“And that little white speck inside it, that’s the yolk sac.”
“That’s it?” I blurt.
Dr. Todd huffs a kind laugh. “That’s it, for now. You’re measuring about five weeks, three days. It’s still early. We won’t see a fetal pole or hear a heartbeat for another week or two. If that math sounds off, that’s because we count from the time of your last menstruation, not from the date of conception.”
“So… is it okay?” I mumble. “Is it— Is there a heartbeat?”
“There may not be one yet to find. That’s normal at this stage. We’ll bring you back in about two weeks for a follow-up to confirm viability and dating.” She must clock the freaking-the-fuck-out look on my face, because she softens her voice and pats my knee through the sheet. “What you’re seeing is exactly what I’d expect to see. No red flags. It’s just early.”
Confirm viability. As in, sometimes there isn’t any. As in, in two weeks, I might come back and find out my blueberry already gave up the ghost.
Dr. Todd hands me a paper towel and helps me sit up. “Based on your dates, due date works out to around September fourth. Give or take. We’ll pin that down at the next visit.”
The thought of concepts like “September” are basically fictional right now. Beyond the six-week cliff, my future is as gray and indistinct as the sonogram.
“Any questions for me?” the doctor asks.
I don’t trust my voice right now, so I just shake my head. Dr. Todd pats my knee again and tells me to dress, then leaves. The nurse stays behind, typing into the computer.
“So we’ll see you back in a couple of weeks for the next ultrasound,” she says, eyes on the screen, fingers clicking away. “Looks like Dr. Todd has openings—let me see—Tuesday the twenty-eighth at nine, or Thursday the thirtieth at eleven thirty…”
I’m half-dressed, leggings up, sweater being tugged down over my head, when she swivels in her chair and looks at me with her pen poised over the appointment card.
“… And would you like me to schedule that with the father, or just yourself?”
I freeze, one arm still trapped in my sleeve. “I’m sorry?”
“For the next visit.” Her face is patient, totally neutral, no judgment anywhere. “Sometimes, partners want to come for the bigger ultrasound. Or, sometimes, just Mom. Either way works. I just like to put a note in the file so we know what to expect.”
I stand there with my arm in my sleeve, feeling humiliated for no reason at all.
Matvei and I said we were partners, but not inthis. He’s there to help me take lifeoutof this world, not bring new lifeintoit. So right now, I’m all alone in this department.
“Just me,” I manage to squeak. “For the next one. Just me, please.”
“Great.” She hands me a card with the date printed on it and a paper bag with a stack of pamphlets and a bottle of prenatals. “Don’t forget the vitamins. One a day. With food, ideally.”
I take everything, reassemble my shittyI do not wish to be perceivedoutfit, then stride as confidently as I can manage out of the office.
I make it half a block before I have to lean against the side of a building and hyperventilate.
It’s decided: I’ll tell him on Saturday. I’ll find a moment once all the madness is done and I’ll tell him.
Part of my motivation is truly selfless. A baby’s father deserves the chance to be included in some way, shape, or form.
But another part of it is as selfish as it gets. Ineedto know whether the man who took a knife for me before he knew my last name will still want to walk through fire for me when he finds out he’s not just walking for one.
17
MAT
The Pierre dresses up nice for a bar association dinner. That’s about all I can say about the place tonight.
The ballroom’s been done up in warm gold lighting and white linens, dotted with centerpieces of hothouse roses. Needless to say, there’s crystal fucking everywhere.
I’ve been here for an hour already, and it’s quickly found a home at the top of my rankings forLongest Hours of My Fucking Life.The Glock is tucked into the small of my back, under my jacket, nestled against a slick of sweat.
Raymond is in rare form tonight. He’s on his fourth bourbon, and it shows. “—and I told the kid, ‘Look, son, if you don’t know the difference between a 10b-5 claim and your own asshole, you’ve got no business in this room.’” He cackles and slaps the table so hard that the ice in everyone’s glasses jumps. “Right, Matvei? Tell them. Tell them what I told the kid.”
