On December 12th, 2011, my daughter Annabelle Grace Tormey arrived. Seven weeks ahead of schedule . . .
I had planned to spend the month of December revising In the Ranger’s Bed, preparing for the holidays, and reading. Instead, on December 8th, my water broke. Yes, the same thing happened, albeit later in the pregnancy, with my son (ruling out the idea that it was a fluke the first time). At least this time I wasn’t getting off the subway. I was home on my couch. But, this time, I had a nineteen-month-old toddler at home. Knowing that as soon as I went to the hospital, I would be put on bedrest possibly through the holidays had me in tears. So did the thought of having my daughter at just 33 weeks.
In the end, I spent four days on hospital bedrest before my daughter decided to make an appearance. Literally hours after I finished the revisions, but before I emailed it to my agent (I realized I was in too much pain to draft a coherent email or take one last look at the changes I’d made), my daughter arrived. Though she only weighed 3 pounds 13 ounces, she was breathing fine and perfectly healthy. Of course, her early arrival required a stay in the neonatal intensive care (NICU).
This time around the NICU seemed a lot less scary then with my first child. When my son was born, he suffered a collapsed lung and was immediately whisked away. Seeing him for the first time, unable to breathe on his own and covered in tubes, left me in tears. But the worst feeling was the day I left the hospital and came home without my baby.
When Annabelle arrived at 33 weeks, I knew I would be leaving the hospital without my little girl. And when I came home, I had my son, who seemed to need me almost more than my little newborn in the hospital. Annabelle had twenty-four hour nursing care and barely opened her eyes. My son was use to having mommy put him down for his nap, prepare his meals, play with him, and put him to bed. Whether I was at the hospital with Annabelle or home with my toddler, I felt needed. I was with one of my children.
But not on the subway ride between home and hospital. This trip became an awful limbo between two worlds. Everyday for two weeks, I left my screaming toddler with his loving grandmother or my husband, and went to see my daughter. A few hours later, I left my tiny, precious new baby in her incubator and made the return trip. And each time I hit the subway platform, those pesky postpartum hormones kicked in and I would start to cry. I was tired, still recovering from giving birth, and stranded between my two babies.
Finally after days of sitting on the subway during the morning rush with tears running down my face, I opened an advanced copy of Eloisa James’ The Duke Is Mine that I’d received from a friend at Avon. I read a few pages on my trip to the hospital, and for the first time, I wasn’t fighting tears. Instead, I lost myself in the pages. I found strength as I read about a heroine who accepts her fate (marriage to a less than ideal man). As I read, I pushed away thoughts on what I could have done to prevent my daughter’s birth before she was truly ready to enter the world and focused on the reality. I focused on accepting my fate.
And when I read the last page, I reached for my Kindle and downloaded another book. And another.
Annabelle came home two days after Christmas, and I kept reading. In the middle of the night, I would lie awake nursing my daughter and read. And each time I reach the happily-ever-after, I feel a little bit more at peace with events of the past few months. If given the choice, I would have loved to have my child at full term. But she is healthy and growing bigger each day. What better happily-ever-after could I possibly ask for?
First, please tell us a little about your recent release Prelude to a Scandal.
