21. Tess
Tess
T he gray vinyl chair squeaks beneath me as I shift my weight.
The obstetrics waiting room is too warm, too quiet—just the burble of a fish tank and the whispered conversations of expectant couples.
I flip through a parenting magazine from last year, not absorbing a single word about "Your Changing Body.
" I can't stop my knee from bouncing as I check my phone again. Still nothing from Charlie.
I replay his voicemail for the fourth time, pressing my phone tight against my ear like I might extract some hidden meaning from his words.
"Tess, I'm so sorry. The meeting with the Bolivian coffee cooperative ran long, and now there's some issue with the flight. I'm doing everything I can to get back, but it's not looking good for the appointment. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything."
His voice had a practiced smoothness to it—the same tone he probably uses when he’s going through quarterly projections with his board. But underneath, I'd detected genuine regret. That should count for something, right?
I set my phone face down on the outdated issue of "Parenting Now" in my lap. I hope they call me back soon. I’m ready for this to be over.
When I told Charlie about the pregnancy, he'd promised to be there for everything. "Every appointment, every weird craving run, every midnight freakout," he'd said, his blue eyes earnest as he squeezed my hand. But here I am—alone—at the first doctor’s appointment.
I know his work is important. I know he's building something. But so am I—our baby. In my body. Right this very moment.
Last night when he called from Bolivia, the connection crackled with static.
"I'll try to be there tomorrow," he'd said. "I've got my assistant looking for earlier flights."
"The appointment's at ten," I'd reminded him.
"I know, I know." His voice had turned gentle, placating. "But if I can't make it, you'll have the ultrasound pictures, right? And you can tell me everything the doctor said."
"That's not the point," I'd said, my voice tight with tears I refused to shed.
"Tess, what do you want me to do? This deal could secure us ethically sourced beans for the next five years. It's important."
Now, I draw a deep breath and try to center myself. I look at the face of the woman on the front of the parenting magazine. She has one of those knowing mother-smiles that I can't imagine ever wearing myself.
The truth rears its ugly head for the umpteenth time: I'm terrified. Not just of the pregnancy or the birth or the lifetime of responsibility that follows, but of the growing suspicion that Charlie and I are not in the same headspace around this. That we might never be.
A woman and her partner emerge from the hallway, their hands intertwined, matching grins lighting their faces.
The woman holds a strip of black and white images against her chest like a winning lottery ticket.
Her partner—husband, boyfriend, whatever—has his hand on her back, protective and present.
I swallow hard and look away.
My phone buzzes and I snatch it up, heart leaping. But it's just Jane, checking in.
How's it going? Charlie make it?
I type back quickly: He’s still in Bolivia. I'm fine. I’ll call later.
"Tess Whitlock?"
I look up to see a nurse in pale blue scrubs holding a clipboard, her eyebrows raised expectantly. My stomach clenches.
"Yes," I say, standing up too quickly. The magazine slides from my lap and lands with a soft thwack on the floor. I scramble to pick it up, my hands trembling slightly as I place it back on the end table.
"This way, please," the nurse says, her smile kind but professionally distant. As I follow her through the door and down a corridor lined with exam rooms, I wipe my clammy palms on my jeans and try to regulate my breathing.
The nurse takes my weight, blood pressure, and temperature, making small talk about the unusually sunny Seattle weather. I respond on autopilot, my mind still circling around Charlie's absence, around what it might mean for our future.
After the nurse leaves, I sit alone in the exam room, perched on the edge of the paper-covered table.
My reflection in the small mirror across the room shows a woman I barely recognize—dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, worry lines etched between my brows.
I look away, focusing instead on the female reproductive anatomy chart on the wall.
Dr. Thompson enters after knocking softly. It’s comforting to see a familiar face. I’ve been seeing her once a year since moving back to the area.
"Tess," she says warmly, "good to see you again. How are you feeling today?" She pulls up a rolling stool and sits, giving me her full attention.
"Nervous," I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can catch it. "And alone. My—Charlie couldn't make it. His flight from Bolivia was delayed."
Dr. Thompson's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes softens. "That happens. First baby jitters are normal, with or without your partner present."
I nod, not trusting my voice. Dr. Thompson continues reviewing my chart, asking about symptoms, diet, and sleep patterns. Her voice has a soothing quality that makes it easy to answer, to focus just on this moment rather than the fact that Charlie’s not here.
"Any questions before we do the ultrasound?" she asks.
A thousand questions swirl in my mind: Will I be a good mother? Will Charlie be there for midnight feedings? Will our child have his blue eyes or my hazel ones? Will I end up doing this alone?
"Just one," I manage. "Is it normal to be this scared?"
Dr. Thompson's smile is gentle but genuine. "Absolutely. I'd be concerned if you weren't at least a little terrified. Bringing a new life into the world is no small thing."
She pats my knee with a warm hand, then stands. "Let's get a look at this baby of yours, shall we? The sonographer will be in shortly. You'll need to unbutton your jeans and pull your shirt up a bit."
After she leaves, I unbutton my jeans and hitch up my blouse, exposing my belly. I place my hand over it, and try to just lay there calmly and breathe.
"It's just you and me today, little one," I murmur.
There’s another soft knock on the door and the sonographer enters the room.
The paper sheet crinkles beneath me as I lie back on the exam table. The sonographer—a woman with nimble fingers and a name badge that reads "Marissa"—says hello before humming softly as she arranges her equipment.
I stare at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny perforations in one square to distract myself from the reality that Charlie should be standing beside me right now, holding my hand, witnessing this milestone that we can never get back.
"This gel will feel a bit cold," Marissa warns. She squeezes a dollop of translucent blue gel onto my lower abdomen. It's colder than I expected, and I suck in a sharp breath.
"Sorry about that," she says, though her tone suggests this happens with every patient. She dims the lights with a remote control, and the black-and-white monitor beside the bed glows in the darkened room.
"First ultrasound?" she asks, positioning the wand in her hand.
"Yes," I answer, my voice smaller than I'd like.
"Try to relax. Just breathe normally while I take some measurements." The wand presses against my skin, moving through the gel in slow, deliberate strokes.
The screen flickers with shadowy shapes I can't interpret. Marissa clicks buttons, freezes images, and takes measurements with practiced efficiency. The room fills with the soft tapping of computer keys and the quiet whir of the ultrasound machine.
"There's your uterus," she says, pointing to a curved shape on the screen. "And let's see if we can find that heartbeat..."
My own pulse hammers in my ears as she moves the wand slightly to the left. I strain to see what she's seeing, to make sense of the grainy shadows.
And then I hear it—a rapid, underwater whooshing sound that fills the room. A heartbeat, fast and strong.
Something shifts inside me. Not physically, but emotionally. That sound, that rapid flutter, belongs to my child. The abstract idea of pregnancy suddenly crystallizes into something real and alive.
"Good strong heartbeat," Marissa says, her fingers adjusting something on the machine. "Let me just make sure I get a clear view of..." She pauses, her brow furrowing slightly as she moves the wand again. "Hm."
My chest tightens. "Is something wrong?"
"Not wrong, no. I just want to check something." She applies a bit more gel, moves the wand to a different spot.. "Let me get Dr. Thompson to take a look."
She taps a button on the machine, printing something, then wipes her hands on a paper towel. "I'll be right back. Just relax."
But relaxing is impossible when someone examines your body, furrows their brow, and leaves the room. My mind races through every catastrophic possibility. Genetic abnormality. Developmental problem. An abnormality of my uterus.
I force myself to breathe—in for four, out for four—the way I learned many years ago when I was anxious before performances. The minutes stretch on forever, each second an eternity of uncertainty.
When the door opens again, both Marissa and Dr. Thompson enter. Dr. Thompson's expression is unreadable as she takes Marissa's seat by the ultrasound machine.
"Let's have another look, shall we?" she says, picking up the wand. The cool gel shifts under the renewed pressure, and the screen flickers again with those mysterious shadows. Dr. Thompson studies it intently, then nods to herself.
"Tess," she says, looking at me over the rim of her glasses. "Congratulations. You're carrying twins."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Twins?" I choke out, my hands tightening on the paper sheet beneath me.
"Yes, twins," she confirms, angling the monitor so I can see better. Her finger points to two distinct shapes. "Here and here. Two separate amniotic sacs, which suggests fraternal twins."
"But—" My voice catches. "Are you sure?"
Dr. Thompson's smile is kind but amused. "Quite sure. And listen..."
She adjusts something on the machine, and suddenly the room fills with sound—not one rapid heartbeat, but two distinct patterns, slightly out of sync with each other. My eyes widen and heat floods my cheeks as the reality crashes over me.
Two babies. Not one.
My brain struggles to process this new information. One baby was already overwhelming—financially, logistically, emotionally. But two? Two of everything. Double the diapers, double the sleepless nights, double the college funds.
"Do twins run in your family?" Dr. Thompson asks, still moving the wand to capture different images.
"My grandmother was a twin," I manage to say, my voice soft. "I never thought..."
"Well, fraternal twins can have a genetic component, particularly on the mother's side." She freezes an image on the screen and points. "From what I can see, they both look healthy. Good size for six weeks."
"I can't—" I start, then stop, unsure what I was going to say. I can't handle this? I can't believe it? Both seem true in this moment.
Dr. Thompson pats my arm. "It's a lot to take in, I know. Twin pregnancies are considered higher risk, so we'll want to see you more frequently. You'll likely deliver earlier than a single baby—many twins come around 36 weeks instead of 40."
Her words wash over me in a wave of medical information that I know I should be absorbing but my mind is spinning. All I can think is: Charlie should be here.
"I'm going to print some images for you to take home," Marissa says, tapping at the keyboard.
"Thanks," I whisper, imagining Charlie's face when I show him the ultrasound pictures. Will he be excited? Terrified? Will this send him running in the opposite direction?
Dr. Thompson wipes the gel from my stomach with practiced efficiency. "We'll want to discuss nutrition. With twins, you'll need more calories, more rest. Your body is working double-time now."
I nod, trying to focus, trying to be the responsible adult that two babies will need me to be. But inside, I'm totally losing it. One baby was already a stretch for our fledgling relationship. How are we supposed to handle two?
"Do you have any questions right now?" Dr. Thompson asks, studying my face.
A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up. I have nothing but questions. How will my body manage this? What will happen with work? Will Charlie and I survive? Instead, I ask the only one I can get out: "When will I feel them move?"
"Around 16 to 20 weeks, typically. Sometimes a bit earlier with twins because there's less room in there." She smiles. "Any other questions?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. Everything feels so overwhelming right now.
"I'll give you a moment to get dressed, then meet me in my office to discuss next steps." Dr. Thompson squeezes my shoulder gently before leaving the room.
Alone again, I button my jeans and pull down my blouse with trembling hands. The paper crinkles as I sit up, staring at the frozen image still displayed on the ultrasound monitor—two distinct shapes in a sea of black.
Twins. I press my palms against my eyes, forcing back the tears that threaten to spill. I need to be strong. I need to figure this out.
But all I can think about is Charlie, completely unaware that our lives have just become twice as complicated. I try to imagine his reaction—the initial shock, the recalculation of everything we've planned.
I wrap my arms around my middle, a protective gesture for the two lives growing inside me. "It's okay," I whisper, though I'm not sure if I'm reassuring them or myself. "We'll figure this out."
But even as I say it, the little voice in my head asks: Will we? Can Charlie commit to one baby, let alone two? How am I going to do this alone if he can't?