Chapter 2 - The General Who Answered the Phone
I never imagined I would have to beg my own husband to save me.
Until that Friday night, I had spent eight years convincing myself that Preston Mercer was simply complicated.
Busy.
Proud.
Too attached to his mother.
Those were the words I used because they sounded less frightening than the truth.
The truth was that my husband had slowly trained me to believe that needing him was a character flaw.
At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, standing barefoot in our kitchen with one hand wrapped around a glass of water, I was still trying to make excuses for him.
Then the first contraction hit.
It wasn’t the gentle tightening my doctor had described during our prenatal appointments. It was a deep, violent pressure that stole the air from my lungs and sent the glass slipping from my fingers.
It shattered across the tile.
“Preston…”
He was standing near the breakfast counter fastening the silver cuff links I had given him three Christmases earlier.
He looked immaculate.
Charcoal suit.
White shirt.
Perfect tie.
Polished black shoes.
He was checking his phone, probably reading one of the dozens of messages from his mother about her sixty-fifth birthday dinner.
“Something’s wrong,” I whispered.
His eyes lifted.
For half a second, I expected the man I had married to appear.
I expected panic.
Concern.
Anything.
Instead, he looked annoyed.
“Seriously?”
Another contraction tightened around my abdomen.
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“I think we need to go.”
“To the hospital?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at his watch.
That tiny movement told me everything.
“Juliet, the party starts in forty minutes.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“My mother’s waiting.”
“My doctor told us not to wait if anything felt unusual.”
“You’ve been having contractions for two weeks.”
“Not like this.”
He exhaled through his nose.
Preston had always done that when he thought I was being unreasonable.
I hated that sound.
It made me feel twelve years old.
It made me feel foolish.
“Please,” I said. “Just take me in. If it’s nothing, you can still go afterward.”
His expression hardened.
“And walk into my mother’s birthday three hours late?”
I could barely believe the conversation was happening.
“Your son might be coming.”
“He isn’t due for another twelve days.”
“Babies don’t read calendars, Preston.”
“Neither do you, apparently.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.
“It means you knew tonight mattered.”
A strange coldness moved through me despite the pain.
“You think I planned this?”
“I think every major event in my family somehow becomes about you.”
I felt tears gather.
Not because I was fragile.
Because I suddenly understood that the person standing three feet away from me did not see my fear as something worth responding to.
Another contraction came.
My knees almost folded.
I caught myself against the counter.
Preston watched.
He watched me struggle to remain standing.
And still he didn’t move toward me.
“Please,” I whispered.
I hated how small my voice sounded.
“Our baby hasn’t moved much today.”
That finally made his eyes change.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
He knew that mattered.
At our appointment three days earlier, Dr. Sinclair had looked directly at both of us.
Reduced movement. Severe pain. Bleeding. Sudden dizziness.
Any of those meant we went straight to the hospital.
No debate.
No waiting.
No birthday parties.
Preston had been sitting beside me when she said it.
“I’m scared,” I told him.
His jaw tightened.
Then his phone rang.
The screen lit up.
MOM.
He answered immediately.
“Hey.”
I couldn’t hear every word Celeste Mercer said, but I heard enough.
“Where are you?”
“People are arriving.”
“Your brother is already here.”
Preston turned away from me.
“I’m leaving now.”
I felt something inside my marriage crack.
“Preston.”
He raised one finger.
Not now.
The gesture was so casual.
So familiar.
So humiliating.
His wife was terrified, heavily pregnant, leaning against a kitchen counter to stay upright, and he was telling me to wait because his mother was speaking.
He ended the call.
“Mom’s upset.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, another sharp pressure moved through me.
I inhaled.
Slow.
Controlled.
“Your mother is upset?”
“Don’t start.”
“I might be in labor.”
“And I told you, if you really think something is wrong, call somebody.”
I stared at him.
“You’re my husband.”
“Yes, Juliet, and I have responsibilities outside this house.”
“Your child is inside me.”
For the first time, my voice rose.
The room went still.
Preston looked at me as though I had embarrassed him.
I saw something in his face then that frightened me more than anger.
Indifference.
“My mother only turns sixty-five once.”
I felt my eyes burn.
“And your son is only born once.”
He walked to the front door.
I followed as far as the hallway before another contraction forced me to stop.
“Preston, don’t leave me.”
His hand rested on the doorknob.
For years, I would remember exactly how he looked in that moment.
One shoulder turned toward me.
One hand on the door.
A man making a choice.
“You can wait.”
Then he left.
The door slammed.
For several seconds, I simply stood there.
Not because I didn’t know what to do.
Because my mind refused to accept what had happened.
Then the baby moved.
Once.
A weak flutter.
And stopped.
I grabbed my phone.
I called Preston.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
“Please answer.”
Nothing.
I texted.
Please come back.
I’m calling the hospital.
Something is wrong.
The baby isn’t moving.
Please.
Delivered.
Unread.
I called his mother.
No answer.
His brother.
No answer.
The Mercer family was probably raising champagne glasses beneath chandeliers while I stood alone beside shattered glass.
Another contraction took me down.
My knees hit the floor.
I screamed his name even though I knew he wasn’t there.
Then I tried to stand.
I couldn’t.
My vision blurred around the edges.
The hallway seemed impossibly far away.
My phone had fallen near the cabinets.
I crawled toward it.
Each movement felt like dragging myself through water.
When I finally reached it, my fingers barely obeyed me.
9.
10.
11.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“I’m pregnant.”
My voice shook so badly I barely recognized it.
“Thirty-eight weeks. I’m alone. My husband left. My baby stopped moving.”
The dispatcher’s voice became calm and firm.
“What’s your name?”
“Juliet Mercer.”
“Juliet, help is coming.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m scared.”
“I know. Stay with me.”
“I think I’m going to pass out.”
“Unlock the front door if you can.”
I looked toward it.
Twenty feet away.
It might as well have been a mile.
“I can’t stand.”
“That’s okay. Don’t try. Are you bleeding?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stay on your side if possible.”
I obeyed.
The tile was cold against my cheek.
I stared at the broken glass sparkling beneath the kitchen light.
Strangely, that was what I focused on.
Not the pain.
Not Preston.
The glass.
I remember thinking I should clean it before the baby came home.
Even then, some foolish part of me believed there would still be a normal home to return to.
Then I heard sirens.
Closer.
Closer.
Red light flashed across the ceiling.
The front door opened.
“EMS!”
“In here,” I tried to call.
It came out as a whisper.
Boots rushed down the hallway.
A paramedic dropped beside me.
“Juliet?”
I tried to answer.
Another voice called from behind him.
“Fetal movement?”
“She says none.”
“Pressure’s dropping.”
Someone touched my wrist.
Someone else placed an oxygen mask over my face.
“Juliet, stay with me.”
“My baby…”
“We’re taking care of both of you.”
“Call my husband.”
“We will.”
“Preston Mercer.”
“Okay.”
“Please make him come.”
The paramedic looked at me.
His expression changed.
Not enough to scare me.
Enough to tell me he understood.
“I promise we’ll make the call.”
The ceiling began moving.
I realized they were carrying me outside.
Cold night air touched my face.
Neighbors stood in their driveways.
I heard one woman gasp.
Then the ambulance doors closed.
As we raced toward the hospital, someone kept trying Preston.
Once.
Twice.
Five times.
No answer.
My last clear thought before everything disappeared was painfully simple.
May you like
My husband had chosen a birthday cake over us.
And somewhere across town, Preston Mercer raised a champagne glass to his mother while doctors prepared to fight for the life of the son he had abandoned.
