his shoulders hunched, and the room feels heavier even after the door clicks shut. I sit there in the quiet, rocking Willa until her tiny breaths even out again, but my own chest won't settle. The truth presses against my ribs, sharp and aching. Wheezie knows. Not from me, not the way it should've been.
    For the rest of the day, the thought lingers at the back of everything—behind each feeding, each diaper change, each slow shuffle to the bathroom. I keep seeing Wheezie's face, imagining the hurt in her eyes. I promise myself I'll find a way to fix it, to explain, even though I don't know how.

    On the fifth evening, Dr. Patel tells us we'll likely be discharged in the morning. The words are a relief and a punch at the same time.
    I'm ready to leave this place. I hate it. The beeping monitors, the fluorescent lights, the way people walk in every two hours to poke and prod me. I hate it, and I always have.
    But the thought of leaving without backup—without nurses right down the hall, without help when she won't latch, without anyone to show us what's normal and what isn't—makes my chest tight.
    Later that night, when Willa's asleep and the room is quiet, I whisper to John B., "I don't know how we're going to do this."
    He squeezes my hand under the blankets. "We'll figure it out. I promise."
    I want to believe him.