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“Are you sure it’s here?” I ask Stassi, peering at the backs of broken-down buildings and overflowing dumpsters.
“Of course. I’ve been coming here since I was seventeen.” She checks her phone. “Can you drive faster? We’re going to be late.”
That’s my fault. I got a late start—I’m not the most punctual of people. But the clock on the dash says we still have five minutes. “Relax. Appointments never start on time anyway. Doctors are used to it.”
The alley ends at a small parking lot. I find the only empty space and look over at the one-story building. It was modern, back in the seventies, with a brown shingle roof, covered in rust-colored pine needles. There’s a misshapen evergreen bush covering much of the door, but I can make out the words “FREEMAN” and “Obstetrics” on it. “
That’s the place?” I point.
She’s already halfway out the door. “Yep. Stay here if you want.”
I’ve never known this city to be unsafe, but in this neighborhood, I’m starting to rethink that. “No, I’m coming in.”
I stay close to her on the short walk to the door. Before I can reach for it, she stops. “Um—really, you don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.”
“What are you talking about? Of course I want to.”
“I’m just saying,” she speaks over me. “That Dr. Freeman has been my doctor for a long time. Her place might not be the nicest, she might not have the most up-to-date equipment, and she might be no-nonsense, but I like her. And if you have a problem with that …”
She doesn’t finish, but from the way she’s looking at me, I imply the rest of the sentence: I can go screw myself.
More ground rules. Ever since I’ve learned I’m going to be a father, I’ve noticed most of what Stassi says to me takes that form. There hasn’t been any discussion where the kid is concerned. She’s already made up her mind and is just informing me what is going to be done. I haven’t pushed back because I know she’s going through a lot. But damn.
“She does know about epidurals?” I ask. “Right?”
I’m only kidding, but Stassi’s clearly not in the mood for my lame jokes today.
She glares at me and opens the door on her own. “I’ve already put together my birthing plan. I’m going to have this baby naturally.”
“You have? Would you mind sharing it with—”
I stop when I realize we’re in a waiting room full of women. Many are pregnant. A couple are nursing. They’re all quiet, looking at us. Somewhere, a television tuned to a morning talk show is droning on, canned laughter in the background. I stand there, feeling like the odd man out. Technically, I am the odd man since I’m the only guy in the room.
Stassi marches up to the glass separator. When the clerk behind it pulls it back, she says, “Stassi Hutton. I have a ten o’clock ultrasound appointment?”
There’s nowhere to sit, so I end up staring at a rack of brochures on Genital Herpes and Pain During Intercourse. When she wanders back to me, I whisper in her ear. “Are you going to share it with me?”
“Share what?” Her face is twisted in confusion.
“Your birthing plan.”
“Why? Are you planning to carry this baby?” she snaps.
I open my mouth to respond, but quickly clamp it shut when I realize I’ve got nothing.
Instead, I look over at an old lady who’s pretending to peruse the pages of an old Reader’s Digest but is obviously listening in on us.
These past weeks have been brutal. The sheer amount of discipline it takes to be cordial, keep my hands to myself, and not punish her lips with a kiss every time she says something smart? I deserve an award for the Olympic-level self-restraint I’ve exercised.
Still, I think she’s warming up to me. She actually told me about her first ultrasound appointment and asked if I wanted to take her instead of catching an Uber, so that’s progress.
But she’s out of her mind if she thinks she can keep the medical part of this a secret from me. I am a doctor, goddammit. I’ve delivered babies in medical school. I don’t know everything, but I know a thing or two.
Plus, not all doctors are created equally, and I’m not really sure I want my baby to be delivered by a half-assed practitioner who’s running an obstetrics practice out of what appears to be a former KFC. My kid deserves the best, not a waiting room with peeling wallpaper and mismatched chairs, and a doctor who graduated from some Caribbean med school.
Yeah, I looked her up.
Dr. Freeman is nothing like Dr. Patel, who is one of the best obstetricians in the country.
Stassi manages to snag a chair when another patient gets called back. Crossing her legs, her foot bounces and she stares blankly ahead at the wall.
