“Do you want to help me with dinner?” Emily asked. “Cassie’s making meatballs and pasta, but she says my spinach salad must go on the side.”
Chantelle gave a ghost of a smile. “Maybe.”
She followed Emily out of the room. As they walked, Emily resisted the urge to pull her in for another hug, to promise that nothing would change, that there would be no loss or regret. Instead, she just matched her pace to her daughter’s, letting the day unfold, minute by ordinary minute.
In the kitchen, Cassie started ranting about the proper way to seed a cucumber, and Chantelle answered with a laugh that rang clear and unburdened, at least for now. Emily watched her daughter lean against her grandmother, and felt a ripple of new worry.
Emily’s first prenatal appointment was tomorrow. They hadn’t yet told Chantelle about the possibility of the new baby. If they told hernow, would she give up Boston and stay here? Or would she go, and feel even sadder that her chance came with that new loss of being part of their family life? Would she feel that the new baby was replacing her?
And they couldn’t possibly keep the new baby secret from her now—couldthey?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The exam room at Sunset Harbor Women’s Health was not what Emily expected. The floors were linoleum, not tile, and the walls wore a faded shade of celery that gave even the cleanest corners a sickly pallor. On the counter, a lineup of pamphlets—Nutrition in Pregnancy, Advanced Maternal Age, What to Expect—formed a small, rectangular battalion beneath the cabinets, flanked by a pyramid of latex glove boxes.
Emily sat on the vinyl-covered table, at their absolute earliest morning appointment, the paper sheet beneath her already creased and torn in several places, especially where her knees pressed in and out with the nervous rhythm of a marathoner waiting for the starting pistol.
Daniel perched on the single guest chair, his thighs too long for the space, arms folded. He wore the collared shirt he reserved for bank appointments and funerals, as if respect for the process could buy them better odds at Emilyadvanced maternal age. The only other sound in the room was the hum of the wall-mounted air conditioning unit, just loud enough to make a person think, now and then, that someone was standing just behind the closed door, ready to come in.
Emily shifted again, trying to find a posture that didn’t feel both exposed and ridiculous. The exam gown had no real closure at the back, just two strings that met at her mid-spine and did a half-hearted job of covering her. Her legs, white with goosebumps, looked foreign to her, as if she’d borrowed them from a mannequin. The monitor on the rolling cart still displayed the afterimage of her most recent ultrasound, a black-and-white halo, blurred at the edges, punctuated by a flickering blip in the center.
For a full thirty seconds, she let herself watch it, the baby’s heartbeat rendered as a steady strobe. There was awe in it, a fearsome awe, and something like relief that she couldn’t admit even to herself. It was real now. Emily wrapped her arms across her middle, hugging the edge of the gown to her ribs, and tried to breathe quietly so Daniel wouldn’t know how close she was to losing it.
“Looks healthy,” Daniel said, not quite a question.
“Textbook,” Emily answered. The ultrasound tech had said this to Emily before she’d now repeated it to Daniel. The tech was a stone-faced woman who’d offered no small talk and left the probe’s cold gel smeared across Emily’s belly as she printed out the photo and slid it across the paper sheet like a dealer showing a winning hand. Emily had folded the image into her purse without looking at it again.
Now, as she waited, the certainty of that small, flashing dot seemed less concrete.Why is the doctor taking so long? Is there something wrong?The room’s chemical tang—antiseptic, astringent, oddly sweet—climbed up the back of her throat. She wished she could have had coffee this morning, just something to anchor her, but she’d abstained in case of blood tests.
The door swung open on a rush of air, and Dr. Lieberman entered, a clipboard in one hand and a tablet in the other. Her face was thin, almost severe, but when she smiled, it was with the genuine care of someone who spent her days caring for people who needed her.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice pitched above the air conditioning. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s okay,” Daniel said, standing out of reflex and immediately realizing it wasn’t necessary. He sat again, hands braced on his knees.
Emily offered a smile.
Dr. Lieberman consulted the clipboard, eyes flicking from the top sheet to Emily’s chart on the tablet. “So,” she said, “looks like we’ve got some news since the last visit.”
Emily nodded, but the word wouldn’t come.
Lieberman’s gaze softened a shade. “I’ve reviewed your labs and the ultrasound. Everything looks very encouraging.” She glanced at Daniel, then back to Emily. “You’re about seven weeks, right on target. The embryo is developing as expected, and we have a nice, strong heartbeat.”
Emily swallowed. “That’s good.”
“It is.” The doctor pulled a rolling stool closer, perching on its edge. She set the clipboard aside, folding her hands. “But—and this is not a surprise, I’m sure—your age places this pregnancy in a higher risk category. The term we use is ‘advanced maternal age.’”
Daniel’s lips quirked. “Isn’t there a nicer term?”
Lieberman allowed herself a laugh. “Used to be called ‘geriatric pregnancy,’ if you can believe it. We retired that label. No one wants to be about to become a mom while they’re being called a grandma by their doctor.”
Emily felt her mouth twitch, but it wasn’t funny, not really. “Does that mean…” she started, then stopped. She didn’t want to ask, but the question tumbled out anyway. “What are the actual risks?”
The doctor didn’t flinch. “Most people in your situation do just fine. But statistically, there’s a higher incidence of complications: gestational diabetes, hypertension, sometimes more stress on the placenta. We monitor those closely. The big thing is increased risk for chromosomal anomalies—Down syndrome is the most common one, but there are others.” She kept her eyes steady, inviting questions.
Daniel’s posture went rigid, and Emily could feel the new density of the air between them. “Is that something we can test for?” he said, practical, already searching for solutions.
“There are screenings,” said Lieberman, “both noninvasive and diagnostic. We’ll walk through all of those today and at your next appointment. I know it’s a lot, and you both have already been through plenty, so let’s take it one step at a time.”
