Chapter 6
Patrice
Ikeep the appointment.
Not because Trace made it without asking—though I'm still annoyed about that—but because he's right.
As much as I hate admitting it, I need a local doctor while I'm here.
And Dr. Martinez comes highly recommended, apparently delivered half the babies in Ashwood Falls including some kid Tessa knows from Book Club or yoga or whatever small-town activity they do here.
"You don't have to come with me," I tell Trace for the third time as we pull into the parking lot of Ashwood Falls Medical Center.
"I know," he says, killing the engine. "I'm coming anyway."
"I'm capable of going to a doctor's appointment alone. I've been doing it for seven months."
"I know that too." He gets out and comes around to open my door before I can do it myself. "But you're not alone anymore. So I'm coming."
I want to argue. I really do. But the truth is, having him here feels... nice. Which is terrifying in its own way, but I'm choosing not to examine that too closely right now.
The medical center is small but clean, all wood paneling and watercolor paintings of Alaskan landscapes. The waiting room smells like antiseptic and something floral that's probably supposed to be calming but just makes me think of funeral homes.
The receptionist looks up as we walk in, and her face lights up with recognition.
"Trace!" She's maybe mid-fifties, with graying hair and a smile that takes up half her face. "Haven't seen you in ages! How's that cabin coming along?"
"Hey, Linda." He sounds genuinely pleased to see her. "Cabin's good. Finally finished the guest bathroom."
"About time. You've been working on that thing for what, two years?" Her eyes shift to me, taking in my very obvious pregnancy with practiced assessment. "And who's this?"
"Patrice." I offer my hand. "I have an appointment with Dr. Martinez."
"Oh!" Linda's eyes widen as she does the math. Trace plus pregnant woman equals... "Oh! Well, welcome to Ashwood Falls! Let me get you checked in."
She hands me a clipboard with approximately seventeen forms to fill out, and Trace and I settle into chairs that are slightly too small and covered in fabric that's probably seen better days.
There's a TV mounted in the corner playing some home renovation show on mute, and a stack of magazines on the side table that appear to be from 2019.
"So," I say, clicking my pen. "Linda seems nice."
"Linda's great. Her daughter was in my squad in Afghanistan. Saved my life twice."
Of course she did. Of course everyone in this town is connected in some deeply meaningful way that makes me feel like an outsider crashing a family reunion.
I work my way through the forms—medical history, insurance information, emergency contact.
I pause at that last one, pen hovering over the blank line.
In Florida, I left it blank. Tessa lives too far away, my parents are gone, and I'm not close enough with anyone else to list them as the person who'd be called if something went wrong.
But now there's Trace.
Trace leans over. "Put me down."
"What?"
"Emergency contact. Put me down." He rattles off his phone number like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Trace—"
"Patrice." He covers my hand with his, warm and solid. "I'm the father. I should be the emergency contact."
He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is. I write down his number and try to ignore the way my hand is shaking slightly, the way having someone to call—having someone who wants to be called—makes my throat tight.
When I return the clipboard to Linda, she beams at us like we're the most adorable thing she's ever seen. "Dr. Martinez will be right with you! Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."
Those few minutes stretch into fifteen. Trace flips through a magazine about fishing, occasionally showing me pictures of particularly impressive catches like I have any context for what makes a fish impressive.
I try not to fidget, try not to think about the fact that this is really happening.
Doctor's appointment. With Trace. Like we're a couple. Like this is normal.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, setting down the magazine.
"Fine. Just—this is weird."
"Weird how?"
"Weird like—" I gesture vaguely between us. "Like I've been going to these appointments alone for seven months and now suddenly you're here and Linda thinks we're together and everyone's going to assume—"
"That I'm the father of your baby?" He raises an eyebrow. "Because I am."
"I know that. But it's just—people are going to have opinions."
"Let them." He shrugs. "Small town. People always have opinions. Doesn't mean we have to care about them."
"Easy for you to say. You live here. I'm the outsider who showed up pregnant with your baby."
"You're not an outsider." His voice is firm. "You're the mother of my child. That makes you family. And in Ashwood Falls, family matters more than gossip."
Before I can respond to that—before I can process what it means that he just called me family—a nurse appears in the doorway, smiling warmly. "Patrice Henley? Come on back."
The exam room is standard medical issue—uncomfortable paper-covered table, generic posters about prenatal nutrition, a sink, a chair. Trace hovers uncertainly by the door.
"You can sit," I tell him, gesturing to the chair.
"You sure?"
"Would I have said it if I wasn't sure?"
He sits, and I hoist myself onto the exam table with significantly less grace than I'd like. The paper crinkles loudly, announcing my every movement like the world's most annoying soundtrack.
I'm still trying to find a comfortable position when I hear it.
"Quack. Quack."
I look over to find Trace holding what is unmistakably a speculum, opening and closing it like a duck's bill. He's completely absorbed in making it quack, turning it this way and that to examine the mechanism.
"Trace."
"Quack quack."
"Trace."
He looks up, grinning like a kid who just discovered a new toy. "This is actually pretty cool. What is it?"
"Put it down."
"But what's it for?"
"It goes inside me."
His face does something remarkable—a journey from curiosity to comprehension to absolute horror in less than two seconds. The speculum drops from his hand like it's suddenly radioactive. He stares at it on the counter, then at me, then back at the speculum.
"That—" He swallows hard. "That goes—"
"Yep."
"But it's—it's metal and—" He's actually gone pale. "Does it hurt?"
"It's not exactly comfortable."
"Holy shit." He stares at it like the speculum might attack him. "And they just leave those lying around? Just sitting there?"
"They sterilize them, Trace."
"I don't care if they baptize them in holy water, that thing is terrifying." He's still staring at it with the same expression someone might reserve for a medieval torture device. Which, to be fair, isn't entirely inaccurate. "You have to—women have to—"
"Welcome to gynecology. Still want to come to appointments?"
"Yes," he says immediately, though he doesn't look away from the speculum. "But I'm going to need therapy."
Dr. Martinez sweeps in moments later—a woman in her late forties with kind eyes and the sort of no-nonsense energy that immediately puts me at ease. She's wearing scrubs covered in tiny cartoon storks, which should be ridiculous but somehow works.
"Patrice! Wonderful to meet you." She shakes my hand, then turns to Trace. "And Trace. Linda mentioned you were here. Good to see you."
"Dr. Martinez." He stands, shaking her hand with a respect that makes me wonder what their history is.
"Sit, sit." She waves him back down and pulls up a rolling stool. "Now, let's see. Seven months along, first appointment with me, previously seeing—" She consults her tablet. "Dr. Williams in Florida. Good doctor. I went to school with her, actually."
Of course, everyone in the medical community is connected too.
"So," Dr. Martinez says, focusing on me. "How are you feeling? Any concerns?"
"I'm fine. Tired. The usual."
"Swelling? Headaches? Visual disturbances?"
"Some swelling in my feet. Nothing major."
She makes notes, asking more questions—about my diet, my energy levels, whether I'm taking prenatal vitamins, if I'm experiencing any pain. Trace listens intently, like he's studying for an exam.
"And have you thought about a birthing plan?" Dr. Martinez asks. "Labor preferences, pain management, who you want in the room?"
I freeze. "A birthing plan?"
"It's not required, but many women find it helpful to think through what they want ahead of time. Epidural or natural? Hospital or birthing center? Music, dim lights, that sort of thing."
"I haven't—I mean, I didn't—" I can feel panic rising in my throat. "I don't have a plan."
Dr. Martinez's expression softens. "That's okay. You have time. We can discuss it at your next appointment."
"What are the options?" Trace asks, and he's pulled out his phone, apparently ready to take notes.
"Well, for pain management, there's epidural anesthesia, which is very common. Some women prefer IV pain medication, others go natural with breathing techniques and support. And then there's—"
She goes through the entire list while Trace types everything into his phone with the focus of someone defusing a bomb.
He asks questions—good questions, specific ones about risks and benefits and recovery times.
He asks about C-sections and what happens if there are complications and whether there's a NICU in this hospital.
I sit there, paper crinkling beneath me, watching him turn into this person I don't recognize.
The man who took me dancing all those months ago didn't ask about neonatal intensive care units.
That man told terrible jokes and spun me around the dance floor and kissed me like I was the only person in the world.
This man is asking Dr. Martinez about episiotomies and I'm not sure which version I prefer.
"Now," Dr. Martinez says, standing. "Let's take a look at this baby, shall we? Ultrasound time."