He Knows

Waking up in the recovery room of Mercy West, three people are surrounding me. Dromida O’Donnell, a supermodel slash surgeon with perfect dark skin and legs for days, who operated on me; a seriously hot dark-haired male doctor whose smirk tells me he knows it; and the gorgeous Dr, Chang, who last I saw was poking around inside me. Why? Apparently, being beaten and shot wasn’t enough; karma decided I needed to have my test results confused with a pregnant woman’s.

“How are you feeling, Gwen?” Dromida asks.

“Like I got beat, shot, and held under some frigid, nasty river water by a psychotic pedophile, saved by a major baseball player, had CPR performed on me by a tattooed mountain of a man, and was brought to a hospital where somebody mixed up my test results with another woman’s and then …” I stop and think. “Well, you’ll have to fill in the rest for me.”

They all look at each other, seeming pleased.

“I’m Dr. Effisto, neurology. Dr. O’Donnell called me in for a consult, and I monitored you during your surgery.”

“Is something wrong with my brain?”

“You have a concussion. Rest and try to relax. You’ll be back catching the bad guys within a couple of weeks.”

“Okay?”

“The bullet was removed and was given to a police escort to the station to be used as evidence.”

“Any chance you could tell if it was from a Glock or?—”

“We’d have no way of knowing that information,” Dromida answers.

“The bullet was a 45.” Dr. Effisto leans back against the cupboard and crosses his arms. “Gonna guess that was the psychotic pedophile’s gun?”

“Jesus, Marc,” Dromida sighs

I close my eyes and smile. “Yeah.”

“Aside from all you were put through, you’re in excellent shape, Gwen.”

“Thank you. All of you.” I open my eyes and look at each of them. “I appreciate?—”

“Gwen, we wanted to make sure you know that the blood tests, my exam”—she reaches into her lab coat, pulls out a piece of paper, and hands it to me—“the vaginal ultrasound, all say the same thing—you’re pregnant.”

Words are lost when I look at a black and white flimsy photo that feels so … heavy. I’ve celebrated these moments with Whit and Chloe, peering into the future with curiosity and awe, looking at the little life they’d hold in their hearts and hands for years and years to come.

I hold it against my chest and close my eyes as tears flow hot down my cheek, a surge of emotions, but it’s not the same I felt with them. There is no joy or happiness; instead, there’s fear and trepidation knowing what happens next.

Someone takes my hand and gently squeezes it. “Should I get Whitley?”

“No, God, I don’t want them to know.”

“Leland’s in the waiting room.”

He knows. He knows everything now. He needs to understand that this … this won’t last.

“Just him. No one else needs to know.”

Dr. Effisto walks over and pats my hand. “Dark room, eyes closed, rest your mind and body. My number will be on the discharge papers; call with any questions.”

“Thank you.”

***

When Leland walks in, the relief that crosses his features hurts my heart.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

“We heard things went well. Rest, and you’ll make a full recovery.” He sits on the bed at my feet.

“I’ll be fine.” I clear my throat. “What you heard earlier?—”

“We don’t have to talk about that right now, okay?” He grips my ankle, gently squeezing it.

“No one knows. I don’t want anyone to know. Mom doesn’t?—”

“Gwendolyn, I’d never.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats.

“I need you to understand that my body can’t stay pregnant. So, this, it’s going to end, too.”

“I think you should let Dr. Chang explain what she’s found,” Dromida says calmly.

“Let’s listen to the doctor,” Leland says, looking at her, hopeful.

I hate it. I hate this. And I hate them for letting him have hope.

“Do not lie to him. Tell him the truth,” I demand, or at least I hope it came out that way. I’m so fucking tired.

“The truth is that whoever took care of you all those years ago did a shit job,” Dr. Chang states firmly. “I’m assuming, when you miscarried, they performed a DNC, which would only be necessary if everything hadn’t passed naturally. Am I right?”

I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him, them, as I nod.

“Real talk. They did a shit job. You have scarring on your cervix, which tells me they either nicked or sliced it. Your right ovary was also damaged. You have a tipped uterus, which some are of the mindset that makes it more difficult to get pregnant, but that’s not true. Right now, your biggest worry is stress. Stress is not good for you or your baby. Later in your pregnancy, I would want to watch you closer, so more frequent visits to check that your cervix isn’t weakened. And if I could, I would tell you that I don’t want you seeing another doctor. However, if you do, I’d like your permission to consult with them.”

“I don’t want to do this again. I don’t want to?—”

“That’s your choice completely, but if you’re making them based on what some hack told you, I’m standing here, the best OBGYN on the East Coast, telling you they were wrong.”

“I’m so tired.”

“Of course you are.” Leland’s voice is so filled with emotions that it’s painful to hear. “Rest, Gwendolyn. You don’t have to make any choices right now. All you need to do is rest.”

“You can’t tell them. I don’t want anyone outside of this room knowing either way. I am not weak, or broken, or dead, or?—”

“Gwen,” Leland starts.

“No. Not another word.”

“Okay.”

“I … I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want …”

He moves up to sit beside me, wipes weak and worthless tears from my face, and pulls my head to his chest. Emotions rip through him as he quietly pleads, “Sleep, Gwen, please go to sleep.”

“Mmm ’kay.”

***

When I wake, less groggy, my head still to Leland’s chest, his arm wrapped around me tight, I’m in a private room, and we’re not alone. Whit and Pope are both asleep, her on his lap at the end of my bed in a not-so-comfortable-looking chair.

What the fuck?I think.

“Apparently, the drugs are wearing off,” Leland whispers low, lips touching the top of my head. “So that we’re on the same page, they think we’re together.”

“No, no, no, no …”

“You asked for me, not for her. Couldn’t explain why, so I told her we were working through some things, and we are, so yes, yes, yes.”

I move to glare up at him.

“We’re not having this fight now, not when making nice isn’t on the table.”

“You motherfucker.”

“Ain’t that the damn truth,” he states, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling.

“I hated myself for so long, but right now, I’m hating?—”

“Don’t you dare say that word to me.” When he glares back down at me, his eyes are brimmed red. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I’ve never hated you—ever, Gwen.” Gwen. “Ever.” He kisses the top of my head chastely then slides off the bed. “I’m not gonna start now.”

Standing at the side of the bed, he pulls his phone from his pocket. “Chloe and crew have arrived. I’m going to step out for a bit.”

“Locke,” I whisper to his retreating back.

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes the color of Christmas—red, white, and green.

“Sorry.”

“You got nothing to be sorry for. Let’s you and I keep it that way from now on.”

Then he’s gone.

I bury my face in my pillow, and like I did all those years ago, I sob silently so no one knows.

Or so I think, until Whitley lies beside me, big spoon style.

When all the tears are gone, Whit gets up, grabs a cool washcloth, and hands it to me. “Chloe’s on her way up. Danny’s at the airport to meet Cora’s father, and Marks is checking out of his room as we speak.”

“Checking out of his room?”

Pope chuckles. “Apparently, he got lost on his way to the police station with William.”

I sit up and ask, “Lost?”

“He had to think some things through,” Pope says, glancing toward the door.

Whit whispers, “Pretty sure he was taking him to the woods, so to speak.”

“That was not the plan.”

Pope huffs, “Not for nothing, Gwen. Had I watched Cyrus performing CPR on you, all torn up with a bullet in you, I’d have done the same damn thing.”

“As pissed as I would have been at you for doing so, John Paul, same.” Whit sighs. “Now, let’s get that cloth on your face to calm the redness.”

I’m not sure we accomplished the calming because all I’ve seemed to do is cry. Chloe started it or restarted it with a mix of thank yous, and I’m so sorries. Cora was a mess, as well, and she, too, thanked me repeatedly. Then, seeing CeCe and Roman Hart, who dove into the Delaware and is the true hero to my survival, it continued.

I was ecstatic when I was told I could be released if I agreed to have Dromida and Whit dote over me for a week with some at-home care.

When we leave the room, I see Locke push up from where he was sitting vigil outside my door, and I just look at him.

He waves his hand in front of me. “After you.”

“In the words of Lizzo, it’s about damn time.” Chloe beams.

“It’s not?—”

“It is,” Leland cuts me off. “Even they knew it was inevitable. You and I just need the time to catch up.”

“Ooo … this is gonna be better than the daytime soap operas we used to watch.” Chloe laughs.

“The what?” Roman asks.

“Oh, that’s right. Y’all had cable. CeCe and I had a set of rabbit ear antennae,” Chloe answers.

“They missed out,” CeCe adds.

“Damn right, they did.” Chloe winks.

“You have cable?” Pope asks Roman.

“May never have gone out to eat, but Gram’s wouldn’t have survived a day without some Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy,” Roman answers.

***

Pope and Whit head back to their place so he can catch a few hours before having to be at the field for their third game against the Brewers. Chloe, CeCe, Leland, Roman, who will be on the injured players list until cleared, and I are heading back to CeCe’s.

With everyone out of the vehicle and Locke holding the door open for me, I shake my head.

“I need to see Marks. I need my phone. I need?—”

“You’re going to go inside and rest. Marks will be here. The rest can wait.”

“No, it can’t wait. I need to call Mom. She’s?—”

“Landing at Trenton in”—he looks at his watch—“thirty minutes.”

“What!”

“Told you all of this, Gwen.” Gwen. “Now, please get inside and chill, got me?”

“Got you?” I ask, pissed.

“Fuck, really?” He shakes his head in frustration.

“You’re not my father.”

“Damn right, I’m not,” he states.

Chloe comes around the SUV. “Gwen, come inside with me?”

I hold up my finger. “Give me a minute.”

I turn back to him. He’s leaning against the SUV, arms crossed.

“Trying here, Gwen. Trying real hard. Work with me?”

“There’s no room for everyone here.” I throw my hands in the air.

“They can have my place.”

“Um, hello, fire.”

“My house, not the place I rent.”

“I’m not leaving here, and we’re not together, Locke.”

“We’re—”

“You have a game tonight.”

“I’m off.”

“No more talking!”

“Fine, I won’t talk, but you gotta promise you’ll chill the fuck out and trust the people around you give a fuck. Let them. Deal?”

Not wanting to agree to anything, I walk away and head inside.

The boys are all standing around the island, filling plates.

Bennett’s the first to see me. His whole face looks pained.

I lift my chin at him, and he gives me back the same.

“Gwen,” Nour says over the rest of them, “real glad to see you’re okay.”

“Except for the whole …” AJ motions to my arm then circles his face. “Fuck, Gwen, that had to hurt.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Bennett snaps at him.

“It’s okay, Blaze. It is pretty jacked up.”

“Hungry? Nour made breakfast. Want me to make you a plate?” he asks.

“Thanks, but I’m going to rest until Marks returns. Kick ass tonight, all of you.”

“We will,” Nour calls behind me.

“Omelets are good, Nour. You’re on breakfast duty,” CeCe says as I walk away.

“Most important meal of the day,” Nour states.

“I want a chore. Can we get a chart? Hang it on the wall? Huh? Huh? Can we?” AJ says with more enthusiasm than I can handle at the moment.

CeCe laughs. “Maybe.”

“Thanks, Mom.” AJ chuckles.

Mom.

“I’m not a mother,” she corrects him, and tears fill my eyes.

“Might as well have called her ma’am, jackass,” Blaze grumbles.

“Nope, you’re coming this way.” Chloe grabs my hand and leads me to the master.

“You and Danny?—”

“Not while you need it.”

“Swear I’m good.” I bat away the tears.

“You do badass; I do sister and mom real good. Let Chloe take care of you now.”

“Only if you promise not to refer to yourself in the third person to me ever again.” I sniff.

“Danny likes it. I thought?—”

“Oh my God, shut up.” I laugh as I climb into the bed, and she holds back the covers.

She climbs in on top of the covers and lies facing me, tears now filling her eyes. “If I thought you could have been hurt like this, I would never have?—”

“It wouldn’t have happened if I sent the text on my way out. The crowd was insane, and I couldn’t. I knew Chloe, I knew last night was the night, and I was so ready to nail his ass. I tried to send it, and that’s when he hit me, and I dropped the phone.”

“They got the text,” Leland says from the doorway, walking in with a plate full of food and handing it to Chloe. “The best they can come up with is that, somehow, during the struggle, or there was a delay due to poor service out there, it was sent.” He says this all to Chloe then adds. “Let Gwen know I’m going to pick up Ms. Deb and Ms. Annie from the airport. I’ll bring them back here so they can lay eyes on her, and then take them back to the beach, all three of them.”

I look at Chloe. “You tell him he needs to play today. After the game, maybe they’ll go. Maybe I will, too.”

His response: “You tell Gwen on one condition—that she agrees to stay at the beach house so she can fucking relax. Marks can come, too.”

“You tell him?—”

“How about you tell each other?” Chloe asks, cutting a piece of omelet.

“She said no talking,” he answers.

“Then how y’all going to communicate?”

“Who the hell knows? Interpretive dance?” he says as he walks away.