“Oh my god! I can’t be a mother.” Loud and ugly wails escape her parched throat. In the monitor, I see her blood pressure rising and her oxygen level starts to drop.
I lurch to my feet and press the button for the nurse.
Afraid of her accidentally opening her stitches, I hold her down, calmly murmuring, “Iris, please, baby.”
“No, it can’t be true. Kian! Oh no.”
“I’m sorry,” I keep chanting helplessly, torn at the sadness rocking her limbs. “We’ll get through this, Rainbow. We will.”
The nurses rush inside, forcing me aside. One of them gives her something that instantly calms her down and puts her to sleep.
I panic at her closed eyes. “She’s… Is she going to wake up? Tell me!”
“Yes, sir. We’ve sedated her. That’s all.”
Hunching over, I gulp in air, willing myself to breathe steadily. Behind me, the door springs open, footsteps hurrying inside.
“What happened?” Mr. Mannan demands anxiously.
Straightening, I stagger over to Iris’s side. “I told her about the complication. She panicked.”
Her parents round over to her other side. Mrs. Mannan leans over, caressing her temple while her eyes shimmer in distraught. “I… I can’t take her like this. Make her okay.”
Iris’s dad wraps an arm around her. “She will be. Look, she woke up today.”
After them, her friends enter the room one by one to check on her and offer me consoling words. I don’t reply in return and keep watching Iris. Once visiting hours are over, they go home until it's just us two. The nurses come by to check once and leave.
She shivers, a furrow appearing on her forehead. I smooth it out with my thumb and lay another blanket over her. When she still continues to tremble, I climb into the bed, which is big enough for the two of us.
Careful of her dressings, I curl my arm around her waist and kiss the top of her head. She doesn’t stir again.
“I got you, Rainbow,” I whisper. “Always.”
Then I finally close my eyes.
Chapter Forty-Three
Iris
The awful dryness and chemical taste in my mouth awaken me.
“Ahh!” I moan at the bright lights that attack my eyes. I shut them back with a wince.
“Rainbow, what do you need?”
“The blinds,” I mutter to Kian. Once the light has vanished, I flutter my lids open. The sterile room comes into focus, reality crashing in on its heels. Kian’s words rise to the forefront like a blow to my chest.
“There’s a very low chance of you getting pregnant.”
“I’m sorry.”
I pray I hallucinated it all, but when I twist my head to Kian, sitting beside me with the saddest and most worrisome expression, my hope gets squashed into ashes.
The twisted anguish I felt last night is replaced by coldness, chilling my bones.
I’m not going to be a mother.
No kids of my own.
