Because of Them (Because of Love #2)

Chapter Twenty

AUDREY

M y stomach twists. Again.

This time, the pain comes like a wave. Nausea first, followed by a heat that flows through my body, settling in my belly and causing every muscle in my body to tense. Then, like the tide pulling the water back into the ocean, the pain recedes. Only I’m left crouched over in my chair, willing my throbbing heart to steady.

I’m just dehydrated, that’s all. If I can just get to the kitchen and have a glass of water, then I’ll lay down for a little before I have to go pick Maisie up from her playdate. I’ll be fine. Right?

I repeat the words to myself as I use the windowsill to pull myself off my stool. The sunlight streams into the room, leaving bright angles on the far wall. My easel stands just outside the blinding ray, the almost finished painting for Cassidy sitting delicately on the stand. If I could just focus, I’ll be able to get it done. If I can get it done, I’ll be able to cross it off my list and start worrying about the next thing. And the next.

The mental to-do list I’ve been carrying around grows longer every day. Wash all the clothes we bought for the babies, put sheets in their cots, pack the hospital bag, get the car seats installed, practice folding the pram, remember how to swaddle a baby, buy zip up swaddles instead. On and on and on.

But right now, I need to find a tiny sliver of calm. I hobble to the kitchen.

Reaching over my head to pull a glass from the kitchen cupboard, my stomach twists once more. Everything is tight and tense and painful. I try to breathe through the pain, but panic steals the air from my lungs. This can’t be happening. Not yet.

The pain recedes, leaving a sweaty film over my skin. I reach to the counter for support, wishing I had someone to lean against. Wishing I had someone to whisper in my ear and tell me everything was going to be okay. Wishing Michael was here. Somehow knowing that he would know what to say.

Despite all my reservations, despite how immature he might seem at times, he has managed to surprise me over the past couple of months. He showed up, fully, after the shock wore off, and I’m grateful for that. Before I found out I was pregnant, I would have laughed if someone had told me Michael would make a great dad. He was goofy and spontaneous and flirtatious. Nothing like the nurturing father I would have wanted for my future kids.

I hate that my ex-husband set a bar so high, hate that I will always compare others to him. But little by little, Michael has proved my cautious nature wrong. He might not be the typical, settled down and ready to step up father-to-be, but that’s okay. Instead, he works hard every day to be everything that I need. To learn how to be better. He’s changed.

Pulling my phone from my cardigan pocket, I limp my way to the couch and call him.

“What’s wrong?” He answers on the first ring, his voice two pitches higher than his usual timber.

“I think I’m having contractions.” Saying the words out loud sends a new rush of panic over me. It’s too early. I’m not packed. We didn’t buy any premature sized clothes, only the ‘tiny baby’ onesies and not the ‘born seventeen weeks too soon’ ones. The car seats aren’t in the car. Fuck , will the babies be okay. What’s the survival rate for babies born at twenty-three weeks?

Michael asks questions but the line goes static in my ear. The room spins. My voice shakes when I try to answer him.

“Audrey? Are you home?”

My lips tremor as I hum an agreement, unable to form words.

“I’m coming.”

My cheeks become wet as the tears pooling in my eyes spill over. I hum again, sobbing through shaky breaths.

Michael stays on the line as he calls out a rushed goodbye to whoever he was with. He stays on the line while the phone connects to the Bluetooth in his car. Even though I do nothing but sit and sob and quietly panic, he stays on the line, whispering reassurances I don’t really hear.

He bursts through the unlocked front door, never breaking his stride until he drops to his knees in front of me. And only when he has one arm wrapped around my waist does he finally end the call.

“You came,” I sob.

He lifts up higher on his knees, surrounding me with his arms and pulling me close. I relax into his embrace, clinging to his arms until my fingers tingle.

“How many?” he asks. “And how often?”

I try to count backwards in my head but lose track with each gasping breath.

“I don’t know. A few. One earlier this afternoon but I thought it was just a cramp. A few more since then. Scattered, though, I think. It’s too early. The babies.”

“I’m going to call the hospital. Keep breathing.”

With one hand drawing slow, gentle lines against my spine he calls the hospital. I focus on the trail of goosebumps he leaves behind with each stroke, following the movement with my breaths. My head falls against his chest.

He relays what I told him to the midwife on the phone, then stands as he hangs up.

“When was your last contraction?” he asks.

“While you were on your way over here.”

“Okay, wait here.” He squeezes my hand before walking away down the hall.

My heart begins to race as soon as he steps out of the room. Nausea rifles through me, but Michael returns after only a few minutes, bringing with him an unexpected calm, and a duffle bag over his shoulder.

He helps me stand and guides me to the front door, locking it behind us. With a hand on my back, he takes my weight as he helps me into the car and leans over me to do the seat belt up. Before closing the door, he cups my cheeks between his hands and plants a kiss on my forehead. He holds me still, lingering with his lips against my skin until another tightening in my belly makes me cringe.

This one is somehow less intense than all the others. The searing pain still slices me in two, but having Michael so close keeps me calm. His tender touch on my cheeks, his spicy wooden scent, his soft whispers in my ear. They swirl together, skating over me like the gentlest breeze and settle right over my heart. Then they seep in, along with every other emotion I’d been trying to deny.

I’m sobbing as the contraction subsides and I’m left to dwell on the love left in my heart. The love I have no time for right now.

Michael eases away from me, gently closing the door so he can step around to the driver’s seat. When he climbs in, his hand falls right into my lap. Squeezing gently at my thigh.

I want to say something, anything. I want to tell him how I feel and I want him to remind me that he feels it too. Not just the undeniable attraction, but something more . I want to know if this is what he meant or have I romanticised each moment a little bit too much.

Before I can find the words—never mind build up the courage—Michael pulls into the parking lot of the Women’s Hospital. I hadn’t even noticed us leaving the driveway. He rushes around the car to help me out.

We walk like a married couple would, his arm draped around my waist, a little too much of my weight leaning on him. I wonder if people will assume. I hope they do.

The same blend of bleach and citrus from the ultrasound clinic assaults my nose when we walk through the automatic doors. I cough it back and Michael turns to support me with both his arms. Another wave of tightening, somehow even less intense again, washes over me.

A midwife runs around the desk to help guide me into a chair. She asks questions and Michael answers, and then she leads us to a consultation room down a long hall.

She checks my blood pressure. I go to the bathroom to bring back a urine sample. I’m guided to the bed. It all feels like I’m watching someone else go into labour seventeen weeks early. This isn’t my life; it wasn’t the plan. But I have put all my trust in Michael. Trusting him to be my voice, trusting him to make the right decisions. Trusting him to be the adult when I’m not strong enough.

Tiny monitors held in place with a long elastic band are wrapped around my bulging stomach. A jug of water and a plastic cup are placed on the little bedside stand. I’m only half paying attention when the midwife tells me I need to drink plenty of water, and hands me a little remote with a solitary button.

“Any movement you feel, press here,” she says with a smile. She turns to Michael to add, “And if she feels another contraction I need you to take note of the time, and how long it lasts, so we can match it to what the monitor shows.”

She whisks out of the room with a promise to be back soon to check how I’m going.

The machine murmurs away. Michael seats himself at the end of the bed. His muddy work clothes leave deep brown marks on the white sheets. Resting a hand on my foot, he sings under his breath. Something unrecognisable at first, but then I realise what it is, Twinkle Twinkle. The melody floats around the room, the deep rumble settling within me, adding another layer to this new feeling.

“Maisie is at her cousins’ house.” I remember, the guilt of forgetting sits heavily on my chest.

Michael picks his phone off the bed, and rifles through the duffle bag he packed to find mine. “I’ll message Callum.”

I wish I could hug Maisie. It wouldn’t take away any of the fear, but there’s a certain kind of comfort that your child brings, and I’d feel better with her in my arms. Michael wipes the tear away, humming the same melody.

The minutes tick by. I press the button once, twice, then a bunch more as the babies have a kicking match. My stomach tightens and just as he was asked, Michael makes a note of the time and duration on his phone.

“I don’t know if you should include that one, it wasn’t that bad.”

He scrunches his nose, typing on his phone. “I made a note that it was mild.”

When the midwife returns, she brings a doctor with her. I turn to Michael because if the doctor is here something must be wrong. He squeezes my ankle, then rubs small circles on the sole of my foot with his thumb.

The obstetrician explains that I’m not in labour, and my whole body sighs with relief. Michael looks up, pausing his gentle massage, no doubt to ask a question, but she continues before he has a chance.

“You were experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions. Probably pretty tough ones, by the sound of it. They can feel worse due to exhaustion and dehydration.”

I think about how little sleep I’ve been getting; how draining work has been and how I can’t switch off at night, worrying about all the things I need to do. As a collective, all four of us look to the jug of water beside the bed. The still full jug of water.

“I want to give you a bag of fluids to get your hydration back up, but you need to stay on top of drinking water from now on. Having twins is incredibly hard on the body. You need to nourish it so that it can do the best job at helping those two babies grow for as long as possible.”

I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. I hate needles. But I will do it. For them.

So, I squeeze my eyes shut and I squeeze Michael’s hand as hard as I possibly can while the midwife inserts the drip. Once it’s all set, she kindly covers my arm with a blanket, so I don’t see the cannula.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Michael once she leaves.

The cool fluid spreads up my arm, leaving tingles in its wake.

“You’re not allowed to be sorry, remember?”