Twenty-Four
December
Porter
I held Asher’s hand tightly as we made our way out of the terminal. General Mitchell was bustling with the holiday crowd.
I pulled her to a stop near chairs, and said, “I want to flag down one of those trolley guys.”
Asher frowned at me. “I’m fine.”
“Asher, you’re green.”
The anti-nausea meds were hit or miss.
Some days they worked, others they didn’t.
Today, they didn’t.
Her OB just called it bad morning sickness, and said she was okay with Asher’s progress. We almost cancelled our flight home, but her OB said that Asher would be fine.
In the last month, she gained back five pounds.
Five fucking pounds, and her doctor was okay with it.
Well, I wasn’t.
Just last night, I tried talking Asher into trying to find a new doctor, but Asher, the stubborn woman, said she trusted her doctor.
“Porter, baggage claim isn’t that far away. This isn’t San Diego.”
Fuck, I should have pushed to have Christmas in San Diego. Then I could get her to sit down.
I could tell she was reading my thoughts, because she laughed and squeezed my hand. “Let’s go, daddy.”
My heart stumbled at the word and I couldn’t help but pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless. Asher laughed lightly and pulled back. “PDA much?”
“It was the first time that title had been used for me. It got me excited.”
“Not too excited, I hope,” she murmured against my lips before kissing me once more. With her pressed so close, I could feel her tiny bump. Because she was still battling with nausea, we decided that it might be better to hold off telling the family for a few more weeks. Because she’d lost so much weight on her frame, Asher’s bump could go unnoticeable under the right clothes.
So, as long as Avery didn’t spill the beans—and recalling my conversation with her, she was probably as excited about these babies as we were—we would be okay keeping it to ourselves a little longer. I had battled with telling Asher about the post, and about the fact that Ace knew we were expecting, but in the end, I decided it was better for her stress level to not know it was out there.
I wasn’t entirely sure that was the correct answer, but I swore to shield her from anything negative.
Slowly, we made our way to the escalators and down to baggage claim. We only had to wait for one bag, having decided to make it easier by only dragging one suitcase with us. We were only home for three days and besides, Asher didn’t need to be lugging around roller bags.
My PT had kicked up a few weeks ago, and my knee was nearly one hundred percent—if you asked me. If you asked my therapist, he’d tell you I was at about eighty-percent. But soon, I’d be back on the ice.
Whatever. I was just glad to not have to use the damn crutch anymore. It allowed me to pull the large suitcase and still keep a hand on Asher.
We found the carousel that was attached to our flight and I moved Asher to a bench.
She didn’t even fight it, she just sat down when we got there.
“How you holding up?” I turned my head to watch her.
She gave me a smile, much smaller than the one she gave me not even five minutes ago. “Okay.”
I studied her face. “You sure?”
“I’m fine, Porter.”
I nodded and took her hand, slouching in the bench beside her and putting our clasped hands on my lower stomach.
One minute turned to two, but just as the baggage claim began to circle, Asher squeezed my hand. “Porter, I don’t feel very good.”
***
Thank God for rapid lines with the rental car company.
I left Asher at the bench, even though I was scared to leave her alone, and ran across the traffic to the rental car building. Once I was in our rental, I pulled it around to the pick-up and, leaving the car running even though General Mitchell frowned upon standing cars, went in to get Ash.
She moved slowly, but we got her into the car before I went back in, walking the length of the baggage claim, until I spotted our bag. When I got back outside, a police officer was speaking to Asher through her door.
“Sorry,” I told him, pulling his attention from Asher. He didn’t need the story, and as long as I wasn’t being ticketed, I wasn’t going to offer it.
Soon, we were on the road. I reached over to grab her hand. “How are you?”
“Okay.” Her voice held the slightest of tremors.
“Asher.”
“My heart’s racing.”
I maneuvered the car to the freeway, knowing that the drive to Beloit was nearly an hour. “Do we need to go to a hospital before Beloit?” I asked, terrified of her answer.
“Porter, I’ll be fine.”
“Asher.”
“I think I’ll be fine.”
I didn’t let go of her hand as we drove, and we were only halfway when her hand got clammy in mine.
“Fuck it. We’re stopping,” I said, knowing of a hospital coming up.
When Asher saw the bright red letters attached to the building, she rolled her head on the seat rest toward me. “Really, Porter? The Emergency Department?”
“I’d rather be safe than sorry, beautiful.” I parked as close as I could to the entrance before helping her out of the car, walking with her carefully over the semi-slick parking lot. Did they salt here? My goodness, there wasn’t that much snow on the ground, but there was enough for them to be on top of the parking lot.
We got her registered and started the waiting game.
“You should text your mom, tell her we’ll be late,” Asher said.
I agreed, punching out a quick text before glancing over to see Asher’s gaze straight ahead and both her hands over her stomach. I twisted in my seat and placed a hand on top of hers, my other around her neck. “I’m sure everything’s fine.”
It had to be.
Because what the fuck else could be dropped on us?
Asher
Two hours later, we were back on the road to the family house. I read over the paper in my lap, while Porter held my left hand.
Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Also known as “not just morning sickness.”
The good news was, the vomiting should let up in a few more weeks.
If I was lucky.
The bad news was, I was dehydrated and after IV fluids, Porter and I were told what to look out for. That, if it kept up, I may need hospitalization.
Wonderful words to be told when your baby daddy was already a mother hen, I thought sarcastically.
I was given different anti-nausea medication and strict orders to stay hydrated, which was difficult to do when the thought of anything had my stomach rolling. Hopefully the new meds helped.
I looked over the list telling me what foods I would most likely tolerate, knowing that keeping this pregnancy on the downlow this holiday was going to be difficult.
Gelatin. Broth. Popsicles.
You know, all things that were normally on the Christmas dinner table.
My eyes started to burn with tears of frustration.
Porter squeezed my hand, glancing in my direction. “What’s wrong?”
I shrugged and looked out the window. I was going to fail being pregnant too.
It wasn’t like I ever thought about being pregnant, but I was now, so I had no choice but to think about it.
“You’re gonna be fine, Asher. We’re going to get through this.”
I stayed quiet, the tears still fighting to be let out.
“You’re finding a new doctor, though.”
Of course I am.
Porter must have sensed my need for silence, because after lifting my hand to his lips to press a soft, lingering kiss there, he drove the rest of the way without saying a word.
When we got to the house, he helped me up the walk. “I’ll bring the suitcase in in a minute.” We were staying in his childhood bedroom, because it didn’t make sense to be in the guesthouse when we were only going to be there a couple of days.
We walked in through the garage, and the sound of festivities going on had my mood lightening, but no sooner than we stepped over the threshold, my nose was assaulted with the smells of dinner.
I tugged on Porter’s arm and shook my head, my mouth sealed.
He whispered a four-letter word before hustling me through the kitchen and past everyone in the living room, and to the guest half-bath.
“We’ll be right back,” he told them, and I was afraid of what they would think.
We got into the bathroom just in time. I fell to the ground in front of the toilet just as Porter clicked the door shut behind us, and I puked up the graham crackers the nursing staff had me eat before we left.
Holding my head in my hands, I mumbled into the toilet, “At least it stayed down for a little while.”
I took a deep breath and pushed away from the toilet. Porter stood against the door, his fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose as his eyes stayed closed.
“You’re going to end up in the hospital.”
There wasn’t any point in arguing the statement, so I didn’t, instead moving to splash water on my face after flushing the toilet.
“Hopefully it’s almost done,” I said, trying really hard to be optimistic for him, even though I wasn’t actually there myself.
He pulled me into a hug then and we stood there, in the quiet confines of the bathroom, before heading out to face the masses.