Chapter 2 - THE SEVEN-MINUTE DRIVE
The paramedic pressed two fingers against the monitor as though he could force the missing sound to return.
“Reposition her.”
His partner moved quickly.
They turned me farther onto my left side and adjusted the straps across the stretcher.
The oxygen mask smelled like plastic and cold air.
I stared at the ceiling of the ambulance while red and white lights flashed across it.
“Where is the heartbeat?”
My words were trapped beneath the mask.
The paramedic understood anyway.
“We’re checking.”
“That means you can’t find it.”
“Anna, I need you to focus on breathing.”
His name badge read MARCUS REED.
He looked calm, but his hands were moving too quickly.
He slid a sensor across my abdomen.
Static filled the small space.
Then a faint rhythm returned.
It was slower than before.
Too slow.
Marcus looked toward his partner.
“Seventy-eight.”
The other paramedic reached for the radio.
“Fairfax Memorial, Medic Fourteen.”
“We have a twenty-nine-week pregnant patient with abdominal trauma, active bleeding, recurrent contractions, and fetal bradycardia.”
“We are seven minutes out.”
A voice answered through the radio.
“Proceed to obstetric emergency entrance.”
“Operating room is being notified.”
I closed my eyes.
Seven minutes sounded short.
Inside the ambulance, it felt endless.
Ruiz sat near my feet, one hand gripping the metal rail.
He had spent years outside courtrooms and government buildings without ever appearing nervous.
Now his face was rigid.
“Your father is following.”
I opened my eyes.
“He should not come.”
“He is already in the car.”
“He’ll interfere.”
“He gave clear instructions that he would not contact the hospital administration or local investigators.”
That sounded like him.
My father knew that his presence changed rooms before he spoke.
He had spent his entire career controlling that effect.
“He only asked to be informed about your condition.”
Another wave of pain climbed through my back.
I gripped the stretcher rail.
Marcus watched the monitor.
“Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“Tell me the baby’s name.”
I had not told anyone.
Not David.
Not Sylvia.
Not even my father.
I had chosen it during a quiet afternoon in the nursery when the sun fell across the empty crib.
“Grace.”
Marcus nodded.
“Then breathe for Grace.”
I breathed.
The ambulance turned sharply.
The monitor dipped again.
“Sixty-four.”
Marcus pressed a button above the doors.
“Move faster.”
The siren changed pitch.
Ruiz leaned closer.
“Anna, there are officers at the house.”
“David will call the sheriff.”
“He already did.”
I looked at him.
“Sheriff Nolan?”
Ruiz nodded.
The name carried years of uneasiness.
Paul Nolan had been a county sheriff for almost a decade.
David mentioned him often.
Golf weekends.
Fundraisers.
Private dinners.
Once, when David received a speeding ticket after drinking at a bar association event, Nolan had made it disappear.
David told the story like it was evidence of friendship.
I had heard it as a warning.
“Will Nolan take over?”
“State police have been notified.”
“By my father?”
“By the dispatcher after hearing the obstruction allegation.”
The ambulance slowed.
Hospital lights appeared through the rear windows.
The doors opened before the vehicle had fully settled.
Cold air rushed inside.
A medical team waited with a rolling bed.
A woman in blue surgical scrubs took control immediately.
“I’m Dr. Elena Park.”
“How much blood?”
Marcus gave her the numbers.
She looked at the monitor.
“Fetal heart rate?”
“Between sixty and ninety.”
Dr. Park met my eyes.
“Anna, we are going directly upstairs.”
“Will she live?”
“We are going to do everything possible.”
That was not an answer.
They pushed me through white hallways at a speed that made the ceiling lights blur.
Ruiz stayed behind when security doors closed between us.
My father appeared at the far end of the corridor.
He wore a dark wool coat over a suit.
His silver hair was windblown.
I had not seen him in person for eleven months.
He looked older than he had during our last meeting.
For one second, the Chief Justice disappeared.
He was simply my father.
“Anna.”
The doors closed before he could reach me.
Dr. Park walked beside the bed.
“We believe you may have a placental abruption.”
I knew enough to understand the words.
The placenta might have separated from the wall of the uterus.
Grace’s oxygen supply was failing.
“You have two options,” Dr. Park said.
“If the heart rate stabilizes, we attempt medication and observation.”
“If it does not, we deliver immediately.”
The monitor dropped again.
A nurse called out the number.
“Fifty-eight.”
Dr. Park did not hesitate.
“We’re delivering.”
The operating room doors opened.
People surrounded me.
They removed my apron.
Someone cut through the side of my maternity dress.
A nurse asked when I had last eaten.
“Hours ago.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.”
“Previous surgery?”
“No.”
The anesthesiologist leaned over me.
“We may need to use general anesthesia because of the urgency.”
“Will I see her?”
“You may be asleep when she is delivered.”
Panic rose through me.
“I need to hear her.”
Dr. Park placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Anna, look at me.”
I focused on her eyes.
“We will take care of your daughter.”
The room began to tilt.
The anesthesiologist injected medication into the line.
My father’s voice came through the open doorway.
“May I speak to her?”
A nurse looked toward Dr. Park.
Dr. Park nodded once.
My father stepped into the edge of the room but did not come farther.
He understood boundaries.
He always had.
He removed his glasses.
“I’m here.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
“I should have told you.”
“This is not your fault.”
“I stayed too long.”
“You survived long enough to call.”
A nurse urged him backward.
“We need to begin.”
My father looked at me.
“Come back to Grace.”
I tried to answer.
The medication reached me first.
Darkness moved in from the sides of the room.
The final thing I heard was the fetal monitor sounding one long continuous tone.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was quiet.
There was no Christmas music.
No oven fan.
No sound of Sylvia’s heels.
Only the low rhythm of machines.
My throat hurt.
My stomach felt heavy and distant.
A nurse stood beside the bed.
Her name was Camille.
“You’re in recovery.”
I tried to sit up.
Pain stopped me.
“My baby.”
Camille took my hand.
“Your daughter was delivered at 7:19 p.m.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
The word broke something open inside me.
I began crying before she finished speaking.
“She weighs two pounds, fourteen ounces.”
“She needed help breathing.”
“The neonatal team has taken her to the NICU.”
“Can I see her?”
“As soon as your doctor clears you.”
“Was she crying?”
Camille paused.
“Not at first.”
My chest tightened.
“But she responded to treatment.”
“She is stable right now.”
Right now.
The phrase frightened me.
The door opened.
My father entered slowly.
He had removed his coat.
His tie was loose.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he seemed unsure of where to put his hands.
I looked at him.
“Did you see her?”
He nodded.
“She has your nose.”
I tried to laugh.
It came out as a painful breath.
“And your stubbornness.”
“You cannot know that yet.”
“She grabbed the doctor’s finger.”
The image settled inside me.
A hand small enough to close around one finger.
Alive.
Fighting.
My father sat beside the bed.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
We had allowed too many silences to grow between us over the years.
After my mother died, he buried himself in work.
I buried myself in independence.
When I met David, I did not introduce him to my father.
I told myself I wanted someone to love me without the Harrison name.
Later, when I saw signs of David’s contempt, I kept the truth hidden for a different reason.
Shame.
I did not want my father to know I had chosen a man who treated me as though I were nothing.
“I thought you would say you warned me,” I said.
My father looked toward the window.
“I warned you about reporters.”
“I warned you about people who might use the family name.”
“I never warned you that you might feel unable to come home.”
He looked back at me.
“That failure belongs to me.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“It belongs to both of us.”
The door opened again.
Ruiz entered with a female detective.
She introduced herself as Detective Mara Ellis with the state police domestic violence unit.
“I know this is not a good time.”
“There will not be a good time,” I said.
She nodded.
“That’s usually true.”
My father stood.
“I will leave.”
Detective Ellis looked surprised.
“You may remain if Anna requests it.”
“I don’t.”
The words came out before I could soften them.
My father did not react.
He simply nodded and walked out.
I needed to speak without watching him absorb every detail.
Detective Ellis sat down.
She turned on a recorder after receiving my permission.
I told her about Christmas morning.
The cooking.
The standing.
The chair.
The shove.
The phone.
David’s refusal to call an ambulance.
I told her about other moments too.
The joint account he emptied without warning.
The passwords he changed.
The time he locked me outside after an argument and later told me I had imagined it.
The documents he asked me to sign without allowing me to read them.
Detective Ellis took notes.
“Has he ever struck you?”
“No.”
“Has he threatened you?”
“Not directly.”
“Has he prevented you from receiving medical care before tonight?”
I remembered an appointment three weeks earlier.
I had felt dizzy and asked David to drive me.
He told me the car was being serviced.
Later, I learned he had taken it to lunch.
“Yes.”
I explained.
Detective Ellis’s expression remained professional.
But her pen stopped for a moment.
“Do you have somewhere safe to stay when you are discharged?”
“My father’s residence.”
“Are you comfortable there?”
I looked toward the hallway.
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
“That answer is allowed.”
A nurse entered.
“There is someone asking to see Anna.”
My entire body tightened.
“David?”
The nurse shook her head.
“A lawyer.”
Detective Ellis frowned.
“Whose lawyer?”
“He says he represents Mr. Cole.”
The man entered before anyone gave permission.
He was tall, gray-haired, and dressed in an expensive navy suit.
I recognized him from David’s firm.
Charles Mercer.
Founding partner.
David’s mentor.
He carried a leather folder.
“Anna, I’m relieved you survived.”
Detective Ellis stood.
“This is a restricted patient room.”
Mercer smiled politely.
“I only need a moment.”
“You need to leave.”
He ignored her.
He placed the folder on the table beside my bed.
“David is deeply concerned.”
“David left me on a kitchen floor.”
“He panicked.”
“He broke my phone.”
“People behave irrationally under stress.”
Detective Ellis moved toward him.
“Mr. Mercer.”
He raised one hand.
“I’m leaving.”
Then he looked at me.
“There is one matter you should be aware of.”
He opened the folder.
Inside was a court filing.
My name appeared across the first page.
ANNA HARRISON COLE.
PETITION FOR EMERGENCY GUARDIANSHIP.
I stared at the words.
Mercer lowered his voice.
“David filed this electronically twenty minutes ago.”
“He claims you are experiencing a psychiatric crisis.”
My hands went cold.
“He is requesting temporary control over your medical decisions.”
May you like
Mercer closed the folder.
“And over the child in the neonatal intensive care unit.”
