Chapter 22

I'm super sorry this took so long to put up but my stupid computer ate my stupid chapter and when I tried to get it from another computer...anyway, had to start again so here goes

It was a long drive.

He spent the first half of it arguing with Marc while he vehemently denied that this had been his goal all along. The rest of the ride Marc either played devil’s advocate or they’d sat in a sort of charged silence, both blaming the other for the predicament they were in. 

He knows his own part in all of this mess is far from innocent but he had thought they had been turning a corner when Troy stuck his size twelve’s in. He accepts that looking at it from the outside in that he might not look like he is in control of his own destiny and as much as he wants to he knows he can’t blame her for jumping at the first opportunity to wipe the slate clean and rid herself of this whole disaster.

He is reminding himself with each step he takes down the hospital’s sterile hallways that she has reasons for offering up their child to Marc and V and that he will get nowhere by judging her for acting out of fear. He reminds himself that she did not run to the nearest bank with the cheque his father handed her and that is to her credit. Still, his teeth grind together as he sullenly follows behind Marc who bobs his head as he passes nurses and orderlies, smiling at each and every one of them while he, himself, keeps his head down. He is in no mood to smile and sign autographs as if he hasn’t a care in the world and he knows too well the consequences of taking out his personal issues on innocent bystanders to chance so much as making eye contact with anyone when he is in this kind of mood. 

Besides, he is doing his best to come up with just the right words to say when he sees her. Not that he’s very good with words. If he was he wouldn’t be skulking down this brightly lit hospital corridor with his guts churning like he’s waiting to hit the ice for the third period of game seven and they’re down by two. 

“This one, I think,” Marc says, looking down at his phone and then up at the number on the closed door of the room. Sid’s heart hammers like a jackhammer in his chest. He lifts his hand and presses it over the spot where the unruly organ feels like it’s trying to chisel its way out. 

“Jeezus,” he wheezes, “feels like we’re heading for overtime in game seven now.” Marc affords him a sympathetic smile before lifting his hand to knock softly on the door. The sound of a cat being slowly strangled answers his knock and the two young men exchange an indecisive but worried look. 

“Nooooooo, it’s toooo soooon.” It’s her voice. He doesn’t need to hear more to reach past Marc to twist the door handle and push open the door to find her rolling her head back and forth on the pillow, her dark hair affixed to her sweat soaked forehead and cheeks, her teeth clenched. 

“You have to push,” the nurse holding one of her hands says in that matronly way that’s supposed to make you listen to her. Fern grimaces and shakes her head again. 

“No, too soon. Noooo,” she pants with the obvious effort of doing the exact opposite of what her body is asking her to do. 

“The baby’s coming, right now. You’re only making it worse on both of you by doing what you’re doing,” the woman in the blue scrubs that suddenly appears from beneath the sheet draped over Fern’s midsection says patiently and with a thin lipped smile. “He’s gonna tear you from stem to stern and then where will you be?”  she adds, placing a blood soaked glove on Fern’s knee. “Now, c’mon, give me a good push.” Fern stares daggers at the doctor and he believes, right in that moment, that she will get up off of the bed and rip the doctor stem from stern and he feels kind of proud of her. 

He steps up to where the nurse is at her side and reaches for the hand that she is holding. With a grateful smile she gives up her place and he slides his hand over Fern’s warm one. 

“Hey, now listen to me. You have to focus. It’s gonna be beautiful, you’re beautiful but you have to do this. You have one job to do right now and that’s to breathe and push, okay?” She looks up at him like she’s never seen him before or maybe she doesn’t think that he’s real and he smiles down at her before lowering his lips to the white knuckles of the hand that is currently trying to crush his. “Just breathe,” he tells her softly, “and try to relax and everything is going to be fine.” 

“You’re...but...?” She turns her head to look at where Vero had been. Marc has gathered his girlfriend into his arms and she is looking back at them, wide eyed as she anxiously chews on her bottom lip. 

“We can talk about all that later,” he promises her, softly, his heart swelling in his chest as he looks down at her. “Right now put all of that stuff out of your mind and concentrate on doing this okay? Everything else can just wait. You got me?” His gaze searches hers and after a moment of her studying his face she nods, just once. “Good. Now, when the doctor says push, you give it all you’ve got, okay?” 

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“I can’t....I can’t anymore,” she gasps, dropping back down onto the bed and closing her eyes. She can feel the sweat running down her back and between her breasts like rivulets and the sheets beneath her feel soaked, whether with her sweat or her blood she can’t be sure. What she does know is that she is bone weary and she feels like she is being split in two. “I can’t do it anymore,” she whispers to the man who is gently brushing her hair back from her face. 

“Just a couple more pushes and we’ll be there,” the doctor promises from between her thighs. Fern gnashes her teeth. When she gets up off of this bed...if she ever gets up off of this bed, she is going to murder that self important bitch with her bare hands. 

“Easy for her to say,” she says under her breath and opens one eye to see his boyish grin shining down on her like a ray of mid-summer sunshine, warm and golden. “This is your fault,” she adds, through clenched teeth, “you have a fat head.” 

“Can’t argue that,” he grins good naturedly, “I think I have the biggest helmet on the team,” he adds with a wink. She almost laughs but winces as yet another contraction rips through her body and steals her breath away. 

“Come on Fern, one big push, you can do it,” the doctor encourages and Fern aims another glower in her direction. 

“Couple more pushes and you can rest,” Sidney promises in her ear, his arm sliding up behind her back to support her as she bears down. It is no longer just sweat that slides down her cheeks as she cries out with the effort but tears of pain, of exhaustion both mental and physical. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” she cries, falling back against his arm and panting.

“You can,” he whispers and she feels the brush of his lips against her forehead. “You’re being really brave.”

“Are you kidding?” she breathes, trying to think if she’s ever been in this much pain in her entire life. “I’m scared to death.” 

“Good, then that makes two of us,” he tells her in his most earnest voice, his gaze holding hers. She blinks, wanting to look away and hide the hope that she feels leaking into her face from him but she can’t. “Just for the record,” he adds, unblinking, “what Troy...what my dad did...I didn’t know anything about it and I swear I had nothing to do with it.” She looks into the depths of cafe latte eyes and thinks it must be the pain but for the first time she doesn’t think he is hiding something from her. 

“Okay,” she whispers and the corners of his full, bubble gum soft lips turn up. “I believe you but that doesn’t mean he didn’t mean every single threat he made,” she tells him and his smile fades and his eyes darken.

“I can make threats too,” he promises, his eyes going cold, his expression grim. In this moment he looks like the Sidney she met that night in the club, not the one she thinks is underneath. For a moment she forgets her own pain and reaches up to run her fingers along the strong line of his jaw. He closes his eyes and leans into her hand. “I won’t let him take what’s mine,” he whispers before those long, black lashes flutter open again. “I won’t let anyone take what’s mine.” 

For just a moment she feels the tingling up and down her spine of hearing the words that she knows she’s dreamed of hearing and knowing in her heart that he means them and then her entire body goes rigid, as if struck by lightning and she screams. It’s as if the sound is a handful of razorblades cutting their way up her throat while a hatchet is brought down on her stomach and an axe is driven up between her thighs. The world is black and she can’t even hear the sound of her own screaming. Only a buzzing in her ears and then...silence.

It’s as if the sound has been turned down on the entire room and every one in it is moving in slow motion. She can feel his arm still supporting her but she doesn’t think, even if she turns her head, she will see him. All she can see is the nurses and doctor with their heads down around something. Something she thinks should be crying or making some kind of sound. 

Maybe they only do that in movies, she tells herself as she watches and waits. Maybe it takes longer than you’d think to clear the airways. But maybe...but maybe....

“There’s something wrong,” she whispers and feels his arm tighten around her. 

“He’s a preemie, we knew that,” he whispers back as if he’s reminding himself more than telling her. 

“But he’s not crying,” she insists, barely forcing her words past a ball of emotion quickly filling her throat.

“Shouldn’t he be crying? Why isn’t he crying?” 

“Any minute now,” he tells her, but when she looks up into his face there is no conviction. There is only worry and he doesn’t look down at her, only stares at the backs of the hospital staff crowded around the tiny table with the bright light on the other side of the room.

“Why isn’t he crying?” It isn’t her voice though she thinks that it should be. The voice comes from somewhere behind her and for a moment she thinks it is only in her head until she remembers that there are other people, other interested parties in the room. She looks back over her shoulder, wondering that she can without falling to pieces, and sees Vero cuddled into Marc’s side, both of them staring at the same thing with the same expression of anxiety on their faces.

When she turns back the crowd of blue and green scrubs are moving towards the door, pushing the cart. She tries to sit up, but can’t. 

“Where are they going? What’s going on?” she asks, reaching uselessly forward.

“He’s in good hands. He’s having a little trouble breathing so they’re gonna take him upstairs to the NICU and get him some oxygen and keep a close eye on him. Mom, you’ll be able to go up in a while,” one of the nurses says calmly from behind her mask. “Do you want to follow him dad?” she asks, turning to Sid who is still staring at the now closed door through which they’ve just taken their son.

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He knows, instinctively, that this is one of those damned if you do and damned if you don’t moments. There are things he needs to know, to talk about with Fern but on the other hand....

“Yes,” he says and lets go of Fern with only a quick, half hearted apologetic look over his shoulder as he follows the nurse in scrubs that he supposes are supposed to be cheerful, with colourful cartoon dogs and cats playing together. 

He’s grateful that neither Marc nor Vero follow him and he feels another pang of regret for leaving Fern with them and hopes that he’s done enough by being here, by being with her through this that she knows that they can’t give up their son to someone else, not even his good friend. He hopes Marc will be able to explain it to V. 

His shirt sticks to his skin and he suddenly feels cold as he follows the nurse into the elevator. He’s glad she doesn’t try to make small talk. He doesn’t know what he’d say. His emotions swing wildly from elation to gut churning fear and his heart is racing. 

When the mechanical doors of the elevator open he has to force one foot in front of the other to follow the nurse down the hallway, past the nursery window lined by friends and families with teddy bears and shiny balloons welcoming the newborns to their birthdays. His heart aches in his chest, wishing he could be happily handing out cigars to his teammates, but he puts his head down and follows the nurse into another room, a dimly lit one filled with anxious faces bent over brightly pods and surrounded by the mechanical sounds of life being supported. 

“Here he is,” the nurse says quietly when they reach one such plastic pod. Inside is a tiny, fragile looking doll with a tube taped into his mouth, tape over both of his eyes and a little blue knit hat on his head.

“Fuck me,” he whispers, feeling entirely inadequate. 

“He’s actually pretty big for a preemie,” the nurse tells him quietly, “the doctor thinks a few days...as long as everything else looks alright, and you’ll be able to take him home.” He stares at the alien looking creature in front of him, more spindly than any baby he’s ever seen, and can’t believe it. “Do you have a name for him yet?” she asks and Sid looks over to see her with a wrist band in one hand a black marker in the other. 

“Simon,” he says quietly, turning back to the tiny, fragile form, all pink and wrinkled, in the incubator. “Simon Crosby.”