Complicated Delivery

Hushed voices, the swish of scrubs, the clang of stainless steel. Droning hum of machines. Ethan is across the room, scratching his beard. “What’s wrong? Is Seamus okay?” Ethan looks right through me, the lines in his forehead deep, too old for 21. He looks like his own father. I’m offered applesauce or yoghurt. “No, thank you,” I say to both. Some dull feeling in my stomach, that isn’t pain, but is the memory of pain and is worse. I’m sending smoke signals; Ethan isn’t getting them. The smoke and the noise swirl together. “Baby, little man didn’t make it.”