Page 109 of The Last Train Home
Abbie looks calm. I think it’s going to be OK.
‘Abbie?’ I say and she doesn’t reply, just looks at me. ‘Abbie?’ I prompt.
‘Mmm?’
What’s going on?
‘I can’t do this,’ she says.
‘You have to. You’ve got no choice. You have to.’
‘It’s too hard,’ she replies, and tears stream down her face as another contraction hits her and she clenches her face in pain.
‘I know. But you have to. You are brave and strong and I love you, and you can do this because you have to.’
She doesn’t answer and her face slackens.
‘Abbie? Abbie? I love you. Don’t go to sleep. You have to stay awake. Stay awake.’
The midwives rush me out of the way and listen to Abbie’s heart, listen to the baby in her stomach. One tells the other to prep the surgical team.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask.
‘Emergency C-section,’ the midwife says as she hauls up the sides on the bed and then rushes an unconscious Abbie out of the delivery suite and into the corridor.
I help push the bed and then an orderly rushes towards us and takes over, leaving me standing in the corridor. Abbie is sped away, through a set of double doors and then she’s gone.
Chapter 66
Abbie
I open my eyes as I’m being wheeled on the bed through the corridor and see the glare of strip lighting as it blinds me and then it’s gone, blinds me and then it’s gone. Ceiling tiles and lights merge and swim above me, glare and fade. ‘Where’s Tom?’ I ask.
The lighting overhead blinds. Bright, dark, bright, dark, bright.
He said he wouldn’t leave me. Maybe he hasn’t left me.
Maybe I’ve left him.
And then everything goes dark.
Chapter 67
Tom
We argued and she’s gone into labour early. I did this. Abbie’s having the baby early –weeksearlier than she should be – because of me. I’m the worst kind of man. I look at my watch and see the hours have drifted into the next day. It’s seven minutes past midnight. My phone rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Tom?’ Abbie’s dad says in a panic. ‘We’ve been in the theatre and then at a bar with friends,’ he rushes out. ‘Abbie messaged to say she was fine and then … We’ve just found all your messages on my phone. We’re on our way.’
I’m exhausted. I nod. ‘Great.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘She’s still in surgery. They’re giving her a C-section. She’s been in for a really long time.’ I’m crying. I’m actually bloody crying.
‘She’ll be fine,’ Ken tells me. He can’t know that. He’s not here.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. I don’t have the energy to say anything else.
