Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,338

study my daughter with unflinching love, I know Angela Gray is the tree where I began.

The nurse patiently takes more pictures with everyone while they hold Zoe and some with Grip and me.

“We’ll put these in Zoe’s memory box,” she says when the room is empty of everyone except Ms. James, Rhyson, and Kai.

“Thank you.” An ache fists my heart in an ironclad grasp as I take Zoe from Ms. James. A sharp, deeply drawn breath lifts Zoe’s chest, and everyone in the room goes completely still.

“Is she okay?” I ask the nurse, fear icicling my blood. “What was that?”

“It’s what we call an agonal gasp.” She steps closer, pressing a stethoscope to Zoe’s tiny chest. “It’s not out of the ordinary.”

Agonal? How can it be considered ordinary for an infant to be in agony?

“Can I listen?” I ask, eyeing the stethoscope.

She hesitates before nodding and passing the instrument to me. I put one earpiece in my ear and Grip grabs the other, with the chest piece resting on Zoe’s tiny torso. We listen to her heart in stereo, our eyes meeting in shared awe that we made her together, in shared fear that, any minute now, she’ll be taken as quickly as she came. We fear that this little mallet in her chest pounding a steady rhythm is the only thing standing between our happiness and complete destruction.

The defiant little thump thump thump of Zoe’s heartbeat caresses my ears. It’s the sound of her life persisting, surprisingly strong, but I know how fragile she is. It’s written on the nurse’s face in lines of sympathy.

“You said . . .” My courage falters, but I gather it between my lips again and force myself to ask the question plaguing me. “You called it an agonal gasp. Is she in . . . well, is she in pain?”

As if we’re one, I feel Grip holding his breath just like me as I wait for her response. If Zoe’s in pain, I did this. If she’s in pain, was I selfish to want her? To want to meet her? To hold her?

“Research tells us that an anencephalic infant feels no pain because the part of the brain that communicates pain isn’t developed,” the nurse replies, stowing the camera on a side table and turning to face us. “Doctors will tell you they are just reflexive, vegetative, and feel nothing at all.”

She leans forward, looking around like she’s about to share a secret. “But I don’t believe that,” she whispers.

“You don’t?” Grip’s question is covered in the same dread that lines my insides as we wait. “You think they feel?”

“I know they do.” She smiles even as tears fill her eyes. “They feel your love.”

Grip looks down at me, a slow smile flowing from his eyes to his lips, and nods to her.

“Thank you,” he says.

“If everyone has seen her,” the nurse continues, her tone pivoting back to kind professionalism. “I need to ask if you want . . .”

Her words stall, but then she takes a deep breath and goes on. “Do you have a family priest or minister? Your birth plan didn’t reference one, but I thought I’d ask.” Her face is gentle but deliberately blank. “Do you want last rites?”

Oh, God. I can’t do this.

The realization pounds from inside my head, slamming against my temples, pushing against my chest, banging at my lips from the dry interior of my mouth. The words want out. They want all these people who think I’m capable of letting my baby go to know it’s a lie.

I cannot.

Who the hell did I think I was? Why did I assume I was strong enough for this? I’m contemplating how exactly to let them know I can’t do this, that we need to find a way to stop this spiral. I need off this ride, out of this nightmare. I need to wake up in a cold sweat beside my husband in our bed, pregnant. This bad dream can’t be my life because I won’t survive it.

“Um, we don’t really have a minister, per se,” Grip responds to the nurse. He glances at me, and even though his voice remains even, the same panic rises in his eyes, unvoiced. “We . . . I guess we could . . .”

“I’m sure there’s a hospital chaplain,” Kai speaks up, reminding me we’re not alone. She, Rhyson, and Ms. James watch us carefully, like we might blow at any minute.

“I could call Pastor Robinson,” Ms. James volunteers. “He