Luna's Last Tear

Chapter 6 — The Room with One Less Heartbeat

I wake to a hard white light. My head is heavy. My mouth is dry. For a second I do not know where I am. The ceiling is a square of pale glow. A machine beeps somewhere near my ear. The sheet feels rough against my skin.

I try to sit up. Pain grips low in my belly. The room tilts. A hand presses my shoulder back to the pillow.

“Easy," Caroline says. Her voice is low and steady. “Don't move yet."

My mind catches up to my body. The warehouse. The blood. The ride in the car. The doors that kept closing. The elevator. Then nothing.

“Where…" I begin, but my throat is sand. Caroline holds a straw to my lips. Cool water slides into my mouth. I swallow slowly. The world steadies a little.

“You're in the hospital," she says. “You're safe with me."

The word safe lands and then slides away. Fear comes back in a wave. I reach for my stomach. The IV line pulls at my wrist. “The baby?" I ask. The two words scrape my throat on the way out.

Caroline looks straight at me. She doesn't look at the floor or the door. Her eyes are kind and firm. “There was no heartbeat when they brought you in," she says. “They stopped the bleeding. You made it. The baby didn't."

The room goes quiet even though the machine keeps beeping. My chest feels empty and full at the same time. I turn my face into the pillow. No sound comes. There is no air for sound. Tears run sideways into the fabric and make two small circles. I don't know how long I cry. It could be a minute. It could be an hour. Time is a door that won't open.

I had wanted this child for so long. I never said it out loud much. Wanting something soft in this house felt dangerous. But I wanted it anyway. I pictured a girl because my mind always walks toward the hardest hill. I saw a small body in a yellow dress with strawberries on it. I saw little hands on piano keys while I showed her how to let the weight of a finger make a sound. I saw a toothbrush left by the sink and a broken crayon still good enough to color with. I saw a messy braid that would not lie flat. I saw her run and then look back to make sure I was there. I saw her mouth form the word “Mom," easy and real.

Now there is only the shape where those pictures were. A chalk outline around something that will not rise. My body feels like a room that someone has emptied. The echo hurts.

Caroline's hand finds mine. Her thumb rubs the ridge of a vein. It is a small, warm line in a cold place. “I'm here," she says. “I won't leave."

I breathe in and out until I can make sentences again. “Was it… my fault?" The question terrifies me as I ask it.

“No," she says at once. “You were attacked. You bled. The doctor moved as fast as he could." There is anger in her voice now, buried but hot. “And some people made that harder."

Andrew. Samantha. The guards in the door. I close my eyes. “He was here," I whisper, though I don't know if I mean last night or right now.

“For his consult," Caroline says. “Not for you." She forces a breath out through her nose. “Dr. Chen came anyway. He made the right choice. He saved you first."

“Dr. Chen," I repeat. The name is a hook I can hold. “He said… anything else?"

“He'll come by when he's clear," she says. “You're on fluids. They're watching your blood count. You had an emergency procedure to stop the bleeding. You lost a lot, Nat. But you're here."

I nod. The movement is small. Pain flares and settles again.

A nurse steps in. Her badge says Kira. She checks my vitals and the bag on my IV pole. She is gentle with the tape on my skin. “How's your pain?" she asks.

“Like something heavy is sitting on me," I say.

“We can help with that," she answers. “I'll page the doctor for an order." She glances at Caroline. “Any nausea? Dizziness?"

“A little," I say. “But I can keep water down."

Kira notes it. “I'll be right back," she says, and slips out.

The room is quiet again. I watch the window. It is gray outside. Maybe morning. Maybe not. Hospitals break the day into lights and alarms instead of sun. Somewhere a printer spits labels. Somewhere a cart rattles over tile. Life goes on in all the rooms that are not mine.

I think about the baby. I think about how many times I waited for the right moment to tell Andrew. I waited because I wanted the telling to feel like a shared gift. I wanted a yes from his eyes the way he said yes to me years ago in the courtyard. I kept waiting. I waited for him to choose me first. I waited for him to see me without Samantha standing nearby. I waited too long.

Caroline squeezes my hand. “Don't do this to yourself," she says, reading my face. “You did nothing wrong."

I nod again, but the thought does not leave. It sits there like a stone I can't move.

We talk in small pieces. She tells me who has checked in. “My father?" I ask. The word father tastes like old iron.

“He knows you're here," she says. “He is with Emily. They're with Samantha."

Of course they are. My chest tightens. I look at the doorway. It is closed but not locked. A draft lifts the corner of the curtain.

“Do you want me to call anyone?" Caroline asks.

“No," I say. “Not yet." I do not want pity from people who taught me to be small. I do not want to be the story they tell later to prove that I am dramatic. I want quiet. I want my own thoughts to be the only voices in the room for a while.

So I let them come. I let them come like waves. I do not try to make them pretty. I let myself say the true things in plain words, like the doctor did. I loved this baby. I wanted this baby. I was afraid to say that out loud because I kept being asked to give up what was mine for other people. I thought if I hid this want, maybe no one could take it from me. I was wrong. Hiding did not protect anything. It only kept me alone inside myself.

The beeping slows. The ache dulls to a heavy throb. Kira returns with a small clear syringe. “Pain meds," she says. “This should take the edge off." She pushes the drug into the IV line and watches my face. The room softens a little at the edges.

“Thank you," I tell her.

“You're welcome." She hesitates. “If anyone tries to come in that you don't want, you tell me. We can put a note on the chart. Restricted visitors."

My gaze drops to the blanket. “Can you keep him out?" I ask. It is strange to hear my own voice ask that about my husband.

Kira's eyes are steady. “I can try. Caroline can help. But there are limits," she says, honest like a nurse has to be. “You tell us what you want. We'll back you."

“I want a door that stays shut when I say so," I say.

“Understood," she replies, and leaves again.

The medication makes my body feel one shade farther from pain. It does not touch the grief. Grief keeps its own seat in the room and does not get up for anyone.

Caroline steps to the sink and rings out a cloth. She brings it cool and damp and lays it over my eyes and forehead. The simple care makes my throat tighten again. “Thank you," I whisper.

“Always," she says.

We stay like that for a while. I count my breaths. I count the holes in the ceiling tile above the bed. I count the number of times the hallway shoes squeak past. I name five things in the room so I know I still exist: pillow, beeping, curtain, straw, Caroline.

The door handle turns. It is a quick movement, like someone who does not like to wait. The door opens before either of us can speak.

Andrew steps in.

His hair is wet. His jaw is tight. His eyes sweep the room and fix on me. He looks at the IV, at the wires, at the pallor in my face. For half a second something like shock appears, but anger covers it right away. He shuts the door behind him with a flat click.

“Where were you last night?" he demands. His voice is sharp, not loud. “Do you have any idea what was happening here?"

Caroline moves between us. “Not now," she says. “Get out."

He ignores her. His eyes don't leave my face. “Samantha is in a bad way," he says, each word clipped. “The doctors say she needs a transplant as soon as possible. She needs a kidney now."

The room narrows to his voice and the beeping. I don't answer. I hold the edge of the sheet and breathe.

He takes a step closer. “Answer me," he says. “Where did you go?"

I look at him and say nothing. The machines keep count for me.