Chapter 3 - THE HEARTBEAT THAT ALMOST DISAPPEARED
“Please find his heartbeat.”
I repeated those words all the way to Saint Agnes Medical Center.
The paramedic beside me kept checking my blood pressure.
Each time she glanced at the monitor, her expression tightened.
“Hannah, stay with me.”
“I'm trying.”
“Keep talking to me.”
I stared at the ceiling of the ambulance.
“My son's name is Benjamin,” I whispered. “Ben. I haven't even finished his nursery.”
The paramedic brushed a loose strand of hair from my forehead.
“Then you've got something important waiting for you.”
When the ambulance doors opened, everything moved quickly.
Bright lights.
Rolling wheels.
Familiar hospital corridors.
I had worked at Saint Agnes for eight years.
I knew the nurses.
I knew the emergency physicians.
But I had never imagined arriving there covered in my own blood.
Dr. Amanda Reeves, an obstetrician I'd worked with many times, met us in the trauma bay.
“Hannah?”
Her eyes widened.
“Get fetal monitoring started. Now.”
Two nurses carefully moved me onto an examination bed.
Cold gel touched my stomach.
The monitor crackled.
I held my breath.
Nothing.
“Please,” I whispered.
Dr. Reeves adjusted the sensor.
Then we heard it.
A heartbeat.
Faint.
Rapid.
Beautiful.
I began sobbing.
“He's alive?”
“Yes,” she answered. “But Hannah, his heart rate is dangerously low, and you're bleeding heavily.”
Her expression remained serious.
“We believe the impact may have caused a placental abruption. That means the placenta is separating from the uterus.”
I knew what those words meant.
I was a hospital nurse.
I'd cared for women who had nearly died from the same complication.
“Do whatever you have to do,” I said.
Dr. Reeves took my hand.
“We're preparing for an emergency cesarean delivery.”
The room blurred.
“Thirty weeks,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“Is he too little?”
“He's premature. Our neonatal team is ready to care for him.”
Before they wheeled me toward surgery, a police officer approached with a hospital social worker.
“Mrs. Voss, we need to document something important. Are you able to tell us who caused your injuries?”
I looked directly at her.
“My husband, Carter Voss, slapped me. His mother, Eleanor Voss, pushed me backward into the granite countertop.”
The officer wrote everything down.
“I need you to know,” I added, “that I did not fall.”
“We understand.”
For the first time in two years, I felt somebody believed me without demanding an explanation.
Then the doors opened.
My father stood in the corridor.
He wore his ordinary brown farm jacket.
There was dirt beneath one fingernail.
He must have come directly from the orchard.
When he saw my face, his expression changed.
Not with anger.
With grief.
“Oh, Hannah.”
He took my hand carefully.
“Daddy, I'm sorry.”
His eyebrows drew together.
“For what?”
“For not telling you.”
He bent and kissed my forehead.
“You don't owe me an apology for someone else's cruelty.”
I began crying harder.
“What if Ben dies?”
My father's voice trembled.
“Then we'll face that together. But right now, we're going to give those doctors every chance to help him.”
A nurse gently touched his shoulder.
“We have to go.”
He released my hand.
And they wheeled me away.
The last thing I saw before the operating room doors closed was my father standing perfectly still, holding his old silver pocket watch.
It had belonged to my grandfather.
Dad carried it everywhere.
He used to tell me that time was precious because we never knew how much of it we had.
When I woke, my throat was dry.
My abdomen hurt.
And my stomach was suddenly, frighteningly flat.
“Ben?”
My voice cracked.
“Where's my baby?”
A nurse hurried over.
“Hannah, your son is alive.”
I covered my mouth.
“He weighed two pounds, thirteen ounces. He's in the neonatal intensive care unit.”
“Can I see him?”
“As soon as you're stable enough.”
I started crying.
The nurse smiled gently.
“He's small, but he's fighting.”
Then my father entered.
He pulled a chair beside my bed and held my hand.
“Your boy has your stubbornness.”
I managed a weak smile.
But his expression soon grew serious.
“Hannah, there's something you need to know.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Hospital security contacted the police while you were in surgery.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Dad hesitated.
“Someone entered a restricted neonatal equipment storage area using your employee badge.”
I stared at him.
“My badge?”
He nodded.
“The system shows it was scanned at 11:17 tonight.”
My blood went cold.
My badge had been inside my purse when Carter smashed my phone.
And Carter had taken that purse before the paramedics arrived.
“Daddy,” I whispered.
He leaned closer.
“My husband didn't just try to stop me from calling for help.”
May you like
I swallowed.
“He took my hospital badge.”
