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Nervously, I glance at my phone. Two texts from Reese buzz up in quick succession. Trying to get through traffic as fast as I can.
Picked up food to make it up to you.
Reese had been able to get a last-minute doctor to come in, but couldn’t get out of a whole day of practice. Coach had given him the ultimatum of “come in or get dropped.” Reese was ready to say fuck it then and there, but I wouldn’t let him stay, no matter how much he wanted to.
I text him back. Don’t hurry. Want you to drive safe. But I am starving so thanks :)
I check the time on my phone before slipping it into my pocket. The doctor will be here any minute now. Reese isn’t going to make it for the ultrasound.
He’ll be here for the result, though.
I’m trying to figure out how I’ll respond to either option. If it’s positive, there’s so much to do in the coming months. If it’s not…
Gulp.
I want it to be positive.
It’s a thought that I know I shouldn’t have. Adding a child into this chaotic mix isn’t ideal, but when has ideal ever mattered? Newborns certainly don’t give a damn about “ideal.” Babies like boobs and blankies and that’s about it.
Knock, knock!
I startle, letting out a shaky breath. Checking the peephole, I see that it’s an older woman in a lab coat and huge, round glasses. I check my phone again. Right on time.
I ease the door open slowly. I can’t help the paranoia crawling over my skin like spiders, but the woman gives me a huge smile, lugging what looks like some impressive equipment in a leather satchel over her shoulder.
“Ms. Carter?” Her voice is smooth and confident. “I’m Dr. Brenda Lee. Maybe I come in?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I step aside and she slips in. She’s about three inches shorter than me and wispier than my mother. She has a solidness about her that I find reassuring as she hauls that large bag of hers into the house and sets it down on the coffee table with a relieved groan.
“Mr. Dalton said I’d be doing an ultrasound,” she explains, a wide smile on her face. “I’ve been looking after his lumps and bumps since he joined up with that hockey team. I didn’t know he had a wife, though.”
My face reddens and I shake my head. “We’re not married.”
I wait for that moment of judgment that I know is coming. The surprise and then the reproach because What do you mean, you’re not married but you might be pregnant? To a famous hockey player, no less?!
But Dr. Lee gets a mischievous look in her eyes, smirking at me. “Oh, no worries there, darling. That’s how I had my first one! The young years are so wild. Sometimes, you just have to enjoy yourself and maybe have a happy accident come along the way.”
“Bob Ross fan, I see,” I offer with a relieved laugh.
“Of course! Man after my own heart, that one.” She gives me another one of those big smiles and starts pulling out the machinery tucked into the luggage. I have no idea what any of it is. A screen, a paddle, a coil of plastic tubing.
“Alright. Go ahead and lie down here on the couch,” she instructs. “And pull up your shirt. I’m going to get your stomach prepped and we’ll see what’s in there, aye?”
I just nod and do what she says. It’s more comfortable than being on an exam room table, that’s for sure. My nerves are still going bananas, but less so than they’ve been doing all morning.
Dr. Lee is a chatterbox. She talks about her dogs and her sons (she’s got five of each) and a neighbor who doesn’t like the fact that she openly flouts her HOA’s demands for where she can and cannot put her recycling bins. She talks about how she does all sorts of medicine for the rich and famous, which is why she can treat a meathead like Reese and also make a home visit like this one.
It’s a good distraction—right up to the point the cold alcohol wipe is brought across the expanse of my stomach.
She laughs when I hiss.
“Yeah, that always gets ‘em.” She chuckles. “Take a deep breath and brace for the jelly. It won’t be any warmer, I can promise you that.”
Even with the warning, it’s not enough to prepare for the ice of the lubrication jelly that gets slathered all over my stomach. I hiss, involuntarily bucking halfway off the couch.
“Fuck, that’s cold,” I blurt before I realize what I just said and clap a hand over my mouth. I look at her sheepishly. “Sorry.”
