Chapter 5 - The Mirror and the Cracks
Z
By the fifth day of Trevor’s “Parent Resort,” the initial shock of family drama had faded into the brutal, relentless rhythm of newborn survival. The glamour of Trevor’s old life—his polished dress shoes, his morning gym routine, his daily double-espresso runs—had vanished completely, replaced by an endless cycle of burp cloths, diaper rash cream, and laundry detergent formulated for sensitive skin.
Trevor sat at the dining room table with his laptop open, attempting to review a quarterly risk assessment for his investment firm. Beside his keyboard sat a cold cup of coffee, a half-eaten protein bar, and a digital thermometer.
His phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with an incoming group FaceTime call: The Destin Boys—Brad, Miller, and Chase.
Trevor stared at the glowing screen for three full rings before swiping to answer, quickly muttering, “Hey guys, I can only talk for a second.”
The screen erupted with loud music, the roar of an outdoor bar, and the obnoxious laughter of three grown men in golf polos. Brad’s sunburnt face filled the frame, holding a pitcher of beer toward the camera.
“There he is! The prisoner of suburbia!” Brad bellowed over the background noise. “Bro, where have you been? You missed the scramble this morning, and we’ve got tee times at the club tomorrow at eight. Are you finally breaking out of house arrest or what?”
“Yeah, Vance, what’s the deal?” Chase chimed in, leaning into the camera. “We heard your mom was having a meltdown about some old family drama, but dude, you can’t let the women run your life. My sister had twins last year—she had a night nanny hired before they even left the hospital. Just throw some cash at the problem and come grab eighteen holes. You look like a walking corpse, man.”
Trevor looked at his friends—the same men he had spent the last decade drinking with, golfing with, and escaping with. For the first time in his life, their banter didn’t sound like fun or brotherhood. It sounded hollow, childish, and pathetically out of touch.
“I’m not coming to golf, guys,” Trevor said evenly.
Brad laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Come on, don't be whipped. You did your five days in the trenches. Bring the girls a teddy bear, kiss Katie on the forehead, and take an afternoon off. You earned it.”
“I didn’t earn anything,” Trevor said, his voice dropping into a stern, quiet register that made his friends pause on the screen. “I went to Florida while my wife was having major surgery. I left her alone with two newborns because I was scared of growing up. I’m not 'doing time' in the trenches, Brad. I’m taking care of my children.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “Dude, don’t get all dramatic on us. It was five days on a boat. It’s not like she died.”
Before Trevor could answer, a loud, sharp crash echoed from the upstairs bathroom, followed by a choked gasp of pure agony.
“Katie?” Trevor yelled, instantly dropping the laptop.
He didn't wait for his friends to respond. He didn't hit 'end call.' He shoved the chair back so hard it tumbled over onto the hardwood floor and sprinted up the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
“Katie!”
He burst into the master bathroom.
I was collapsed on the tile floor next to the bathtub, clutching my lower right side. The heavy glass shower door was vibrating in its track where my shoulder had struck it on the way down. I had tried to step out of the tub after a quick rinse, but a sudden, blinding tear of pain had ripped through my internal incision, stealing all the air from my lungs. Blood was already beginning to seep through the white towel wrapped around my waist, soaking the terrycloth in dark crimson.
“Trevor...” I gasped, my vision tunneling into black dots. “Something tore. I can’t... I can’t breathe.”
Trevor dropped to his knees on the wet tile beside me. The panic in his eyes was instant, but instead of freezing or running as he had done so many times before, something inside him snapped into sharp focus.
“Mom! Frank!” Trevor screamed at the top of his lungs down the hallway. “Call 911! Right now!”
He pulled a clean, dry bath sheet from the rack, pressing it firmly against my lower abdomen to apply pressure to the bleeding wound. His hands were shaking, but his grip was unyielding.
“Look at me, Katie. Look right at me,” Trevor pleaded, his face inches from mine. “Don’t look down. Stay with me. Breathe in through your nose. Just like the Lamaze class, okay? In and out. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“The girls...” I whimpered, tears streaming down my temples into my hair. “Who’s going to feed them?”
“They are fine. Frank and your mom have them,” Trevor said, his voice cracking with emotion, but his hands remaining rock-steady against my wound. “You are the only thing that matters right now. You hear me? I’m not leaving you. I am not going anywhere.”
Downstairs, the front door flew open as Frank bolted up the stairs, followed closely by my mother carrying a phone to her ear, rapidly reciting our address to the emergency dispatcher.
Frank appeared in the bathroom doorway, his eyes assessing the blood on the towel and the gray pallor of my skin in a single second. He knelt beside Trevor, placing a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Paramedics are five minutes out, son,” Frank said calmly. “You’re holding the right pressure. Keep it steady until they walk through that door.”
Trevor looked up at his father, his eyes brimmed with tears of pure terror. “Dad... what if she loses too much blood? What if I did this to her by not being here the first three days when she was lifting the car seats?”
“Don’t go there, Trevor,” Frank commanded with quiet authority. “Guilt doesn’t stop bleeding. Focus on your wife. Talk to her.”
Trevor turned back to me, pressing his forehead gently against mine. “I’m sorry, Katie. I’m so sorry for being a coward. I’m going to make this right. I swear to God on my life, I’m going to make this right. Just stay with me.”
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Outside, the wail of approaching sirens cut through the quiet neighborhood, growing louder and louder until the flashing red lights painted the bathroom walls in rhythmic crimson strokes.
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