“Did someone leave?” Peter asked.
“Probably an employee,” someone answered.
After their door closed, I followed the service passage toward the kitchen and emerged onto the street without being stopped. Another contraction struck, stronger this time. When a hotel worker offered assistance, I nodded; there was no use pretending otherwise.
Inside the ambulance, I asked the paramedic not to contact Peter and called my older sister, Rachel, instead.
At the hospital, doctors checked the three babies and watched my contractions. I watched each medical worker carefully, desperate for reassurance that the shock and pain had not harmed them. The babies were the one part of my world I still needed to believe was safe. They said the triplets remained stable but wanted me hospitalized for observation. Rachel arrived and listened as I recounted the conversation in broken sentences, keeping hold of my hand.
Finally, she asked what I had avoided considering.
