“Becauseyoucouldn’t.”
“What?”I shot my gaze back to him and found him backing away from theisolette, shaking his head angrily.
Afew of the nurses had begun to look in our direction. Their eyes were narrowedwith disgust and anger, and if I wasn’t so on the verge of tears, I might havelooked just as angry. Or maybe I just felt sad. Sad and so unbelievablybetrayed.
“Ican't do this,” he said, and then, rushed past me and through the door.
Ishot an apologetic smile toward the nurses and a silent promise to my littleboy that I’d be back, even if his father wouldn’t, and then, I hurried asquickly as my sore, battered body would allow. Catching up with Brendan wasimpossible, he was too fast, and so I called to him when the pain andexhaustion got to be too much.
“Willyou just hold on a second?” I shouted breathlessly, leaning against the wallfor support.
“Mama,do you need help?” a passing nurse asked, her face and tone full of concern,and I shook my head.
“No,I just need to rest, thank you.”
Shelooked toward Brendan with uncertain speculation, as he stopped and turnedaround, then nodded, before moving on.
“Wherethe hell are you going?” I asked him, trying to catch my breath. I was nolonger on oxygen, but this level of exertion was still too much for me tohandle. I knew I’d need a breathing treatment with the nebulizerlater on, and I just hoped this interaction with Brendanwould be worth it.
“Ican't do this, Kendall,” he said, calm, clear, and just barely apologetic.
“Whatdo you mean,you can't do this?”
Heshook his head, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. “Imean,I can't do this. I’ve been with you for a long time, and I mean, we’ve had fun,but … all of this shit, with you and the baby …” He sighed and let hisshoulders drop. “I went along with it at first, because the idea of having akid sounded kind of nice, butthis?” He thrust a hand toward the NICUdoor. “I didn’t sign up for this, Kendall. A sick, dying baby? And then, youwant me to believe you did nothing to make it happen? God …” He slammed hiseyes shut and shook his head again. “This isn’t what I want.”
“He’snot dying,” I replied, choking on the words, but even as I said them, I wasn’tyet sure I believed them.
“Yeah.Sure. Whatever yougottatell yourself to feelbetter, but Kendo, look at him. He’ssick.”
Then,he turned to head back toward the elevator, and I called to him again.
“So,you’re just leaving? That’s it?”
Lookingover his shoulder, he nodded. “Yeah. That’s it. I told you, this isn’t what Iwant. And I don’t have to stick around and waste any more of my time on it.”
“Andwhat about whatIwant?” I shouted at him, as the tears finally brokefree and streamed down my face. “Do you think Iwantthis? Do you thinkI want to look at my baby through afreakin’ plasticbox? Do you think I’mhappy? God, Brendan!” I shook my head and ran ahand over my tear-streaked cheeks, as a nurse slowly walked by but didn’t sayanything. “I didn’t ask for this either. This isn’t what Iwant. But I’mfucking dealing withit, becauseIhaveto.”
“Well,I guess that’s the difference between you and me, then,” he replied, so coldand distant. “Idon’t have to.”
Inthat moment, I was glad I was angry. I was glad for the rage I felt watching myboyfriend walk away to abandon me and his newborn son. Because if I hadn’t beenso angry, I would’ve been too aware of my heart as it stopped beating andshattered. And after everything I had been through, dying over Brendan wasn’tworth it.
Notwhen I had Alexander to live for.
Myparents and Goose had been livid when they learned of Brendan’s dramatic andheartless exit. They had willingly expressed their intentions to eitherslaughter him while he slept orcompletely destroyhislife in every way imaginable. But as angry as I was with him myself, I didn’tfeel that it was a productive use of energy. Especially with everything elsegoing on. So, I successfully talked them down from their witch-hunt, anddiverted their attentions to something more important.
LikeAlexander. And me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
AfterI had spent a week in the hospital, with a couple more blood pressure spikesand scares, the doctors finally made the decision to discharge me. Theyprovided me with an arsenal of prescription drugs, a referral to a home nurseto check my blood pressure weekly, and strict instructions to follow up with mydoctors, while assuring me that I should be completely fine.
ButI wasn’t fine. In fact, I couldn’t stop crying. Because while being dischargedmeant that my health was good enough to be trusted on my own, it also meantthat I had to leave my baby behind. Nothing in the world felt more unnaturaland horrible to me than that.
Andso, I cried.
Icried while I took a shower and got dressed. I cried while packing my stuffedcat and the few things I had with me, and then, as I shuffled my way down thehall to say goodbye to Alexander.
WhenI entered the NICU, I was greeted with those same cheerful voices I’d grown toexpect, but as soon as they saw my tear-streaked face, those voices immediatelyexpressed concern.
