Chapter 3: The Ride to the Hospital
Michael didn't wait for Ryan to move.
He got his arm under mine, lifted me carefully, and walked me toward the front door.
I was shaking so hard my teeth were clicking together.
The pain in my abdomen had dulled to a deep, nauseating pressure, and I didn't know if that was better or worse.
"Ryan." Michael stopped at the door and looked back at his son.
"Are you coming?"
Ryan was still standing beside the dining table.
He hadn't moved since Michael said the word papers.
His face was the color of old ash.
"I'll follow," he said.
"You'll ride with us." Michael's voice left no room.
"Now."
The drive to the hospital took nineteen minutes.
I know because I watched the clock on the dashboard the entire way, pressing my hands flat against my stomach, counting seconds between contractions that weren't supposed to be happening yet.
Michael drove.
Ryan sat in the back with me.
He didn't touch me.
"Ryan," I said, somewhere on the highway.
"What papers?"
He looked out the window.
"Ryan."
"Not now, Claire."
"I'm bleeding and I'm eight months pregnant and you are going to tell me what papers."
He turned from the window.
His jaw was tight.
"It was a precaution.
My mother's lawyer drew them up.
It was nothing."
"What kind of precaution?"
"A parental rights document." He said it fast, like speed would make it smaller.
"In case things didn't work out between us.
It was just — it was just paperwork."
I stared at him.
"You had me sign away parental rights to my own child?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked back out the window.
Michael's eyes found mine in the rearview mirror.
He held them there for a moment.
Then he looked back at the road.
"The document isn't valid," he said quietly.
"You signed under duress.
And you didn't have independent legal counsel.
I already called someone."
"You already called someone," I repeated.
"This morning.
Before dinner." He changed lanes.
"I've known something was wrong for three weeks.
I just didn't know how far they'd taken it."
I looked at Ryan.
"Three weeks."
Ryan said nothing.
"How long have you been planning this?"
Still nothing.
"Ryan.
How long?"
He turned back from the window.
His eyes were wet, but his voice was flat.
"My mother said if I didn't do something before the baby came, she would cut me out of the estate entirely.
Everything.
The house, the business, all of it." He swallowed.
"I didn't think anyone would get h*rt.
I thought it would just — I thought she'd just sign and we'd figure it out later."
The car was quiet for a long moment.
"You thought I would just sign away my child," I said, "and you'd figure it out later."
He didn't answer.
Michael pulled into the hospital entrance.
The automatic doors slid open ahead of us, bright and white and cold.
"Come on," Michael said, already out of the car.
"Baby first.
Everything else after."
A nurse met us at the entrance with a wheelchair.
I sat down and let her take over, and as they wheeled me through the doors I looked back once at Ryan, still standing beside the car in the dark.
May you like
He hadn't followed us in yet.
I turned around and faced forward.
