Page 189 of Say My Name

Dominic’s name fills the screen.

For one wild second, the old habit of avoidance screams at me to let it go to voicemail.

I can choose differently. I swipe to answer.

By Monday afternoon, the Telluride obstetrics intake form has been open on my laptop for twenty-three minutes.

I’ve completed three fields.

Name.

Date of birth.

Permanent address.

Chicago.

I typed that one without hesitation.

The next section asks about prior pregnancies, fertility treatment, medications, and the date of my last menstrual period. I can answer every question. I’ve tracked enough dates to complete the entire page from memory.

I keep returning to the emergency contact section.

Name.

Relationship to patient.

Phone number.

Maya would answer. Olivia would too. Cliff would get on the first plane available and be furious with me the entire way.

The person I want is Dominic.

He has been the person I wanted since the second line appeared on the pregnancy test, stark and blue and undeniable. My first thought was his name. My hand was already reaching for my phone before fear caught up.

The intake form blurs as a memory replaces it.

Dominic beside me in the fertility specialist’s office, a notebook open across his knee.

What should we expect?

Is there anything we should change?

When should we come back?

He said we without hesitating. He took notes, asked questions I forgot, and treated every appointment as part of his life because he intended to be there.

He wanted a child, but he also wanted the life around it. The appointments, the shared home, the ordinary mornings, and the nights no one sleeps.

I offered him two houses and a schedule. A spreadsheet for a life he wanted to share.

God.

I close the intake form.

A warning asks whether I’m sure I want to leave without saving. I click yes.

I’m not completing it later. I won’t need an obstetrician here.