Hold Me Tight(65)

“So the placenta…?” I ask, my voice unsteady.

“It’s hanging on by a thread,” Wanda says, hushed. “Dr. P. doesn’t expect it to remain attached much longer. He doesn’t give it the rest of the night. So you understand how urgent the situation is. We need her mother’s approval as soon as possible. Dr. P. is going to prep her for surgery one way or the other and hope against hope that you’ll be able to pull off a miracle.”

“And if I don’t?” I question, dreading her answer.

“You’re going to lose the baby, Eric,” she responds, holding on to my arm. “Hospital policy dictates that Dr. P.’s priority is to save the life of the mother, even if it means sacrificing the child. But we both know what that will do to Ivy. That’s why we can’t let that happen, not as long as there’s still a chance. I don’t care if you bring her mother in drunk out of her mind. You bring her in.”

“I will. I promise,” I reply, grasping just how dire things are.

“I had my girls at the front desk call around, and they were able to pull an address and phone number from a chart that Ivy’s previous OB-GYN had on file,” Wanda relates, handing me a folded piece of paper. “It listed her emergency contact as a Ramona Thompson over in Monroe. They tried the number, but no one picked up. I can only hope she’s at home and just didn’t answer.”

“I’m on it!” I exclaim, shoving the paper in my pocket. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Even a verbal confirmation from her will let us get started!” Wanda calls out to me as I hustle down the corridor, and I raise my hand to acknowledge that I heard her.

Ivy’s mother better still be there.

She has to be.

***

My dad knew that I was in no condition to drive, so he volunteered to take me wherever I needed to go. After plugging the address into the GPS on his dash, we set off from the hospital on a last-ditch effort to save my unborn child.

I’m glad that Ivy’s sedated. If she knew that it all hinged on her mother, I think it would crush her spirit. She wouldn’t be able to rally, and she’s going to need her strength when Dr. P. operates on her later. I only hope it is to repair the placenta and not to remove the baby from her womb.

So I’m okay with plunging into the breach and taking on her mother. From everything Ivy’s told me about the woman, she sounds like a lousy human being. The minute Ivy turned eighteen, she left and never looked back. The neglect, the abuse—it was just too much to bear. Ivy didn’t have a happy childhood, and she’s still feeling the effects of it. It’s why she’s so determined to make something of herself. It’s why she’s willing to risk her life to bring our child into the world. All because she keeps comparing herself to a woman she’s nothing like.

I know this is a stumbling block for Ivy, like she has to constantly prove to herself that she’s not her mother. I wish she wouldn’t torture herself like this. She’s her own person. She hasn’t just broken the mold. She’s shattered it. She’s going to be such a great mom, if only she’d believe it. She’s so afraid that she’s going to turn into her mother. But she’s not. It just isn’t possible. She’s too good a person.

“Well, this is a part of Monroe I’ve never been to before,” my father mumbles as we pull into a development full of low-income housing.

I stare out the window at the lines of laundry strung about even though it’s December. The sides of the buildings are tagged with gang-related graffiti. There’s a refrigerator without a door standing in the middle of somebody’s yard. I can only hope it is trash day, because the dumpsters next to the curb are overflowing.

Even though the wind is biting, there are people sitting in lawn furniture outside, smoking or doing nothing but waiting around. We’re eyed with suspicion as we drive down the narrow road, leading through the complex. They know we don’t belong here, and they’re checking us out. A young kid talks into his cell phone as we pass, probably alerting someone up ahead that we might be cops.

We keep going until we reach the cul-de-sac at the end. My dad proceeds slowly, scoping out the situation before sliding into a parking space in front of unit five. There are two women on the third floor, leaning over the balcony railing, observing our every move. Their heads are covered with brightly colored scarves as they whisper back and forth to each other, watching us.

The situation screams danger. We could very well be ambushed or mugged if we climb those stairs. But Ivy’s mom lives on the top floor, so we have no choice. It’s now or never. I nod to my dad as we open our doors together and step out.