Page 28 of Reverie
I want to roll my eyes at her, but I’m too dizzy to perform the action.
Note to self: Don’t get shot. Again.
Veronica puts a soft but firm hand on each of my forearms and positions me back on the bed. When she lifts one of my legs and then the other without permission, putting a palm on the back of Summer’s head as she does so, and slides the blanket over me, the feeling of gratitude for not being upright marginally blurs my fear and uncertainty at the motivations of the people surrounding me.
Summer, the most amazing baby on the planet, sleeps through all the jostling. My best friend’s hand on mine gives my strained nervous system a slight reset.
“Everything is okay. Hunter is here. August is here. Everyone is here.”
The quaking in my hands grows, but I force myself to absorb her words.
“Everything is okay right now, Winter.”
My shoulders relax into the pillow behind me.
“Knock-knock,” a new voice calls, pulling the curtain back and sliding inside.
“Who are you?” I blink hard. There are so many fucking people coming in and out of this room, and my anxiety has me feeling like I’m standing in a pile of fire ants.
“I’m Dr. Whitney,” the woman says. She takes the stethoscope from her pocket and lifts it. “Mind if I take a listen?”
I don’t move or respond.
“Her vitals are a little erratic. Do you want to give another dose of Versed?” This comes from the smiley nurse.
“Another dose? I did not consent to being drugged in the first place!” I look at Veronica, helpless, and the doctor takes up residence near my hip.
“You were quite upset when we wheeled you back here, so we wanted to help you relax while we stitched you up. Luckily, you just got a scrape, but I’m sure it hurts like hell,” the doctor says.
Her words are reassuring, I guess, but I’m so weirded out and worried about the baby.
I lift my shaking hands to my stomach.
“I wanted to run your samples down to the lab myself. All is well.” Dr. Whitney’s eyes are friendly, and she doesn’t reflect a hint of malevolence.
“Are you sure?” Drugs. Meds.The baby.
My hand flexes on my lower stomach, and I try to rise off the bed again.
“Please, Ms. Vaughan,” one nurse says, placing a gentle hand on my good shoulder.
I flinch away from the touch.
“Nuh-huh, don’t touch her! She needs space, not you crowding her,” Veronica growls with one hand on the back of her daughter’s head.
“How do you know? How do you know everything is okay?” I begin to wail, and the monitors start to chime. I try to breathe in and out to calm myself, but I feel my pulse racing in my chest.
The doctor speaks. “Ms. Vaughan, your heart rate is getting a little too high?—”
“Is my baby okay?” I feel the press of panic settle in my sternum, and suddenly, I can’t breathe at all.
The baby.
The baby.
Oh no, oh no, oh n?—
“Your baby is doing great, Winter,” Dr. Whitney says. She motions to the mask-covered nurse to bring over a wheeled device. When it’s in her possession, the doctor spins around what turns out to be the smallest ultrasound machine on the planet.