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“Twins.” Mariya eyes my stomach like the babies are going to burst through my chest, Alien-style. “There are two babies in there?”
“That is the definition of twins, yes.”
It’s been over twenty-four hours since I walked out of the hospital and not only have I come to terms with the fact that I’m having twins… I think I’m over it.
I’m not over the babies, obviously. They are tiny, precious miracles. Every time I think about holding one of them in each arm, I start to cry with joy.
My babies are not the problem. It’s everyone outside of my womb that is driving me up the freaking wall.
I haven’t been alone for even a second since yesterday morning. Before we left the office, Dr. Jenkins told Yakov to make sure I “take it easy.” I understood it for what it was: a joke. A generic, throwaway line. Not actual medical advice.
But Yakov hasn’t let me lift a finger since.
He carried me into the house, has escorted me to the bathroom each time I need to go, and even cut my steak for me at dinner last night. A few weeks ago, all I wanted was to see more of Yakov. I missed him. Now, as thrilled as I am that we aren't fighting, I would do almost anything for five minutes to myself. To process. To take a deep breath. To pee in privacy.
“Twins are so weird when you really think about it,” Mariya says. “Kind of gross, actually.”
I roll my eyes. “How is having two babies any different than having one?”
She mutes the TV. “Think about it like a sleeping bag. One person in a sleeping bag? Fine. Two people in a sleeping bag? Hot and sweaty and claustrophobic.”
“They’re floating in amniotic fluid. They aren’t hot and sweaty; I’m hot and sweaty.”
Like a bloodhound on the scent, Yakov appears in the doorway. “Do you feel okay?”
Oh, no. Not this song and dance right now. “Hello to you, too.”
“I can call Dr. Jenkins.”
I give him a tight smile. “I’m just warm. Pregnant people get hot,” I explain, trying not to sound as frustrated as I feel. “It’s normal. I’m okay.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. It should be sweet, but he’s staring at my stomach. It feels like everyone is constantly staring at my stomach. I’m not going to explode, people.
“She said she’s fine,” Mariya groans. “The human oven is just a little warm. It’s to be expected.”
I elbow Mariya in the side. “Hey! I am not just a human oven.”
“You’re not just a human oven, obviously. But you are, definitionally, a human oven.”
Yakov reaches over me to swipe the remote out of Mariya’s hand. “Out.”
“She doesn’t have to go,” I protest.
He waves me away. “She’s stressing the babies.”
“The babies are stressed?” I can’t actually believe what I’m hearing. I just said I feel like a human incubator and he’s worried the babies are stressed? I throw my arms wide. “What about me?”
“When you’re stressed, the babies are stressed,” he says simply. “It’s one and the same.”
I wasn’t stressed before, but I am now. I can feel my blood pressure rising. I would walk away and cool off, but Yakov would pick me up before I could take my first step.
The walls are closing in and there is no escape.
“We aren’t ‘one and the same’!” I yell. “I am a person separate from these babies. I still exist beyond growing them.”
“I was joking about the human oven thing,” Mariya interjects. “I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s not just you, Mariya. It’s you,” I say, jabbing a finger at Yakov. The words are pouring out of me now, coming too fast to stop. Everything I’ve bottled up for days spewing out in a heady rush. “I know when I need to call the doctor. I don’t need you to decide that for me. I also don’t need you to carry me anywhere. I’m pregnant, not crippled! I can walk and cut my food and pee by myself, for fuck’s sake!”
