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But although I was trying to convince myself I would be okay—in fact, I’d be better off—if this all went away, I wasn’t that good at lying to myself. And the truth was I wanted this baby.
Already.
Even though I’d made my peace with a child-free life. Even though it made things a thousand times more complicated. Even though it ended things with me and Kip.
I wanted it.
Therefore, I was fucking terrified.
Nora grasped my hand that had been lying on top of my jiggling thigh. She squeezed it tightly.
“It’s going to be okay,” she promised.
I nodded because I didn’t quite trust myself to speak. I didn’t believe her. She couldn’t know it was going to be okay. But holding her hand, I did feel a little better. Because I wasn’t completely alone.
* * *
I’d almost thrown up on the walk to the ultrasound room. Then I’d almost passed out putting the gown on.
I had been sure that I’d dealt with the past as much as that kind of shit could be dealt with. I was proud of how I’d recovered, what a tough bitch I was. Turned out I’d excelled at creating a life that didn’t put me in contact with things that would send me hurtling back into the past, all the trauma fresh and visceral.
The dark ultrasound room with the TV perched on the wall, the table with the stirrups, the crinkle of the paper underneath my bare ass—all familiar and terrible.
The sonographer was nice enough. I think. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember a reaction with her beyond trying to resemble a human who wasn’t on the verge of bolting from the room, sans underwear.
“Okay, here we are, and here’s the heartbeat,” the sonographer said, the ultrasound wand moving inside me.
I was no stranger to having a condom-covered probe shoved inside me, but it wasn’t something you got used to.
Except while staring at that screen, at the little shape that looked like a gummy bear and had a flickering heartbeat, I totally forgot about the wand.
A heartbeat.
“You’re measuring at eight weeks two days,” the sonographer continued. “And from what I can see, everything looks great.”
Nora’s hand squeezed mine.
I stared at the screen.
“Holy shit,” I muttered.
This was getting real.
* * *
After the giant probe was removed from my vag and I got my underwear back on, I moved to an exam room, clutching black-and-white ultrasound pictures and still feeling somewhat shell-shocked.
My OBGYN was an older woman with a kind smile and a sunny disposition. She went through all the basics of being pregnant, the dos and don’ts, while I had a low roar in my ears.
“I was told that I’d never… get pregnant or carry a baby to term,” I explained when she’d finished, my voice sounding hollow and faraway.
She clicked on her computer, staring at my records, I guessed. I didn’t have many beyond the pap smears I came here for.
“Well, we haven’t been able to get your records from your previous doctor,” she said, clicking her tongue. “But from what you’ve told me, your history might be a sign of some preexisting problem, or it could always be really, really bad luck.” She tapped some keys on the computer.
“I don’t like to rest on my heels and say that, though. So I’ll run some tests, put you on oral progesterone if that level is low, and a low-dose aspirin. I can’t make promises this early on, but everything looks wonderful to me.” She gave me a kind smile. “Sometimes, these kinds of things happen to women. Sometimes they get explanations. Sometimes not. Unfortunately, science is not kind to women, and like in most other things in life, we’re expected to shoulder some of life’s greatest pains, ones men can never know and would likely never survive.”
I thought of Kip, of that empty look in his eyes, how seemingly easy it was for him to check out and leave me to deal with this alone. How that was an option for him. Then I thought further back, to the man who’d been mad at me for being unable to attend some charity function or another while I was actively miscarrying.
