My Husband Burned Our Baby Into His Roses

The call came while I was sitting in traffic on the Long Island Expressway, hands at ten and two, trying not to think about the cramping that had started that morning. Not bad. Just there. A whisper in my lower abdomen that the pregnancy app on my phone said was normal at nine weeks.

Isaac's name flashed on the screen. I almost didn't answer.

"Sofia." His voice was tight. Not angry—something worse. Afraid. "Where are you."

"Driving back from the city. Why?"

"Hailey's in the hospital. There was an accident on your film set. A lighting fixture fell. She's bleeding internally. They need a transfusion and her blood type—" He stopped. I heard him breathe. "It's rare. AB negative. You're AB negative."

I gripped the wheel. "Isaac, I can't—"

"She could die, Sofia."

"Find another donor. Call the blood bank. I can't do this right now."

"There's no time." His voice cracked. I'd never heard it crack before. "Please. I'm begging you. Just come to Mount Sinai. That's all I'm asking."

I closed my eyes. Opened them. The highway stretched ahead, grey and endless.

"Isaac, listen to me. I need to tell you something—"

"I don't have time for this!" He was shouting now. "A woman is dying and you're making excuses. Jesus Christ, Sofia, when did you become this selfish?"

The line went dead.

I sat there with the phone against my ear, listening to silence. Cars moved around me. Horns blared. Someone screamed something I didn't hear.

I put on my turn signal. I took the next exit. I drove toward the city.

I told myself I'd explain when I got there. I'd pull him aside. I'd make him listen. I pressed my hand against my stomach and whispered, "It's okay. We're okay. I'll make him understand."

I didn't know I was lying.

Mount Sinai's ER entrance was chaos. Ambulances. Gurneys. People in scrubs moving fast. I parked crooked and ran inside, and Isaac was there in the waiting room, pacing, his bad hand flexing open and closed.

He saw me and his whole body sagged.

"Thank God," he said. "Come on."

He grabbed my arm. I pulled back.

"Isaac, wait. I need to tell you—"

"Later." He was already moving, dragging me toward the double doors. "They're prepping her now. We don't have time."

"I'm pregnant!"

He stopped. Turned. Looked at me like I'd spoken a language he didn't know.

"What?"

"I'm nine weeks pregnant. I can't give blood. It's not safe. Please, Isaac, we can find another donor, we can call—"

"You're lying." His voice was flat. Dead. "You're making this up to get out of helping her."

I stared at him. "Why would I lie about this?"

"Because you hate her." He stepped closer. His eyes were wild. "You've hated her since the office. You want her gone and now you're using some—some fantasy pregnancy to—"

"It's not a fantasy!" My voice broke. "Isaac, please, I'm begging you, just listen—"

A doctor appeared in the doorway, young, exhausted, holding a clipboard. "Mr. Payne? We need the donor now. Her pressure's dropping."

Isaac looked at me. Then at the doctor. Then back at me.

"She'll do it," he said.

"No." I backed away. "No, I won't. I can't. You're not listening—"

Isaac grabbed my wrist. Not hard. But firm. Final. "You're doing this, Sofia. I don't care what story you've invented. You're doing this."

He pulled me through the doors.

I fought him. I actually fought him, pulling against his grip, saying his name over and over, my voice climbing higher until it didn't sound like my voice anymore. Two nurses appeared. Someone said something about restraints. I felt hands on my shoulders, my arms, guiding me down onto a gurney.

"Isaac, please!" I was sobbing now, twisting against the hands holding me. "Please, I'm pregnant, you don't understand, please stop—"

"Hold her still," the doctor said, not unkind. Just tired. "This'll be quick."

I felt the tourniquet tighten around my upper arm. Felt the cold alcohol swab. Felt the needle slide in, a bright sharp sting that bloomed into pressure.

Isaac stood in the corner, watching. His face was grey. His bad hand hung at his side.

I stopped fighting.

The room went quiet except for the soft mechanical hum of the blood pump. I watched my blood move through the tube, dark red, traveling away from me toward someone else. Toward her.

The cramping started before they'd even removed the needle.

Low at first. Then deeper. Then something inside me twisted, sharp and wrong, and I gasped.

The nurse looked up. "You okay, honey?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Isaac's phone rang. He answered it without looking at me. Listened. His face changed. "She's stable? Thank God. I'll be right there."

He hung up. Looked at the doctor. "Can I go see her?"

"Give us ten minutes to move her to recovery."

Isaac nodded. He walked toward the door. He didn't look at me.

"Isaac," I whispered.

He stopped. Didn't turn around.

"Thank you," he said quietly. And left.

The nurse removed the needle. Pressed gauze to my arm. Taped it down. "You did great. Just rest here for a bit, okay?"

She walked out.

I lay there alone on the gurney, staring at the fluorescent lights, feeling the cramping spread through my pelvis like something breaking open from the inside.

I pressed my hand to my stomach.

I pressed my thumb to my wrist.

I waited.