J o s e p h i n e | Chris Cornell |

6. Call me a Dog

Seattle, WA
Summer of 1999
3 Months Earlier

The sun shines through the clouds onto my legs propped on the metal balcony fence as I sit in a chair with a notebook on my lap. I'm deep in thought, in my own little bubble, writing. Not lyrics, just a steady stream of consciousness that pours out onto the paper. More like a story, telling our future child about the life their father and I have lived in such a short time together. It's an ode to our love and everything I would want them to know about us. How excited we are, how much joy they have brought us. Boy or girl, it doesn't matter. We'll love them the same, unconditionally.

At five months pregnant, I'm starting to feel the pressure. My continuously growing belly has put this all into perspective and sometimes I wonder if I'm ready for this, but then I think of Chris's smiling face when he sees me after spending the day at the studio and I know. I know with him here we can do anything.

I stand from the chair and stretch, my shirt riding up to expose my swollen stomach and I let out a yawn as I make my way back inside. The sound of the tea kettle whistling pulls me into the kitchen and I reach for the canister of green tea. Not being able to drink three cups of coffee every day has been an adjustment, and it's hard to keep myself awake without it.

The searing pain in my abdomen takes me by surprise and leaves me short of breath. My eyebrows scrunch as I reach down and place pressure to the spot. It fades long enough for me to compose myself but comes back with a vengeance a few seconds later. The steaming pot of water crashes to the hardwood floor as I clutch onto the countertop, my knuckles turning white with the force.

My brain switches into gear and I stumble my way to the landline on the opposite side of the kitchen, my fingers dialing the studio number from memory. Chris answers, confusion filling his voice since I rarely bother him.

"Somethings wrong," I cry out as another shock has me sliding down the counter to the floor.

"I'm calling 911. Stay on the line." His voice is eerily calm as he shouts at someone in the background to use another phone to dial. "Jo?"

"Something isn't right." My voice is filled with panic and I look down, see blood. My body goes cold.

"I know, help is coming I promise. What are you feeling?"

"Pain," I whisper as the reality of the situation sinks in. "There's blood, Chris. A lot." He's silent and that fills me with terror.

"It's okay." His voice comes back strong, but I can hear it now, he's feeling the same dread I am. "It's going to be okay."

++

The hospital room is a dull, faded blue and I stare at the wall in silence. A television in the corner of the room plays the local news, but I pay it no mind. My hands rest on my stomach, my body numb as I wait for the doctor to return. Chris had stepped out moments ago to speak with a nurse, but it could have been an hour for all I know.

I'm pulled from silence by a knock on the door and the doctor steps in with Chris behind him. Chris's face tells me everything I had been dreading to hear, and I turn away and squeeze my eyes shut. How could this be happening to us? We wanted this baby more than anything in the world. How?

"Miss Lightfoot, I'm sorry to tell you this—"

"Don't," I whisper, not capable of hearing him say the words out loud.