Chapter 6
Abby
Eight Weeks
“Thompson?”
Hastily shoving my phone in my tote bag, I clumsily rise from the unbelievably uncomfortable waiting room chair.
Shouldn’t they want expecting mothers to be as comfortable as possible?
“Yes, hi, that’s me!”
The nurse smiles warmly at me, and I follow her down the hall into the exam room.
“How are you feeling today?” she asks as I hop up onto the equally uncomfortable exam table. The sanitary paper under me crinkles at an obnoxious volume, and I try my best not to fidget.
“Nauseous,” I say simply. “But also hungry. But also nothing sounds good.”
She chuckles, shaking her head with a knowing smile.
“Yes, ma’am, those rising hCG levels will do that to you.”
“Hmmm,” I hum absentmindedly, watching closely as she sets up several items on the exam tray. “What exactly am I in for today?” I ask nervously. I famously do not do well with doctors.
“The doctor will do a pelvic exam, and then just some routine testing, blood, urine, etcetera,” she says. “This is your first?”
“Yes,” I respond quietly.
She raises her head at the shift in my tone and looks at me with mild concern.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” she says in a comforting tone, misinterpreting the reason for the mood shift.
My first.
My only.
When I don’t respond, she follows up.
“Is Dad stuck at work?”
My stomach drops like a bag of bricks. I knew it would come up; it was inevitable. Babies don’t get made with just one person. But it still knocks the wind out of me.
“Dad, um, passed away,” I whisper, the lump building in my throat threatening to suffocate me.
I can almost see the wheels in her head turn as she does the math–eight weeks pregnant, and dad is dead. That means he died recently. And probably unexpectedly.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, honey,” she says, voice wavering. I am so goddamn sick of hearing those words, but when I see the tears glistening along her waterline, I can tell it’s not just empty words. She really means it.
And that means the world to me.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze. “Thank you.”
She turns away, trying and failing to subtly wipe away her tears as she gathers up more things that I’m not convinced she actually needs. After she regains her composure, she turns back around, suddenly looking very serious.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, bewildered by the change.
“No, honey, nothing is wrong,” she says, expression softening. “But I am going to ask you a difficult question, is that okay?”
I nod, breath hitching as I wait for whatever awful thing is coming.
“Is this a pregnancy you want to keep?”
I blink rapidly, trying to process what she’s asking.
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean,” she responds slowly, in the tone you might use while approaching an animal that gets easily spooked. “Have you been told what your options are?”
“My…options,” I repeat slowly.
“I am asking if you have considered terminating this pregnancy. Or if you were aware that the option is available to you.”
My jaw drops, and her eyes widen in horror.
“I don’t mean to imply anything,” she stammers, “And I’m certainly not trying to offend you.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” I say reassuringly, resting my hand on her forearm. “It’s just…we’re in Texas, and in a small town, and well, we know where most of the state stands on that.”
“Yes, we do,” she says bitterly, a muscle in her cheek twitching as she clenches her teeth. “But I’m in the business of caring for babies and mothers, and it’s no good for babies or mothers if you’re forced into something you aren’t ready for.”
Before I can stop myself, I hop off the table and pull her into a hug.
“Thank you,” I whisper, hugging her tight.
“You’re welcome,” she says, patting my cheek when we break apart.
“You know, I did consider it for a moment,” I say, staring at my feet where they dangle off the table I climbed back onto. “Whether it would be too painful. To do this without him. Or if I even wanted to try.”
I haven’t said those words out loud to anyone, and I can feel my cheeks heat with shame.
“But I couldn’t do that to his family. Or to myself.”
Tears stream down my face as I give myself a moment to feel the full weight of carrying a piece of Aaron without him here to do this with me.
“Little One’s dad was the very best of us,” I say with something between a sob and a laugh. “The world will be a brighter place with a bit of him still here. And we’ll all be better for it.”
“And that baby will be so lucky to have you as its mama,” the nurse adds, voice thick with emotion.
I smile at her, unable to find the words to express how much this conversation has meant to me.
I went back and forth for so long about whether this was the right choice, whether I’m even cut out to be a mother.
But facing the option today, there is no doubt in my mind–being Little One’s mom will be the greatest privilege of my life.
After an hour of being poked, prodded, and desperately battling performance anxiety to pee in that damn cup, the doctor tells me everything looks great and that she’ll see me in a few weeks.
“Well, wait a minute,” I shout in alarm. “Don’t I get to see them? Or hear the heartbeat? Anything?”
Pausing at the door, she smiles at me.
“That tiny human might still be a little too tiny for our machines to pick it up,” she explains. “But how about you come back in a week so we can go over your bloodwork, and we’ll see if we can’t catch ‘em on camera.”
I nod, sighing with relief—a week. I can wait a week.
After slipping back into my clothes and hugging Nurse Alisha (my new best friend) one last time, I walk down the hallway and back to the real world, feeling more confident than I have since the moment I saw those two pink lines.
I can do this. We can do this.
***
Standing in the vitamin aisle at the local pharmacy, my eyes scan the shelves for the brand of prenatal vitamin the doctor recommended.
I can feel eyes on me, and when I look up, I see two girls I went to high school with standing at the end of the aisle, whispering to each other.
When I wave, they quickly avert their eyes and hurry over to the next aisle.
“Okay, weirdos,” I mutter to myself, resuming my search for the vitamins. Once I find them, I hum triumphantly, throwing them into the handheld basket and heading for the checkout. Hushed voices stop me in my tracks.
“I’m just saying, it’s odd that she’s looking at pregnancy stuff.”
“Like, didn’t her husband just die? How is she already pregnant?”
“Do you think she was cheating on him?”
Shock sucks the air from my lungs, immediately followed by embarrassment. I love living in my small town, but sometimes there are moments that make me want to move into the city and escape into anonymity.
Embarrassment is quickly replaced by a cold rage.
Who in the hell do these bitches think they are?
Whipping around, I stalk toward the aisle the women disappeared to when I caught them staring.
“Excuse me,” I say loudly, causing them to jump. “If you have questions for me, I’m happy to answer them.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” one of them replies, feigning innocence.
“Okay, well, just to clear the air–yes, my husband did just die. No, I did not cheat on him. I’m so sorry that my being pregnant with my dead husband’s child has made you uncomfortable.”
Both women go red in the face, quickly stammering out apologies and explanations, but I cut them off with a sickly sweet, mildly threatening smile.
“In the future, please let me know if there is anything I can do to make you feel better. It’s not like I’m busy, oh I don’t know, grieving an unimaginable loss.”
Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel. Angrily shoving the vitamins into a bag at self-checkout, I storm out of the pharmacy, still shaking with anger. All the joy I felt after the appointment has evaporated.
It never occurred to me that people would have opinions about this, let alone negative ones. I guess even pregnant widows aren’t exempt from small-town gossip.
This is going to be a long nine months.