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“Miss Rose?” She glances up, adjusting her glasses as she takes in the three of us. Her harsh gaze settles on Damien. “I prefer to do the initial exam in private, if that is fine with you?”
I swallow, mustering all of my courage to turn and smile at him.
“I'll be right outside.” He squeezes my hand once more before standing and following the technician out of the small exam room.
As the door closes behind them, she sets the clipboard on the counter. Straightening her lab coat, she sits down on the stool the young tech just vacated and squirts more cold goo on my exposed stomach. I shiver, staring blankly at the clear glob.My stomach’s no longer completely flat. There’s a slight bump showing. Not anything anyone else could ever see. But enough to make me wish it was real, that my life was different.
“How did you get those scars?” she asks, like she's talking about the weather.
I blink up at her.
She places the wand on my stomach, the soft heartbeat filling the room as she continues asking question after question, without a hint of emotion. Do I feel safe? Did Damien do that to me? How old are the scars?
I tune her out, already knowing the inevitable, but still listening to the faint dream I can never have.
“Well,” she sets the wand down and rolls her shoulders back, “the baby is healthy. Based on my calculations, you are about nine weeks along. At your next appointment, we should be able to tell the gender.”
Next appointment?
I jerk my head toward her, sitting up slightly. “But I can't–”
“Given the,” she glances at the screen before meeting my eyes, “severity of scarring along your genital tract, I would advise against attempting a natural birth. However, your uterus appears fine. As long as we plan a cesarean delivery, I see no reason you can't carry the baby to term.”
Tears cloud my eyes. “I-I can have it?”
“I would like to monitor you closely, possibly put you on antidepressants and something for the morning sickness, but yes, you are going to have a baby.” She clicks a few buttons on the computer. A small picture pops out the bottom of a big machine. She places it in both of my hands.
A baby. My baby.
Like a dam breaking, the tears fall from my eyes. I can keep it. I'm not completely broken.
* * *
“It will be fine. I’m here.” Damien wraps his arm around my side, pulling me close as he guides me up the narrow driveway.
My stomach turns. I clench my purse, the picture hidden safe inside. It’s mine. They cannot take it from me.
I stop, my heels digging into the gravel and probably ruining them. “Please,” I turn toward him, “I don’t want to tell them.”
“Kalena, they’re your parents. They should know.”
I glance up at the small house. They peer out the single window with that same look from the night they kicked me out. Blank. Her words resound in my head, playing over and over. I shiver, clutching my purse tighter. “Please. Not yet.”
“Okay,” he tucks my hair behind my ear and gives me a small smile, that sweet one he saves only for me, “whenever you’re ready.”
Ready. I choke back a laugh. I'll never be ready.
I can't do this.
“Maybe we should just–l,” I glance behind me at the black rental car. It's not too late. We can still turn around.
Before I can finish, the front door swings open. My father's voice booms out into the yard. “There's my baby girl, finally home.” It’s menacing, not warm and loving, sending hot shivers up my spine.
Home.
Bile rises in my throat. My feet twitch, ready to turn and run.
Damien squeezes my side, holding me tight to him. His warmth seeps into me, calming my nerves. Finally, I nod.
