Chapter 6
The ER doctor pulled the curtain halfway and didn't look at the hallway when she said it. She looked at me.
"We'd like to keep you overnight for observation," she said. "Vitals are stable but we want to monitor. We'll move you upstairs. Do you want anyone with you when we go over the plan?"
My husband was just outside the curtain. I could see the toe of his shoe past the edge, dark against the white tile. He hadn't moved since they'd asked him to step out. He was waiting to be let back in.
I kept the thin blanket pulled up to my chest. The fluorescent lights hummed loud in the room and the heart monitor beeped every few seconds. My mouth was dry.
"Not him," I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to. "Not yet."
The doctor nodded like she'd heard that before. She didn't ask me to explain.
"Do you want a support person at all? We have a social worker on tonight. She can sit with you for admitting."
"Yes," I said. "Please."
She stepped out and spoke low with someone in the hall. I heard him answer immediately, that low, restrained voice I'd heard on the wet pavement.
"Is she okay? Can I come back in?"
The doctor's reply was even and clear. "She's asked for a few minutes with staff only. I'll come get you when she's settled upstairs."
There was a pause. I watched his shoe shift.
"Paula," he said through the curtain, not loud. "Paula, it's me."
He said my name like he was testing if it still worked. Like saying it would unlock the curtain.
The social worker came in a minute later, a woman in her fifties with short gray hair and a blue badge that said LINDA. She pulled the plastic chair close to the bed and sat so we were at eye level. She smelled faintly like coffee and hand sanitizer.
"Hi, Paula," she said. "I'm Linda. Whatever you decide about who knows what, that's your call. I'm just here for you."
I nodded and my eyes stung. I tried to breathe the way they'd told me to.
The doctor came back with a clipboard and started talking quietly. Lab work, fluid, monitoring. She said the word pregnancy once, deliberately soft, and watched my face. She said observation, not discharge. She asked if I understood.
"I understand," I whispered.
"Do you want me to tell your husband any of this?" she asked. "We won't share details without your permission."
I looked at the curtain. I could see his shadow now, pacing two steps and stopping.
He had carried me through those glass doors an hour ago and kept saying hold on to me. Then in the hallway he'd whispered, "Just get me inside, Paula," like getting inside would fix it. Like inside meant he was still inside my decisions.
Now I needed that line to mean something else.
"Just get me inside, Paula," I said, louder this time, looking at the curtain so he would hear. "That's what you said out there. So this is what inside means now. I decide who gets inside the room. I decide who gets inside this."
Silence on the other side. Then a small sound, his breath catching.
Linda glanced at the curtain but didn't move.
"Paula," he said again, and his voice cracked on the second syllable. "I heard you."
He didn't push the curtain. He didn't argue. But I heard his hand touch the curtain edge and then drop.
The doctor made a note and handed me a pen. "We need consent for admission to observation. And we need to know who to list as emergency contact for updates."
"List my sister," I said. My hand shook when I signed. "Not him for medical information. He can know I'm admitted. Not the details."
Linda put her hand lightly on the bed rail, not on me. "That's clear. We'll document that."
An aide came in with a wheelchair and a bag for my things. My trench coat was folded on the chair, my heels tucked under it. I hadn't realized they'd taken them off.
The doctor pulled the curtain back fully to let us out, and there he was, standing against the wall under the bright hallway lights. His dark coat was still damp at the shoulders. His hair was messy from the rain. He looked at me, then at Linda, then back at me, and his face did something complicated when he realized I wasn't alone and he wasn't being invited.
"We're going up to observation," Linda said to him, kind but firm. "Paula's being admitted overnight. You can meet us up there in the family area once she's settled. The nurse will come update you on the floor."
He stepped forward half a step. "Paula, do you want me to move the car? It's still at the curb."
"I want you to wait upstairs," I said. I kept my hands tight on the blanket. "Linda will stay with me."
He stared at my hands, then at my face. He nodded once, restrained, his jaw tight. He'd heard the boundary. I could see it land.
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"Okay," he said. "Okay, Paula. I'll wait."
They wheeled me out and he stayed where he was, watching us go. The hallway stretched bright and white toward the elevators, and for the first time that night I wasn't being carried.
