Chapter 4: What They Found
They took me to a room and hooked me to a monitor within four minutes.
The nurse — her name tag said Patrice — moved with the kind of calm that made me feel like I was either fine or in serious trouble, and she wasn't going to tell me which until she knew for certain.
"Deep breath," she said, pressing the sensor against my abdomen.
"Tell me when the pain started."
"About forty minutes ago.
It was sudden.
Sharp."
"Any falls?"
I hesitated.
"I was k*cked.
In the stomach."
Patrice's hands stopped moving.
She looked at me directly.
"By whom?"
"My mother-in-law."
She held my gaze for one second.
Then she turned to the monitor and made a note.
"Is that person here now?"
"No."
"Is the person who did this someone you're afraid of?"
"Not anymore," I said.
And I meant it.
Michael was in the waiting room.
Ryan had come inside eventually — I'd seen him through the glass partition when they first brought me in — but I didn't know where he was now and I didn't ask.
The doctor arrived twelve minutes later.
Dr.
Osei, calm and direct, with reading glasses pushed up on her forehead.
"The baby is okay," she said, before anything else.
"Heart rate is strong.
No signs of placental abruption.
What you're experiencing is stress-induced early contractions.
We're going to monitor you for the next several hours."
I pressed my hand over my eyes.
"Okay."
"You're going to need to stay calm.
I know that's a difficult thing to ask given what you've described, but it matters right now."
"I understand."
She made a note.
"The nurse will document the physical injury for the record.
Given what you've told us, we're required to do that." She looked at me steadily.
"Is there anything else you want us to know?"
I thought about the papers.
About Ryan's voice saying precaution.
About Diane's face when she said it was never your baby to keep.
"Not yet," I said.
"But I'd like to speak to a social worker when one is available."
Dr.
Osei nodded once.
"I'll send someone in."
She left.
Patrice finished her notes and dimmed the light above the bed.
The room was quiet.
The monitor beeped steadily beside me — my daughter's heartbeat, strong and even, completely unaware of everything that had happened in the last two hours.
I put both hands on my stomach and listened to it.
The door opened.
I expected Michael.
Or a nurse.
It was Ryan.
He came in slowly, like he wasn't sure he was allowed.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, and looked at the monitor.
"She's okay?" he said.
"She's okay."
He exhaled.
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
He took a step closer.
"Claire, I need you to know—"
"Don't." I kept my eyes on the monitor.
"Not tonight.
Not in here."
"I just want to explain—"
"Ryan." I turned and looked at him.
"Your father is in the waiting room with a recording of you and your mother planning to take my baby.
The hospital has documented what she did to me tonight.
There is a social worker coming to this room." I held his gaze.
"Whatever you want to explain, you should probably save it for your lawyer."
His face went still.
He stood there for another moment.
Then he walked out.
I turned back to the monitor.
My daughter's heartbeat kept its pace, steady and indifferent and alive.
Outside the window, the Chicago skyline held its lights against the dark.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*My name is Karen Ellison.
I'm a family law attorney.
Michael gave me your number.
I'll be there in the morning.
Don't sign anything tonight.*
May you like
I set the phone face-down on the mattress.
Then I picked it back up and saved her number.
