prayer

"I've got it." Ivy said, trying to yank the IV holder, or whatever the hell it was called closer to herself, away from her would-be mother-in-law. In her head, they were just waiting for Quentin to wake up, and then they'd get married, and people could call it a shotgun wedding all the damn well wanted. But it would happen. And they'd figure things out. It was her plan, her very solid, non-negotiable plan.

She'd already checked into the law saying that if he wasn't conscious to sign marriage papers, he wasn't legally married. She just hadn't told his family that she'd actually gone so far as to look into it. And she'd told them that she wore his class ring like an engagement ring because he was going to ask just as soon as he was up again. And it was going to be before she went into labor. It had to be before she went into labor. She'd messed up a little bit, had pre-marital sex and stuff, but she wasn't going to screw up on all fronts. No way. And it didn't matter how many times she went to confession or anything, she was holding herself accountable. And him.

She heard the heavy sigh from Mary, Quentin's mom, but she ignored it. "I've got it." she repeated, tone a little softer, more subdued than the sharp tone she'd initially used. That got her what she wanted, and she was left alone with the comatose father of her child. She sat down in the little rolling stool they had set up next to the hospital-grade bed. Then she started changing the IV bag over, so he was still getting what he needed nutrient wise. Or that was as well as she understood it. The medical stuff she was hazy on in some ways. Like the technicals for everything. What did what. But how to do it? How to get it done? That she was good at. That she could manage and did manage as much as she possibly could. His family was supportive, of course, and half the time she knew they found her annoying, but she wanted to be there for him. She needed to be. And if she couldn't be responsible for keeping him healthy while he slept, then she wasn't going to be a very good mother. But she was managing it. And it didn't matter that she was only seventeen, she was going to get this all right. She was. She promised she was.

After she got the bag switched over she looked down at him, smiling softly as she reached out and brushed the hair away from his forehead. "It'll be okay." she promised. She promised him every day. She reached out to pick up his lifeless hand and rested it against her stomach, where the baby usually kicked, and she was going to stand there and wait til it happened, like she did every day. Maybe if he knew there was a life just waiting for him, a new life, he'd come back. Settling in, she started on her prayers, holding Quentin's hand with one of her hands and her rosary with the other as she quietly whispered in the silent room.