Below is an excerpt from Visage, the second book in the BryonySeries trilogy.
Afraid for Debbie’s and the baby’s safety, Melissa risked John’s wrath and threw down her best card: “Was Bryony this swollen?”
John slowly looked up and regarded her with cold and distant eyes. Melissa steeled herself against his silent ire and repeated, “Was Bryony....?”
“Melissa.” John didn’t sound angry, only drained. “That happened a long time ago.”
“So you don’t remember?”
“Maybe she was, a little. Certainly nothing resembling your description. Perhaps Debbie should call Dr. Lofield.”
“She says he already knows.”
“Quite possibly, you’re overreacting.”
“What if I’m not?”
John stared evenly at her. “Do you want a second opinion from Dr. Rothgard?”
“No!”
Because of approaching inclement weather, John again allowed two days for the trip to Bradford Heights, and again John rose in the pre-dawn hours on Christmas Eve to complete the journey by early afternoon. As they left the motel room, the telephone rang. John set down the suitcases and hurried to answer it.
With real alarm in his voice, John said, “Thank you, Mom. I’ll keep you and Dad posted.” John hung up the phone, began dialing, and said, “Derek called my parents’ house. Debbie had a seizure.”
Melissa’s legs shook, and she weakly sank onto the bed.
“Labor and delivery,” John told the operator at Jenson Memorial Hospital.
Many years ago, a baby destined for greatness survived birth in a stable on this very night. Surely, that same God could protect her child. Please, please, please, Melissa silently begged, make Debbie and this baby be okay.
John hung up the phone and turned to her.
“The baby’s fine.” John said, “but Debbie is not. Derek said they’re inducing labor as soon as they’ve stabilized her.”
“John.…”
“I want to go home. Do you mind?”
She sighed deeply, relieved John put their baby ahead of his own plans. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“It’s not much of a Christmas for you.”
“A healthy baby is the only present I want.”
The overcast sky swelled with cold, damp air. Its first snowflakes fell as John merged onto the highway, and they continued falling fast and steady all through the congested morning traffic, slowing holiday travelers to a maddening crawl. Radio snow advisories, crackling with static, warned against travel. John didn’t speak for most of the trip, but the troubled look on his face produced volumes.
They reached Jenson at two o’clock in the morning. John left the car at the emergency room’s front doors and rushed inside with Melissa at his heels.
A security guard stopped her. “You can’t leave that car here.”
“But....”
“No ‘buts.’ Move it now, or I’ll call the police.”
John had vanished without her. Fuming at the guard’s insensitivity and John’s impatience, Melissa circled the parking lot seeking an empty space. Afterwards, she slipped and slid through the treacherous lot back to the emergency room. An anxious John met her at the front door.
“Debbie had a stroke. She’s in surgery.”
“Oh, no! What about the baby? Isn’t it too little?”
“I don’t know.”
He took her hand and led her down the hall. Melissa obediently trotted beside him to the elevators. Inside, John pushed “five.” As they moved upward, John said, “Dr. Lofield isn’t performing the surgery. He’s sick with the flu. They called Dr. Rothgard.”
The elevator doors opened, and Melissa stepped out after John. Amazing, Melissa thought. Even fate bowed to John’s wishes.
“You’re sure he’s the best?” Melissa asked doubtfully.
But John was talking to a nurse, who escorted them to a waiting area. Melissa tried losing herself in an old magazine, failed, and tried again. John paced, made frequent bathroom trips, and annoyed the nurses with constant requests for updates on the baby.
Once, he banged his fist on the wall and then covered that weakness by saying, “I need coffee. Melissa?”
She shook her head, settled back into the seat cushions, and prayed Dr. Rothgard’s sterling reputation proved itself in the operating room. She doubted John could handle both infertility and a second dead baby. Melissa’s body jerked, and she rubbed her fuzzy eyes to read the wall clock. Four o’clock. She had slept over an hour. Her gaze swept over the room. No John.
Melissa stood, stretched, and drifted to the water cooler. She brought the cup with her to the window. There she stood and noted the empty, white street. Nothing existed except cruel, tortuous wait. She crushed the waxed paper between her fingers, glad for something to destroy. A car horn beeped.
She sighed, turned away, and tossed the cup into the garbage can.
Afraid for Debbie’s and the baby’s safety, Melissa risked John’s wrath and threw down her best card: “Was Bryony this swollen?”
John slowly looked up and regarded her with cold and distant eyes. Melissa steeled herself against his silent ire and repeated, “Was Bryony....?”
“Melissa.” John didn’t sound angry, only drained. “That happened a long time ago.”
“So you don’t remember?”
“Maybe she was, a little. Certainly nothing resembling your description. Perhaps Debbie should call Dr. Lofield.”
“She says he already knows.”
“Quite possibly, you’re overreacting.”
“What if I’m not?”
John stared evenly at her. “Do you want a second opinion from Dr. Rothgard?”
“No!”
Because of approaching inclement weather, John again allowed two days for the trip to Bradford Heights, and again John rose in the pre-dawn hours on Christmas Eve to complete the journey by early afternoon. As they left the motel room, the telephone rang. John set down the suitcases and hurried to answer it.
With real alarm in his voice, John said, “Thank you, Mom. I’ll keep you and Dad posted.” John hung up the phone, began dialing, and said, “Derek called my parents’ house. Debbie had a seizure.”
Melissa’s legs shook, and she weakly sank onto the bed.
“Labor and delivery,” John told the operator at Jenson Memorial Hospital.
Many years ago, a baby destined for greatness survived birth in a stable on this very night. Surely, that same God could protect her child. Please, please, please, Melissa silently begged, make Debbie and this baby be okay.
John hung up the phone and turned to her.
“The baby’s fine.” John said, “but Debbie is not. Derek said they’re inducing labor as soon as they’ve stabilized her.”
“John.…”
“I want to go home. Do you mind?”
She sighed deeply, relieved John put their baby ahead of his own plans. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“It’s not much of a Christmas for you.”
“A healthy baby is the only present I want.”
The overcast sky swelled with cold, damp air. Its first snowflakes fell as John merged onto the highway, and they continued falling fast and steady all through the congested morning traffic, slowing holiday travelers to a maddening crawl. Radio snow advisories, crackling with static, warned against travel. John didn’t speak for most of the trip, but the troubled look on his face produced volumes.
They reached Jenson at two o’clock in the morning. John left the car at the emergency room’s front doors and rushed inside with Melissa at his heels.
A security guard stopped her. “You can’t leave that car here.”
“But....”
“No ‘buts.’ Move it now, or I’ll call the police.”
John had vanished without her. Fuming at the guard’s insensitivity and John’s impatience, Melissa circled the parking lot seeking an empty space. Afterwards, she slipped and slid through the treacherous lot back to the emergency room. An anxious John met her at the front door.
“Debbie had a stroke. She’s in surgery.”
“Oh, no! What about the baby? Isn’t it too little?”
“I don’t know.”
He took her hand and led her down the hall. Melissa obediently trotted beside him to the elevators. Inside, John pushed “five.” As they moved upward, John said, “Dr. Lofield isn’t performing the surgery. He’s sick with the flu. They called Dr. Rothgard.”
The elevator doors opened, and Melissa stepped out after John. Amazing, Melissa thought. Even fate bowed to John’s wishes.
“You’re sure he’s the best?” Melissa asked doubtfully.
But John was talking to a nurse, who escorted them to a waiting area. Melissa tried losing herself in an old magazine, failed, and tried again. John paced, made frequent bathroom trips, and annoyed the nurses with constant requests for updates on the baby.
Once, he banged his fist on the wall and then covered that weakness by saying, “I need coffee. Melissa?”
She shook her head, settled back into the seat cushions, and prayed Dr. Rothgard’s sterling reputation proved itself in the operating room. She doubted John could handle both infertility and a second dead baby. Melissa’s body jerked, and she rubbed her fuzzy eyes to read the wall clock. Four o’clock. She had slept over an hour. Her gaze swept over the room. No John.
Melissa stood, stretched, and drifted to the water cooler. She brought the cup with her to the window. There she stood and noted the empty, white street. Nothing existed except cruel, tortuous wait. She crushed the waxed paper between her fingers, glad for something to destroy. A car horn beeped.
She sighed, turned away, and tossed the cup into the garbage can.
Christmas in July tree by Rebekah Baran
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