Erased From the Birth Certificate

Eight months pregnant, in premature labor, I called my husband Eric Joyce over and over as they wheeled me toward the delivery room.

The line connected. Behind it, the noise of a karaoke lounge.

It was Maria Walker, the new girl at his company, who answered.

Hey, hon, Eric's had a few too many. I've got him, don't worry.

Before I could get a word out, I heard Eric's voice from somewhere beside her, clearly not realizing the call had already gone through.

"Send my wife a message. Tell her the project's running late tonight. Don't let her wait up."

Maria covered the phone and laughed. "Eric, you never even saved my number. How am I supposed to send anything for you?"

"Use my phone. You know the passcode."

The delivery room lights came on.

The nurse pressed me to sign. Biting my lip, I wrote my mother's name in the blank marked next of kin on the consent form.

The night my son was born, Eric texted: Project's finally wrapped up. I'll come back and be with you tomorrow.

I stared at that line for a long time.

At four in the morning, I texted him back.

"Eric. Don't come."

...

"Stop watching that phone. If he'd really wanted to come last night, he'd already be here."

My mother sat at the edge of the hospital bed, her eyes rubbed raw from the long night.

She held a cup of warm water, dabbing a cotton swab over my cracked lips, little by little.

The anesthesia had only just worn off. The incision across my belly throbbed in waves.

I looked up at the fluorescent light on the ceiling, my vision still soft and blurred.

A nurse wheeled in a dressing cart and glanced at the nameplate above my bed.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?"

I opened my mouth a little.

"Where's my baby?"

The nurse wrapped the cuff around my arm to take my blood pressure, lowering her voice.

"The baby came early. The weight was too low, so he went straight to the neonatal ICU after delivery."

"He's still in the incubator under observation. In your condition, you can't go hold him just yet."

My mother turned her back and wiped at a tear before I could see.

When she turned around, her voice was still shaking.

"You hemorrhaged last night. When the doctor handed me the critical-condition notice, my hand wouldn't even hold steady enough to sign."

"I called him a dozen times. Every single one went dead."

I didn't answer. I just rolled my eyes slowly toward the phone by my pillow.

The screen was lit. A few unread messages waited in the chat.

All of them from Eric.

"Still mad? Last night really was a work thing."

"The client added a last-minute dinner. I couldn't say no, the whole team is counting on this account."

"Maria said you called. Don't read into it, she's just a kid fresh out of school, she saw I'd had too much and answered for me to be nice."

"You're pregnant. Stop being so suspicious all the time. It's bad for the baby."

I fixed on that last line, and my chest went tight.

Yesterday afternoon, at the checkup, the doctor said the baby's heartbeat was abnormal and recommended I be admitted at once.

I called him. He said he was in a meeting.

That evening the pain doubled me over, and my water broke on the living room floor.

My mother held me up while we waited for the ambulance, and with shaking hands I dialed his number.

It was Maria who picked up.

Her light, breezy voice mixed in with the music from the lounge.

And then his easy, matter-of-fact line. Use my phone. You know the passcode.

The nurse came to the bedside with a few documents.

"Mila Fox, this is the baby's admission form and the visitor wristband. Family needs to check the information and sign."

My mother reached for them, but the nurse pointed at one line.

"Here, the father's information field is blank. No contact number either."

"If anything sudden happens with the baby later, we need to reach both parents' families right away."

My mother froze and turned to look at me.

I braced myself against the edge of the bed and tried to push myself up a little.

The pull at the incision made me suck in a sharp breath.

"You don't need to write him in."

I took the pen and signed my own name in my mother's line.

"Leave the father's field blank. For the emergency contact, just put my mother's number."

The nurse hesitated, watching me.

"But it's hospital policy. The visitor list for the NICU has to be immediate family. If the father isn't registered, he won't be allowed in to see the baby later."

"He doesn't need to go in."

I handed the pen back to her. My voice came out so calm it surprised even me.

"He won't be coming."

The nurse didn't press. She gathered up the form and left.

My phone buzzed again.

A voice message from Eric popped up.

"I've got a meeting with an investor this morning, then I'm heading back to the office in the afternoon."

"You be good and stay home. Tonight I'll bring back that chestnut cake you love from the place on the South Side."

"Stop sulking. Once the baby's born, you'll have plenty to be tired about."

He didn't even know I wasn't home.

He had no idea that the child he still thought was "two months from being born" was lying in an incubator right now, wired with tubes.

I didn't reply. I just pressed the screen dark.

My mother fastened the visitor band around my wrist.

It read: Mila Fox's son.

Early in the pregnancy, the first time Eric heard the heartbeat, his eyes had gone red.

He'd held my hand and pressed it to his cheek.

He'd said, Mila, from now on, you and the baby are the most important people by my side.

He'd even bought a thick new-father's handbook and written across the cover, solemn as anything: Countdown to Baby's Arrival.

But now the countdown had ended early.

And the man who'd sworn he would be the first to hold our child had handed his private passwords and his time to another woman.

I closed my eyes. There were no tears at the corners.

I only had one thing to say to the nurse.

"Please mark my room number as private. Don't tell anyone."

"The baby can't be held yet. Mom can only look for five minutes."

The nurse wheeled me up to the glass window of the NICU and stopped the chair there.

The smell of disinfectant hung heavy in the hallway, and the cold air slipped through the loose hospital gown and into my bones.

I gripped the armrests with both hands and forced myself upright to see inside.

In the incubator, that tiny body lay curled in on itself.

His skin was a raw, purplish red, a thin IV line taped into his arm.

So small that even breathing seemed to cost him everything.

A clear identification band was looped around his wrist.

Written on it in black marker: Mila Fox's son.

The father's field was still blank.

I reached out through the glass, fingertips against the cold surface, as if I could feel the warmth of him through it.

The phone in my pocket buzzed.

I drew my hand back and took it out.

A voice message, from Maria.

"Hey, Eric's got a terrible headache today, he fell asleep at the office."

"I made him a hangover smoothie. Don't be hard on him, the client last night was really impossible."

"He's just trying to earn formula money for your little one, you know."

In the background came Eric's voice, low and a little hoarse, mumbling.

"Maria, pour me a glass of water."

"Sure thing, Eric, coming right up."

The message cut off there.

I stared at those dozen-odd seconds of green bar on the screen, and my stomach turned.

I had just clawed my way back from the edge of dying, and I needed my mother's help just to turn over.

My baby lay in an incubator with tubes down his throat, too weak even to cry.

And my husband was asleep somewhere, tucked in under another woman's care.

He'd even let her use that half-wife tone to report his whereabouts to me, as if it were nothing.

A nurse came over and handed me a slip of paper.

"Mila, this is your baby's monitoring bill for the last two days."

"Preemie care in the incubator runs high. You'll need to go to the billing office and top up the deposit first."

I nodded and took the slip.

The number on it was not small.

I opened my banking app and transferred the money from my card to the hospital account, the motions automatic by now.

Back during the checkups, Eric had always rushed to pay.

He'd sat beside me through the 4D ultrasound, eyes fixed on the blurry little shape on the screen, unable to look away.

"Look at his little hands, how strong they are."

"Once he's born, I'm buying him the best crib. Only the best of everything."

Those words were still fresh in my ears.

But now, when there was actual responsibility to carry, he was nowhere to be found.

I'd barely finished paying when another message from Eric popped up.

"Babe, I'm awake."

"Still a little dizzy. Might be home late tonight."

"Eat dinner without me, don't wait up."

He was still calling me babe.

The word looked like a joke now.

He thought I was still home. He thought I was just sulking because he'd missed my call.

He had no idea I'd already stopped waiting for him.

I set the phone to silent and put it back in my pocket.

"Nurse, could you take me back, please."

The wheelchair had only just turned when an alarm started shrieking from the monitoring room.

A doctor in scrubs walked out fast, a document in hand.

"Is Mila Fox's family here?"

My mother hurried to him.

"Yes, I'm her mother."

The doctor's face was grave.

"The baby just stopped breathing and his heart rate dropped. We're carrying out emergency intervention."

"This is the emergency treatment consent form. Family needs to sign it immediately."

My mother went white with fear, her hands shaking too hard to hold the pen.

I forced myself to lean out of the wheelchair and snatched the pen.

"I'll sign."

The nib dragged across the paper with a harsh scratch.

I wrote my name, every stroke draining the last of my strength.

The moment I handed the form back to the doctor.

The screen lit up. Eric had sent a photo.

A cake with a candle in it.

The caption read: "It's Maria's birthday tonight, team dinner, home later."

"Apnea in preemies is common, but we can never take it lightly."

The doctor held my signed form, his tone serious.

"The baby's lungs aren't fully developed. The next twenty-four hours are critical."

"The family should be prepared. He may need to be resuscitated again at any time."

I sank back against the wheelchair, nails digging deep into my palm.

"I understand. Please, do everything you can."

The red light above the emergency room door came on, too harsh to look at straight.

The corridor was so quiet I could hear nothing but the hum of the exhaust fan.

My mother sat on the row of chairs beside me, hands pressed together, murmuring something under her breath without pause.

I looked down at my phone screen.

That photo of the cake from Eric was still sitting at the bottom of the thread.

A dainty fondant cake, "Happy Birthday Maria" written across the top.

I didn't reply.

A few minutes later, his call came through.

The screen read Hubby.

I pressed answer and didn't rush to speak.

On the other end came a clatter of cheering and clinking glasses.

Eric's voice carried a thread of impatience.

"Mila, how long are you going to keep this up?"

"You don't reply to my texts, you don't pick up my calls."

"It's Maria's birthday, the whole team's here. How would it look if I didn't show?"

He paused, his tone easing a little, sliding into that same old coaxing register.

"I know not answering your call last night was my fault."

"But you're a grown woman. Stop acting like some sulky little girl."

"Tomorrow I'll cancel the morning meeting and take you to your checkup myself. Happy now?"

I listened to him lay it all out like he had every right to, and it just felt absurd.

Take me to my checkup tomorrow.

He had no idea that the child he still thought needed a checkup was on the other side of one wall, in the resuscitation room, hanging between life and death.

I looked at the sealed doors of that room. My voice came out soft.

"Eric."

"What if something had really happened to me last night?"

The line went quiet for a beat.

The noise behind him seemed to recede a little. He must have stepped out of the room.

"What are you talking about?"

The reproach in his voice was unmistakable now.

"You're pregnant. Can you stop scaring me with things like that?"

"You missed one call. Do you have to curse yourself like this?"

"The baby's not due for another two months. We've got time to get everything ready."

"You being this sensitive and paranoid right now, honestly, it's exhausting."

A sudden tiredness washed over me.

I didn't even have the strength left to argue.

Every gap, every absence, he folded it all into my pregnancy nerves.

He used that self-assured reason of his to wall off my cry for help completely.

"Fine."

I answered calmly.

"I won't make a fuss anymore."

Eric seemed to breathe out in relief.

"That's more like it. Get some good rest at home."

"I'll bring chestnut cake back later."

The call ended.

I opened his contact and went into the settings.

I changed his label from Hubby to Eric Joyce.

Then I opened the hospital app, found the delivery ward's emergency contact page, and deleted his name from it completely.

My mother watched what I was doing, words caught on her lips.

"Mila, you're really not going to tell him?"

"He is the baby's father, after all."

I looked at the post Maria had just put up online.

She'd uploaded a photo of herself holding a cake, half of Eric's profile showing in the background.

The caption read: "Thank you, Eric. Wish granted."

I closed the app, opened my contacts, and dialed a number.

"Lawyer Chavez, it's me."

"I need you to draft a divorce agreement for me."

"As fast as you can."

"You're pregnant and you came to the hospital without telling me?"

Eric's voice rang out in the corridor of the clinic lobby.

I was bracing myself against the wall, on my way to the front window to settle these last two days of hospital fees.

The hospital gown hung loose on me, making me look pale and drained.

I stopped and turned toward the voice.

Eric stood there in a sharp suit, brow furrowed as he looked at me.

His right arm was held tight in Maria's grip.

She was balanced on one foot, most of her weight leaning into him.

She had on a white dress today, the hem falling just to her knees, a small patch of red and swollen skin showing at her ankle.

"Why's his wife at the hospital?"

Maria blinked up at him, her voice all syrup.

"Are you here for a checkup?"

Eric didn't push her off. He stepped forward instead, reproach all over his tone.

"Didn't I tell you I'd come with you tomorrow?"

"You're this far along, and you go wandering off alone?"

"What if you'd tripped, knocked into something?"

Then he looked at how pale I was, and something finally registered as off.

"Why do you look so awful? What did the doctor say?"

I looked at the righteous concern on his face and found it almost funny.

I'd been admitted three days giving birth, and he'd spent them throwing a coworker a birthday party and babysitting her hurt foot.

Now we ran into each other in a hospital, and his first instinct wasn't to ask why I was in a patient's gown. It was to scold me for being disobedient, for running around.

"I'm fine."

I pulled my eyes back, my voice flat.

"Go do whatever you need to do."

I turned and kept walking toward the payment window.

Clearly Eric wasn't used to me being this cold.

He let go of Maria, strode over, and grabbed my arm.

"Mila, what's with the attitude?"

"Maria twisted her ankle on the stairs at the office. I'm her supervisor. What's wrong with bringing her in to get it looked at?"

"Can you stop assuming the worst about everyone?"

Behind him, Maria hopped twice on one foot and hissed through the pain.

"Eric, don't be hard on her."

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have troubled you."

"She's just misunderstood, that's all. I'll go right now."

She started to hop toward the door on one leg, swayed, and nearly went down.

Eric let go of my arm at once, turned, and crossed over in a few long strides to catch her.

"Your foot's swollen like that and you're still trying to be tough?"

He steadied her, then turned his head to me, his eyes full of disappointment.

"Mila, you never used to be this unreasonable."

"Maria's just a girl fresh out of school. What are you fighting with her for?"

I looked down at my own empty arm.

Where he'd gripped it, there was a faint red mark.

There was a time I'd only have to nick my finger chopping vegetables and he'd be scrambling for a bandage.

Now I'd just come back from the edge of death, and he thought I was throwing a tantrum.

My mother came from the elevators with a few slips of paper in her hand.

When she saw Eric and Maria wrapped around each other, she was shaking with rage.

"Eric, what are you doing here?"

She rushed over and pulled me behind her.

Eric froze for a second and let go on reflex.

"Mom, why are you here too?"

"Maria twisted her ankle. I brought her in to get it checked."

He explained it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

My mother was so angry she raised her hand, but I caught it.

"Mom, let's go pay."

I didn't want to fight with him in the hospital lobby.

There was no point.

Just then, the elevator doors opened a little way off.

A nurse came out fast with a stack of papers and called across the lobby.

"Mila Fox's family! Is Mila Fox's family here?"

"The resuscitation bill from the NICU is ready. Please go to the window and settle it right away!"

Eric's body went rigid.

He frowned, turned, and looked at the nurse, confused.

"Mila? The NICU?"