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MICAH
Fuck.
Can’t hold the goddamn pen to save my life. But I will be damned if Janine sees my hand—or any other part of me—shake. Hell. No.
I stare down at the stack of papers trapped under the metal prong on the clipboard and lose focus. Zone out as the reality of what is happening hits harder. Black printed letters swirl in a sea of white and yellow and green sheets of paper. The letters jumble and spell new words. Words I refuse to believe until they are proven true.
I am not the father of this child. I am not the father of this child.
In thirty minutes, I have to let some unknown doctor or nurse stick an oversized cotton swab into my mouth and swipe it over the inside of my cheek. Take a sample of my DNA, seal it in a tube, and process it in some random lab to tell me whether or not I fathered an unborn baby.
I lift a loose fist to my lips, close my eyes, take a deep, shaky breath, and fight the bile creeping up my throat.
Then, the sensation subsides. Warmth radiates in my chest and settles every anxiety-ridden thought. I open my eyes and spy Peyton’s hand on my thigh. Her thumb stroking back and forth, back and forth. The small motion and weight of her hand is exactly what I need. An elixir.
She leans in, her breath hot on my ear and soothing for my soul. “Want me to fill it out?”
Peyton doesn’t ask because I appear incompetent. She asks because this is one of the most stressful circumstances in my adult life. Although I try to mask my difficulties, she sees the slight tremor in my limbs. The occasional bounce in my knee. Hears the slight hiccup in my breathing. Notices the fact I haven’t brought pen to paper and filled out the documents yet.
And this amazing woman—one I am damn lucky to call mine—offers to help. Offers to be my strength when I fear I cannot be.
“No, I got it.” I take a slow, deep breath. “Just don’t move your hand. Please.”
Once I finish the paperwork, which was way more involved than the basic questions a general practitioner asks, I hand it back to the man behind the reception counter and he returns my identification. Janine has yet to make an appearance, but I assume since she set all this up, she completed paperwork ahead of time.
Somewhere nearby, a clock second hand ticks softly behind the generic doctor waiting room music. A muted television plays a home renovation show. Disinfectant mixes with artificial rose air freshener and creates an unpleasant smell. And every five seconds, the man behind reception gives me a sad half smile.
The walls inch closer and my breath comes in short bursts. My nails bite the skin at the center of my palms and form deep crescent moons. I blink a few times as the room seems to bend and flex around me. The need to vomit and pass out hit me simultaneously as I break out in a cold sweat.
Can’t say I remember being claustrophobic at any point in my life, but I feel trapped inside myself. Incapable of doing anything, of speaking up, of running away. Is that what claustrophobia feels like? Being a prisoner in your own skin?
“You okay?” Peyton whisper-asks.
I subtly shake my head. “Not so much.”
She studies my face a beat. “Shit. You’re pale. Don’t move.” She bolts from the chair and steps into the bathroom off the waiting area. Before the count of ten, she sits beside me and presses a cool, damp paper towel to the back of my neck. “Deep breaths,” she whispers. “Close your eyes. I’m here. I got you.”
I do as she suggests and close my eyes. Focus on my breathing and her hand at the back of my neck as the other draws small, lazy circles on my thigh. And it helps. Settles my heart rate and breathing. Calms my crazed thoughts of what if.
And Peyton is the key. The epicenter of tranquility. If not for her, I would be passed out on the floor.
“Thank you,” I say and lay a hand over hers. “Wouldn’t be able to get through this without you.”
She kisses my temple. “Glad you have me.”
“Me too.”
“Mr. Reed?” a shorter woman asks as she steps into the waiting area with a file folder clutched to her chest.
“Yes,” I choke out. “That’s me.”
She gives a bright smile, one I am sure she reserves for clients. “If you’ll come with me.”
Looking at Peyton, I ask, “Can she come back too?”
“Yes.” She nods to reaffirm. “She may join us.”
We rise from our chairs and head for the door. Just as we reach it, the front door to the clinic office opens and in walks Janine. The first thing I notice is how large her belly is. Like way too big to be only roughly three months pregnant, but not quite third trimester pregnant.
But I don’t have time to think on it as the woman in the white coat escorts us farther into the lab.
The first thing I notice as we walk down a corridor is how sterile this place looks and feels. Not that doctor offices don’t typically appear neat and hygienic, but this place is next level. Bare white walls—no generic health posters in cheap frames or doctorate degrees. Shiny light-gray linoleum floors that reflect the fluorescent lighting and squeak if you stub your shoe sole. And the antiseptic smell… the stinging smell ten times worse back here than the waiting room.
White coat lady leads us into a small room off the hall and directs me to sit on the exam table. Peyton sits in a chair off to the side and remains quiet as the woman explains the process.
“Mr. Reed, the procedure to collect your DNA sample is simple and painless.” She points to a paper-lined tray on a rolling cart where sealed tubes and packaged cotton swabs wait to be used. “This tube is labeled with a barcode matching that in our file.” She opens my file, then holds up the tube and shows me the matching barcodes. “This is to protect your sample once it goes to processing. Your name will not appear on anything, which keeps the test confidential. After processing, your DNA sample is then destroyed.” She sets the tube back on the tray and closes the file. Then points to the sealed cotton swab. “The sterile swab will be used to catch saliva and cells from your cheek. Then it is placed in the tube and a new seal is placed on the sample. Do you have any questions before I collect the sample?”
The test seems pretty straightforward and noninvasive. I expected needles and hair plucking and skin scraping until I searched the web last night. When I learned a ball of cotton on a long stick would be rubbed along the inside of my cheek, I questioned the testing system. Seems too easy. To swipe someone’s cheek to learn their internal fingerprint.
“How long will the results take?” I ask.
