Page 13 of Property of Shotgun
I look back at Raiden. “Phil is going to go to Target and buy you a surprise.”
Raiden’s watery eyes go wide as he stares up at Fuckface. “You is?”
“Uh…” He looks at me, his eyes pleading with mine.
“You are.”
“But—”
“No buts. Anything cars will do.”
Without giving him room to argue, I march toward my front door. Once we’re inside, I send the boys upstairs to wash up and I open the bag to find a brand-new cellphone, and a handwritten note.
Have the boys call me if they want. My number is the only one programed.
I stare at the poor penmanship, guilt tugging at me. I’d like to think it’s because I sent Fuckface on a mission to buy Hot Wheels when the gift was actually for both boys, but realistically, I know that isn’t it.
That’s why I pull out my phone and shoot him a text.
Me: Thank you for the phone but you didn’t have to do that.
Shotgun: Its better this way. They don’t have to bother you if they want to call, and I don’t have to haunt you when I want to hear their voices.
I purse my lips as I reread his message.
What he’s really saying is—I see through your bullshit, Jade.
Well played, Shotgun.Well played.
The grief comes in waves. Most of the time I’m too busy to remember I’m a thirty-two-year-old widow. Then it hits me out of nowhere. Tonight it came when Raiden asked for a glass of milk before he went to bed. I was having Braxton Hicks contractions all day, which wasn’t even the worst part—I had them with both my prior pregnancies. It was going downstairs only to find I forgot to buy a gallon of milk when I was out, that set me off.
It's only been three weeks, and I can honestly say I’m exhausted. I don’t want to do any of this anymore. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Irish should be here. He should be holding me, trying to hide that sinful smirk of his, as he assures me it’s just the hormones making me crazy.
Raiden went to bed without his milk, but I put in an Instacart order before I came up to take a shower, that way the boys can have cereal tomorrow. Problem fixed, right? I shouldn’t be crying in the shower, trying like hell to remember what it feels to have my husband’s arms around me. How am I supposed to go through the rest of my life without ever feeling his touch again?
The water streams over me and my stomach goes rock hard, another Braxton Hick contraction working its way through me. I press my hands to my belly, breathing through it just as I’ve been doing all day. Until this moment, I haven’t allowed myself to think about what it will be like to give birth without Irish at my side.
Who is going to feed me ice chips, and rub my back as I labor?
Who will assure me that I’m doing a great job, and hold my legs while I push?
Who will cut the cord?
Who will dress Raiden and Legend in their Big Brother shirts and bring them to the hospital to meet their younger brother?
Suddenly it becomes too hard to breathe. I brace my hands against the tile wall, my vision blurring slightly as the pain becomes excruciating. I try to count back from ten, convincing myself it will pass, but when my vision clears, I see the blood dripping down the insides of my thighs. At first it doesn’t register, and I blink three times, foolishly expecting it to be a figment of my imagination. But it’s there, bright red blood all over my legs, swirling down the drain.
“Oh God, no,” I cry. “Please don’t do this.”
I turn off the water, struggling to keep myself upright as I push open the shower door. In a poor attempt to contain the blood, I press my thighs together, but it doesn’t do anything. By some miracle of God, I make my way out of the shower and grab the silk robe from the hook behind the door. I don’t bother drying myself as I slip my arms through the sleeves, reciting all the things I need to do.
Call for Legend.
Get to the phone.
Call 9-1-1.
Save my baby.
