Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Six weeks of fucking. We’ve never done anything like it all the years we’ve been married. We never could have. Almost every single day, I either woke up hard and she rode me in the morning, or we were peeling off clothes the moment we walked in the door from work. The first week I was hesitant, wondering if she was going to pull back, lose interest. But she didn’t. It’s felt a bit like the honeymoon we never had. And it seems like my strategy fucking worked.
I glance at the clock. Our appointment with Lydia’s doctor isn’t for two more hours, but then we’ll know for sure. I was actually surprised she was able to get in so quickly. It’s only been six days since she took the home test. But when she said they had an opening, I promised I’d be there. I meant it when I told her we’d do this together.
I can tell she’s a little freaked out, but every time I look at her—I can’t even describe how it feels. Weird and fantastic. It sounds kind of primitive, but I just keep thinking there is a life growing inside her and I put it there. We did. Together. It certainly won’t fill the space my mother left when she died, but it fills my heart in a strange way, knowing there’s this new part of us on the way.
I get back to my office after a meeting just before four, and I’m about to gather my things and head out to our appointment, but I pause when Carl shows up at my door.
“Anton, I just wanted to say nice work this afternoon. We’re in good shape with the Castro account, due in large part because of how thorough you are with your projections.”
“Thanks, Carl. You know I like to cross my T’s and dot my I’s.”
“Indeed,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “While I have you, Derek and I have been discussing different space needs for the Springs office. I’d like you to drive down with me and look at some of the possibilities in the next week or so.”
It isn’t a question, so I just nod. “Of course. Should I coordinate schedules with Milo?”
“Let’s make it the two of us this time.” He gives me one of his broad smiles, then steps in and closes the door. “Anton, if you’re willing to take this on, I think we could discuss making you a junior partner.”
“That’s...” I set my keys down and swallow. “Thank you, sir.”
He grins. “I’m excited about this opportunity for you.”
“I am too,” I say, and I mean it. The last month or so has been a struggle, but I’ve been with Vesper since I got out of college and I’ve always tried to give Carl my best. “When do you think we might want to get off the ground?”
“Oh, it’s going to take some time,” he says. “Not before the new year. And Derek and I are still hashing out some organizational ideas, so realistically, we might be looking at spring.”
“Well, I can’t wait to hear more about it.” We shake hands, and I thank him again. But my enthusiasm fades as he leaves my office and I pick up my keys again. There was a time when being offered a junior partnership would have been the most exciting news I could’ve received. But it looks like there will be a lot of big changes coming this spring.
The address Lydia gave me for her OB/GYN is right next to Rose Hospital. It looks much like any doctor’s offices from the outside, but once I step through the door, the specialty is obvious. The waiting room is filled with women of all ages. Some aren’t obviously pregnant, but many are, and the only other guy in the room sits with a lady who looks like she swallowed two watermelons.
A receptionist behind the desk gives me a skeptical look. “Are you here for an appointment, sir?”
“Umm . . .”
“We’re here to see Dr. Sharma at four thirty—Lydia Richie?” my wife says, coming through the door behind me. I exhale, looking at her with a little thrill. Her presence gives me permission to be here, but also, I’m just plain excited.
While we wait for the receptionist to find Lydia’s name in the system, I take her hand and squeeze. She looks fantastic. We both came from work, and it’s still warm for September, so she’s in shorts and a tank top. But I guess some of the things people say about pregnancy must be true because she looks more beautiful than usual. It has been so hard to resist putting my hands all over her since I saw those positive tests—especially after spending the last several weeks the way we have. But she’s started complaining of nausea, and that she’s tired all the time, and I’ve tried to respect that. I’m not even sure it’s okay for us to have sex. I have a whole list of questions for her doctor.
“All right, we’ve got you all checked in. If you’ll just provide a urine sample,” the receptionist says, handing over a plastic specimen cup, “they’ll call you back in a minute.”
Lydia does as she’s asked, but when she comes back, she seems even quieter. After they bring us back to a room, take her weight and blood pressure, and ask the date of her last period, she still doesn’t say much. When they ask her to undress, I’m starting to feel useless, so I take her clothes and shoes, folding and tucking them neatly aside while she situates herself on the exam table.
“Nervous?” I ask once she’s settled in a gown with a paper sheet draped over her like a blanket.
“I guess,” she murmurs.
“You... you look beautiful,” I say, resisting the urge to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear.
She glances at me, and it’s hard to read her expression, but at that moment there’s a knock on the door, and a woman with red glasses and deep brown skin enters the room .
“Lydia! Nice to see you!” She greets my wife with a warm smile, which Lydia returns, and I’m grateful to see her whole demeanor improve with her doctor in the room.
“Great to meet you,” I say when Lydia introduces me.
“Well, your urine culture sure was positive, but we’ll just do a quick ultrasound and get this all confirmed,” the doctor says, approaching Lydia calmly and efficiently. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, I guess. Mostly tired.” Lydia lies back on the exam table while the doctor looks her over, pulling her gown aside at one point to examine her breasts. There is absolutely nothing sexual about anything she’s doing. But all of this is so foreign to me, I’m afraid I’ll be caught ogling, so I look away.
“All right, let’s get down to business.” Dr. Sharma adjusts the exam table and helps Lydia place her feet in a couple of metal stirrups that pop out of the end. Then she dims the lights and takes a seat on a stool in front of a small white machine. I expect her to pick up the sensor and place it on Lydia’s midsection the way I’ve seen it done in movies, but my eyebrows shoot up as she opens a condom and slides it over a long white wand attached to the machine. “Transvaginal ultrasound,” she says, apparently reading my face. “Best way to see everything in the early stage.”
She squirts a lump of lube onto the tip of the condom, then turns to Lydia.
“There will be a little pressure. Let me know if anything is uncomfortable.”
She reaches under the drape with the device, and I grab Lydia’s hand. She looks at me and squeezes my fingers, and for a second, her eyes seem scared. But then the doctor flips a switch on the machine and our attention is drawn to a loud, rapid squishing sound filling the room.
“There we are,” the doctor says, focused on a dark, bean-shaped image on a screen. She glances at us and smiles. “That’s a nice strong heartbeat.”
My mouth drops open. I refocus on the rapid rhythm, and my molasses brain finally catches up. “That’s a baby?” I look at Lydia, but she doesn’t return my gaze. She’s staring wide-eyed at the screen. “That’s our baby? ”
“Congratulations!” The doctor types into the computer with one hand and adjusts the wand, appearing to take a few measurements. “My best guess... you’re around seven or eight weeks.”
“Wait. What?” Lydia tears her eyes from the image, staring at Dr. Sharma. “That can’t be right. I just had my period in early August.”
The doctor chuckles. “Technically, the first two weeks of pregnancy, you’re not even pregnant. Those are the weeks your body gets ready to ovulate, preparing for fertilization. But they go into the total count.” She pivots on her stool, taking a look at her laptop screen. “By the time you missed your period and took your test, you were already six weeks along.”
Lydia clutches my hand, staring at the blob on the screen. “But I...” Her voice trails off.
I close my eyes, transfixed by the sound. The life that has joined us in the room.
“The good news is, your first trimester is already almost over. Once you get to twelve weeks, things tend to get smoother.” Dr. Sharma presses a few buttons on the machine and it spits out two small squares of paper. Then she must withdraw the device from Lydia, because the image on the screen disappears and a hush falls over the room. As soon as it’s gone, all I want is to hear it again.
The doctor cleans Lydia up, throws out the condom, and puts the machine away, handing us each a printout of the sonogram to take home. “Do either of you have questions?” she asks, looking at us pointedly over her glasses.
Lydia doesn’t acknowledge her, just stares at the picture.
“When—” I croak, surprised by the emotion in my voice. “When will it—he—she? Be born?”
She flips the lights back on and references a calendar on the counter. “Let’s shoot for... May sixteenth.”
“Wait,” Lydia says. Maybe it’s the lights coming on, or mention of the due date, but she straightens, looking earnestly at Dr. Sharma. “What changes at twelve weeks that you were talking about?”
“Nothing, really.” The doctor shrugs. “But it’s roughly the end of the first trimester, which is when most women start to have more energy and feel better. Some people like to wait till twelve weeks to announce their pregnancies since there’s a slightly higher chance of miscarriage in the first trimester.”
Lydia’s eyebrows shoot up. “You mean there’s some chance it won’t...”
I squeeze her hand. And the doctor is quick to shake her head. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Some pregnancies do end early, and I could bore you with the statistics, but there’s no reason to expect that. Just let us know if you have any bleeding or discomfort. Otherwise, I’ll see you for your next check in four weeks.”
She reaches for the door, and I glance at Lydia, who’s staring at the ultrasound image in her hand, biting her lip. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Whether she’s excited or scared. Even I keep ricocheting back and forth between the two. I take her hand again and put myself right in front of her so she has to focus on me.
“Hey. Don’t forget. We’re doing this together.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Same way we got here.”
She sucks in a breath when I say this, cheeks coloring, and for just a moment we look at each other, and every touch we shared over the last six weeks flashes between us.
“Dr. Sharma,” I say hastily, stopping her on her way out the door. “Is it okay to um... well, can we...”
“Have sex?” the doctor asks, a smile tugging at her lips. My face goes hot. I had hoped I wasn’t that obvious. “As long as everyone’s feeling good, go ahead and have fun.”
The door closes, and I turn back to Lydia with a stupid grin. But she’s already off the table, half dressed, pulling up her shorts under the gown. I wait till she’s wrangled back into her bra and tank top, and when she finally turns and picks up her purse, I open my arms.
“I can’t believe this is real,” I say, pulling her close.
She brings her arms up to return the hug, but stays quiet.
“Hey.” I pull back to look at her. “Everything okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry, I was just thinking over what she said about twelve weeks.”
My brows draw together. “She said not to worry about it.”
“Yeah,” she says, though her voice is uncertain. “I just think, like she said, maybe we should keep this to ourselves until then. ”
I stare down at her. “I’m not sure that was a suggestion.”
She shrugs. But when she looks up at me, her eyes are pleading, like this is important to her.
“Okay.” My shoulders drop. “It’s only four more weeks.”
She buries her face in my neck and lets out a deep sigh. And when she pulls back, she’s smiling for real, glowing and beautiful. Carrying our child . And it’s impossible to think about anything else.