CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Gabe
“Ifucked up, Ruthie.” I take her hand in mine. I hate seeing her like this, so still, so lifeless, with only a machine pumping oxygen into her lungs. I hate that she has no one but a worthless drunk here to hold her hand at the end. “God, I fucked up so hard I’m surprised you’re not waking up just to slap some sense into me.”
My hands shake as I hold hers and I’ve been here for at least twelve hours without a drink, without calling my extremely pregnant wife to tell her I’m okay. I don’t deserve Lo. I don’t deserve to call myself her husband.
“I just need you to wake up, okay? Wake up and yell at me, please?” I beg and lean my head in my hands. “I don’t know how to fix this, Ruthie. I don’t know how to stop. Please wake up. Please?”
I stare at her inert form and let out a sigh. I’m fidgety as fuck. I haven’t slept properly since the night before the wedding, and I need a drink so fucking bad my nerves all feel like they’ve been struck with a live wire.
I stand and turn to leave, but the machines she’s hooked up to start going haywire. I whirl around and see Ruthie’s frail body convulsing against the mattress. For a beat, I just stand there, thinking she’s fucking with me, and then reality sets in, and I jam my hand against the giant red button above her bed. Nurses flood the room, and I’m shoved outside the glass partition of the ICU, unable to tear my gaze away from the green flat line on the machine where there should be a heartbeat. A doctor in a white coat who looks barely old enough to be out of med school, rushes in and the nurse shakes her head. He glances at his watch, and I’ve seen enough bullshit TV shows to know I don’t want to behere to hear him call a time of death. I walk out of the ICU and I don’t look back. Ruthie is dead, and I need a fucking drink.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Lo
Two days after Gabe left for the hospital, I’m camped out on the couch listening to a murder mystery podcast, alone. I’ve completed my fourth sudoku for the day and a huge pile of unread books sits on the lamp table beside me.
I check my phone for the hundredth time and sigh at the lack of messages. Finally, Gabe’s keys rattle in the lock, and I resist the urge to jump up and meet him at the door.
“Hey, Freckles!” he cheers, waving a smooshed pizza box around.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”
“Hospital,” he says in a perfunctory tone devoid of feeling. “Ruthie’s dead.”
“What?” I press my hand to my mouth and swallow hard. I can’t breathe. Tears prick my eyes and roll down my cheeks, but Gabe just keeps on talking as if he didn’t just shatter my whole world.
“Oh ... I saw Old Smitty—remember him, the homeless guy from the boulevard who we used to give change to? Well, I ordered a pizza and then I ran to the liquor store to grab a couple of those Mexican beers you like.” Gabe sets the pizza box down on the coffee table and stumbles a little as he leans in to kiss me. He reeks of booze and weed, and I pull out of his embrace. “Anyway, Old Smitty was there, did I tell you that? So, we got to talking, and then Penny from the pizza place came and delivered the pizza at the bar and we ate it, so I had to order another.”
I shake my head. None of what he’s saying makes any sense. Why isn’t he more upset about Ruthie? Why won’t he look atme? I want to ask all of these questions, but the only thing that comes out is, “You bought me beer?”
“Yeah.”
I study the table, and the lack of beer on it. “You bought me beer even though I’m pregnant?”
“Well, yeah. ’Cause I forgot ... for a minute, but it’s okay because I drank it. And then I walked by Ruthie’s place on the way home, and I just sat there, in her yard, expecting her to come out and yell at me ... but she didn’t. She’ll never do that again.” He flops into the armchair beside me and then doubles over and pukes on our plush rug and hardwood floors.
I hold my breath, trying not to lose my shit and sympathy vomit all over him, and it must be some kind of miracle that I keep my composure and the contents of my stomach.
After what seems like an eternity, Gabe leans back and stares at me through heavy eyelids. “Oh, shit. You’re mad, aren’t you? That’s your mad face. I’m gonna clean it up.”
“Yeah, I’m mad, but I don’t give a shit about the floors. You disappear for two days, you don’t bother to let me know where you are, and then you drop a bomb like, ‘Oh, hey, Ruthie’s dead’. Not to mention, somehow in all of this, you forgot I was pregnant.” Rage burns through my veins, but my hot tears won’t stop streaking down my face. “Or maybe that last part is just wishful thinking?”
“Jesus, Lo. Can we not do this now, please?”
“When should we do it, on our kid’s eighteenth birthday?” I shake my head.
“I’m just going through it right now, okay?”
“Going through what? Talk to me. How am I supposed to know what you’re going through if you’re never fucking home? Is this how it’s going to be when the baby comes?”
“How can I be here when every time I look at you, I see what a fuck up I am? I see you with your boss’s tongue down yourthroat. I see my baby in your belly, and the end of us. And I’m racked with so much fucking guilt because I’m counting down the goddamn days until this kid gets here, even though they could be your last.”
“What are you talking about? I’m fine.”
“You’re on fucking bed rest so the placenta doesn’t tear through your organs, Lo!” he shouts and then inhales a shaky, breath. “You’re not fine. They’re gonna take him out and take your goddamn uterus so you don’t bleed to death, and even then, it’s not a sure thing. I’m trying. I’m trying to love this kid, but how can I when he could be the thing that takes you away from me?”