“Yes, the baby’s fine, but we need to put you on bed rest to make sure everything stays fine.”
“Bed rest?” I croak. “I . . . like full-on stuck in the bed? For how long?”
“As long as it takes, Iris,” Caleb interjects sternly. “We’ll follow instructions to the letter.”
We don’t have to lie in bed for God knows how long. I do. Of course, I’ll do whatever the doctor recommends, but Caleb has no right to be cavalier about my life, my time, my body.
I bite my tongue because this isn’t the time to assert myself. I need to understand what is required and set Caleb straight later.
“For how long?” I ask again.
“We’ll start with full home bed rest,” Dr. Rimmel says. “And assess in a few weeks.”
The word home hits me hard. I have to be out of my on-campus apartment. The university has extended as much grace as possible, and I’ve got a few prospects, but nothing in stone.
Full home bed rest?
I don’t have a home, much less a bed to rest in.
“I’ll take care of her and the baby.” Caleb glances at me. “We’ll get your things moved into my place right away.”
A sense of helplessness washes over me. I clench the hospital gown in my fists. I hate feeling out of control in my own life, like an actor on someone else’s stage, my every move directed.
“It’s not just bed rest, but pelvic rest, too.” She gives Caleb a stern look. “That means low activity and no sex.”
Caleb’s face falls, but for me it’s a little bit of a silver lining. I haven’t wanted to have sex for weeks. I chalked it up to hormones, but maybe it’s Caleb’s high-handedness that’s been turning me off. At least this baby and this damn bed rest give me a good excuse to abstain.
I hate to think this way, but when I glance at my phone and remember Jared’s voicemail about Chicago, no sex feels like the only good thing coming out of this. MiMi’s talisman ring winks at me from my lap. I don’t know if it’s working or not. For now, the baby is protected, but my plans for the future are in definite jeopardy.
8
August
Make the best of a bad situation.
That’s not completely fair or accurate. I’m living in San Diego, a city with near-perfect weather year-round. I signed a thirty-million-dollar NBA contract. You’ll find countless dead hoop dreams in every high school gym and on any neighborhood playground. I’m one lucky son of a bitch.
I get it.