17. Another Pregnancy Symptom
17
Another Pregnancy Symptom
Our legacy is more than the clinics and schools we built. Personally, I hope I showed these women, all children of God, they were worthy of love and care, even the forgotten ones. I hope I ignited the fire to fight for themselves and their daughters. If even one of them carries that flame forward to build a better world, that’s all the legacy I need.
Sister Frances Pernaska, Catholic Aid Services
LUCIE
I stomped into the office, grumpy and late. Grumpy because none of my pants fit anymore and late because I’d insisted on trying on every pair I owned to confirm it. I’d ended up wearing the same black, stretchy-waist skirt I’d worn every day this week. But the crowning aggravation was that the fitted shirt I’d put on wouldn’t button over my growing belly. I’d had to throw on a sweater to hide the gap. And on the third day of an unseasonable-for-June heat wave, I’d sweated all the way to work.
As I poured myself a cup of disgusting decaf in the breakroom, Mario strode in. He grabbed the pot of regular coffee and sloshed it into his mug.
“We missed you at the morning meeting,” he said. “I assigned you a piece on the protest at City Hall.”
“What are they protesting?” I picked up my phone, trying not to be jealous of his coffee, which must taste fresher than this swill.
“The assault weapons ban.”
I tilted my head. “Hasn’t that been in effect for decades?”
He shrugged. “Guess they still don’t like it. Try to come up with a fresh angle.”
“A fresh angle on something that’s been law since before the internet?”
“I have faith,” he said.
My heart soared at the praise. Until he said the next thing.
“Didn’t you wear that skirt yesterday? Laundry machine broken at your place?” His gaze slid down my body, and heat rushed up my neck.
My crankiness dialed up to eleven when Tad sauntered in, looking not at all sweaty but with dark circles under his eyes. He shuffled to the regular coffee pot.
“Howard literally wears the same mustard-yellow shirt every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” I said. “It’s still got the ketchup stain from the hot dog he ate at his desk on Wednesday.”
“Really?” My boss wrinkled his nose. “I never noticed.”
“Maybe I should write an article on the different fashion expectations for women and men in the workplace.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Mario said. “I was expressing concern. You don’t usually look this sloppy.”
“Sloppy?” My face burned. I tugged my black sweater down over the skirt. “I never look sloppy.”
His lip curled. “Sitting at a desk all day can be hard on your body. Some time at the gym would make you feel healthier, like Tad here.” Mario clapped him on the shoulder. “He and I go to the gym every night after work.”
Tad flashed him a smarmy smile. “Good for my body, plus it keeps me out of the house when the kids are at their worst, right before dinner.”
“Must be nice,” I said, “to stroll into your house, dinner on the table and kids cared for.”
“It is,” Tad said. “Though you don’t have to worry about that. No spouse, no kids. Just freedom.”
“And work,” Mario added. “People without kids pick up the slack for the rest of us.”
“Yeah.” I forced a nonchalant smile onto my face, trying not to think about how much Mario was going to hate it when I told him I was going to take maternity leave. After Tad returned from his two weeks of paternity leave, our boss had given him shit assignments for almost a month. Not to mention how he’d act when I came back and had to miss work whenever the kid was sick.
“With all that free time, Lucie, you should try the gym,” Mario said. “Firm up that belly.” Slapping his taut stomach, he turned and sauntered out.
“Have fun at the rally.” Smirking, Tad followed him.
I curled my fingers so tightly around my mug that I thought it might crack. I looked sloppy? Fuck him. Fuck them both.
But Mario was my boss, and I needed my health insurance. And, apparently, a pair of pants that fit so I could blend in with the guys. It was time to dig into that bag of scary maternity clothes Carly had brought me.
I poured my decaf down the sink, rinsed out my mug, and headed back to my desk to gather my things. I had a meaningless protest to cover.
“ D o you think I look sloppy?” I asked as I swung my feet over the side of the exam table the Friday after Mario recommended I go to the gym.
“Sloppy?” Savannah scrunched her nose. “No. You always look edgy and intentional about what you’re wearing, unlike me.” She pointed at her pink velour tracksuit and then up at her hair, which was pulled back from her face in a clip. “My grays are awful.”
They did look pretty obvious because of the line where her blond hair dye started. I didn’t think she wanted me to agree with her, but I wouldn’t lie. “You look comfortable. And you work at home, so it doesn’t matter what you wear.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t.” She looked down at her white sneakers.
I shifted, crinkling the paper I sat on. “I didn’t mean it doesn’t matter what you wear. I just mean that no one is judging you for it.”
“Are people at work judging you?”
“My boss asked if my washing machine was broken.” I pointed at my black skirt folded on the chair next to Savannah’s. “That is literally the only thing I don’t hate that fits me.”
“The in-between time,” she said, “when your regular clothes don’t fit, but you’d be swimming in maternity clothes, is the worst. Maybe Carly can help you out. I bet she’s hidden a baby bump or two.”
I smoothed down the paper gown. “Anything Carly picked would make me stand out. I need to blend in with the guys I work with. Whenever my boss remembers I’ve got a uterus, I get the shit assignments.”
“That stinks. What did he say when you told him you were expecting?”
I barked out a bitter laugh. “I’m not saying a word. I’ll never get another decent assignment again if he thinks I’m, like, maternal and shit.”
She gave me a flat look. “You’re going to have to tell him.”
“Am I, though? What if I faked an injury and worked remotely until the baby’s born?”
“It’s kind of hard to get maternity benefits if they don’t know you’re pregnant.”
“Maybe I don’t need maternity benefits. If I’m working at home, I can watch the baby and work at the same time.”
Savannah shook her head. “I’m not sure you realize how hard childbirth is on your body. Or how much care newborns need. Maybe you need to find a different job.”
“Who’d hire a pregnant person?” I asked. “‘Please give me a job, and by the way, I’m about to disappear on you for three months.’”
“They can’t discriminate against you. It’s illegal.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I know, I know, of course they’d get away with it.” She sighed.
I examined my toes. “I’ll fake some sports injury and say I have to work from home. Though my boss might forget I exist, and I’d be that much easier to let go in the next round of layoffs.”
“Layoffs?” Savannah’s eyes widened.
“Print media is dying. And don’t get me started on generative AI. Of course there’ll be layoffs.”
She crossed her legs. “I’m sorry. But you’ve got your book deal. Could you write full time?”
“Not unless it really takes off. My advance was decent, but it’s paid out in chunks. I’d have to have a few more books earning royalties to replace my salary.”
She flashed me an encouraging smile. “I have confidence in you.”
I wish I did.
There was a knock on the door, then it opened and Dr. Cheema bustled in. “Good afternoon, Lucie. How are you feeling today?”
Dr. Cheema didn’t want to hear that I felt like crap about my job, so I said, “I’m okay.”
“Any morning sickness? Swelling in your ankles? Constipation? Bloating?”
“No. Thank god. That sounds terrible.”
Savannah snorted. “Just wait a few months. That’s not even the worst of it.”
“Wait, what’s worse?” I asked.
“Sciatica. Varicose veins. At nine months, I couldn’t take a full breath,” Savannah said. Then she gasped. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’ll forget all about it when the baby’s born.”
“Baby brain.” Dr. Cheema nodded. “Lie back, and I’ll take some measurements.”
I lay down on the table.
“Have you been reading The Book?” Savannah asked. “It’s all in there. If you’re curious.”
I’d stacked two biographies and a thriller on top of it on my bedside table. “Not yet.”
“Read it. It’ll help.”
“Your friend is right,” Dr. Cheema said, laying a very unscientific-looking tape measure across my baby bump. “More information is always better.”
My head was ready to burst with all the interviews I’d done for my book. I couldn’t squeeze in an entire baby book. Not until I was done with mine. So I changed the subject. “Thanks for the external ultrasound this time.”
She pocketed her measuring tape. “Your baby’s big enough that we can scan it from the outside.” She flicked on the screen, and we all peered at it. “Your baby looks healthy. Development is on track, heartbeat is in the normal range. Blood flow looks good, and the placenta and amniotic fluid are normal.”
On the screen was a black-and-white profile of a baby. Its head was huge and its little body was curled up. I thought I could make out a bent leg and possibly— “Are those its fingers?”
“Good eye. Baby’s hand is up in front of its face, and those are its fingertips. Here, there’s sound too.” Dr. Cheema clicked a button, and a rhythmic whooshing sound started. It reminded me of when I was a little girl, and I’d lie on the couch with my mom, listening to her heartbeat.
Hearing the baby’s heart beating and seeing those five tiny bright points on the screen made something slot into place. There was an actual baby inside me. It had fingers and, I assumed, toes. It had a face. And a heartbeat that proved it was alive.
I couldn’t distinguish any features. It looked like a generic baby. But it might have my father’s nose. Or my mother’s. My brown eyes. Danny’s firm jaw.
“Do you want to know the baby’s sex?” Dr. Cheema asked.
“You can tell?” I asked.
“Baby cooperated, so I’m fairly certain.”
I exchanged a glance with Savannah. She’d been so supportive through this. She’d been a wonderful friend, but she wasn’t the baby’s parent. It didn’t seem right to share the knowledge with her first. Especially after Danny had done me such a huge favor by introducing me to Sister Frances. Her interview had been gold.
“Could you write it on a piece of paper for me? I’d like to, um, share it with the father first.”
“Aw.” Savannah clapped softly. “I love that. We can seal it in an envelope with some of the screenshots, and you can have a little moment together.”
“It’s not a moment,” I grumbled. “It’s a reveal of what type of genitalia the baby has. It says nothing about what sort of person they’ll grow into.”
“Still…” She gave me a sidelong glance. “I think it’s adorable that you want to find out together. But you’ll tell me after? I want to get you an annoyingly gendered gift.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “And yes, I will.” I reached out a hand, and she clasped it. “Thank you for coming to my appointments with me.”
“…but now you want to ask Danny if he wants to come with you.” She nodded. “I’m glad. But if he can’t make it, call me, okay?”
“Yeah. God, my eyes are burning. I think it must be the low light in here.”
Dr. Cheema and Savannah exchanged a glance. “Pregnancy symptom,” they said at the same time.
“Your hormone levels are fluctuating,” my doctor said, handing me a tissue. “You’ll probably experience more emotional shifts than usual.”
I blotted my eyes. “Goddammit.”