Chapter 2 - ONE HUNDRED FORTY-SIX BEATS
The ambulance arrived in seven minutes.
Time had stopped behaving normally by then.
Each second inside the locked car stretched long enough for me to imagine every possible future in which Lily never moved again.
The dispatcher kept me talking.
She told me not to drive. She asked whether I was bleeding, whether I felt dizzy, and whether the person who struck me still had access to me.
“The doors are locked.”
“Stay inside until police or paramedics reach you.”
Ethan approached the passenger side.
I raised one hand.
“Stay away.”
He stopped.
“Claire, I’m sorry. I froze.”
“You didn’t freeze when you told me to put down the skillet.”
His face collapsed.
“I was trying to keep anyone else from getting hurt.”
“Anyone else?”
The ambulance turned into the driveway before he answered.
Two paramedics approached the car while a Chicago police officer moved toward the house. The paramedics unlocked the door from inside after I gave permission and helped me onto a stretcher.
Ethan tried to follow.
I gripped the paramedic’s sleeve.
“I don’t want him near me.”
The officer stepped between us.
“Sir, remain here.”
“I’m her husband.”
“That does not override her request.”
As the stretcher rolled toward the ambulance, I looked back once.
Grant was standing near the garage with his hands spread as if explaining himself.
Vivian had removed the rhinestone apron.
She was speaking quickly to the second officer.
Ethan remained in the driveway, motionless.
At Northwestern Memorial Hospital, nurses rushed me into obstetric triage. They cut open the side seam of my sweater to examine the swelling over my abdomen and hip.
A nurse named Carmen strapped two monitors around me.
One tracked contractions.
The other searched for Lily’s heartbeat.
For several seconds, the room produced only static.
I stared at the ceiling.
“Please.”
Carmen adjusted the sensor.
A rapid thunder filled the room.
One hundred forty-six beats per minute.
I began sobbing.
“Her heartbeat is there,” Carmen said. “That is encouraging. We still need to evaluate movement and placental function.”
Dr. Nadia Shah, the obstetrician on call, examined me and ordered ultrasound imaging, blood tests, and continuous fetal monitoring.
“Trauma late in pregnancy can cause placental abruption, contractions, bleeding, or fetal distress,” she explained. “Some problems appear immediately. Others develop over time.”
“Is Lily safe?”
“Her heart rate is currently within a reassuring range.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No,” she said gently. “It is what I can honestly tell you.”
The ultrasound showed cardiac activity and some movement, though less than expected. There was no obvious large placental separation.
Dr. Shah warned that an ultrasound could miss a smaller abruption.
They admitted me for observation.
A nurse photographed the swelling and the developing bruise after asking my consent. A hospital social worker explained that medical staff would document suspected domestic violence and that police would request a formal statement.
My parents arrived twenty minutes later.
My mother, Susan, held my shoulders without touching my abdomen. My father, David, stood near the window with tears in his eyes and violence in his posture.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Dad.”
“I asked where Ethan is.”
“You are not going to his mother’s house.”
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
My mother turned toward him.
“Then start.”
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, some of the rage had become grief.
“I should have known.”
“So should I,” I whispered.
My phone vibrated on the bedside table.
Ethan’s name appeared.
The message read:
Please don’t call the police. Mom said Grant was only supposed to scare you into agreeing. He wasn’t supposed to actually hit you.
I read it twice.
My mother took the phone when my hand began shaking.
Her expression changed.
“This wasn’t an argument,” she said.
“No.”
The blue folder waited in my mind.
The forms.
The loan.
The language about incapacity.
May you like
The dinner had not gone wrong.
The dinner had been planned.
