Page 178 of Slapshot Baby

I stare at the ceiling tiles. Last time I was in this position, I gripped the edge of the table alone, crying without making a sound, watching a needle slide through my abdomen toward my baby's umbilical cord while nobody held my hand.

Kai should have been here then.

He should have been here for every appointment, every blood draw, every terrifying minute I spent in a waiting room wondering if the antibodies in my blood were winning. He should have known his baby existed before the baby needed saving.

But I never let him know.

The needle goes in. I squeeze Lucy's fingers hard enough to hurt.

"You're doing great," the nurse says.

I'm not doing great.

But I nod. Because that's what I do, hold everything together until I'm alone and then I fall apart where nobody can see.

"The baby's vitals look strong," the nurse says, checking the monitor. "We're about halfway through."

I focus on the heartbeat. Steady. Fast. Alive.

Lucy doesn't let go of my hand.

When it's over, I sit in the recovery area with juice and crackers while Lucy scrolls her phone in the chair beside me. The adhesive bandage on my stomach pulls every time I breathe.

She refills my juice without being asked. Adjusts the blanket over my lap. Drives fifteen minutes out of her way to the good bakery and buys me the lemon scone I’ve been craving lately.

Once we’re back home, she grabs my wrist.

“I shouldn’t have blocked his number.”

I wait.

“I thought I was protecting you. I was hurting you instead. And I’m sorry.”

"Thank you."

"But if he hurts you again, I'm not blocking his number. I'm blocking his kneecaps."

A surprised laugh comes out of me. She squeezes my wrist once, hard, then lets go.

And just like that, whatever anger I had left disappears.

I understand why she did it. Fear makes people do desperate things. God knows I’ve made enough bad decisions trying to protect myself from getting hurt.

Lucy stays with me for the rest of the day, but that evening, she finally gets ready to leave.

After she’s gone, I find myself standing outside the room I’ve been avoiding.

The spare bedroom has been empty since I moved in, used mostly as overflow storage for fabric swatches and client samples. Two weeks ago, when I still believed Kai and I had a future that included cribs and midnight feedings and arguments about whose turn it was to change the diaper, I started clearing it out.

Now I stand in the doorway and look at what I've done so far.

The walls are a warm ivory I picked from my studio samples. I pinned fabric swatches to a corkboard by the window: soft sage green, creamy white, a pale yellow that catches the afternoon light.

My iPad sits on the floor with the layout sketch I drew last week, the room measured down to the quarter inch.

The crib arrived days ago. The box is leaning against the wall, still sealed. I drag the box to the center of the room, slice the tape with scissors, and start pulling out pieces.

The instructions are twelve pages long with illustrations that assume a person has two hands and no feelings. I spread the hardware across the hardwood: bolts, washers, Allen wrenches, wooden slats that smell like pine and potential.