30. Chapter Thirty #3
"It's a lot," she says, handing me a folder full of papers.
"You don't have to decide everything today.
But let's talk about what to expect over the next few months.
Morning sickness usually peaks around weeks eight to ten, then starts improving, so you're almost there.
As for activity restrictions, you can continue normal activities, including exercise if you were already active.
Sexual activity is also perfectly safe — you can't hurt the baby.
Many women find their drive actually increases in the second trimester due to increased blood flow. "
Oddly, after sitting in a paper napkin and having a space wand shoved up my girly bits, this discussion is what I find mortifying. We haven't had… Uh, normal activities… Since before Lindy had to make a CVS run for me at Wing Wednesday.
"We'll see you back in four weeks for the twelve-week scan," she continues, turning the lights back on. "That's when we can start discussing genetic testing if you want it. Any questions?"
I shake my head. Can't speak past the lump in my throat.
"Alright then. Take your time getting dressed. Congratulations, you two."
She leaves. Kevin helps me sit up, and I'm still clutching the ultrasound pictures.
"That was real," I say. I can hear my voice crumbling like a child’s sandcastle. "Kevin, that was real."
"Yeah. It was." He's looking at me like I'm the most amazing thing in the world. "We're having a baby. With a beautiful heartbeat. And early hockey athleticism."
I look down at the pictures again. "We're having a baby. Holy shit, we're really having a baby."
He kisses me — soft and sweet and slow. "I know. It's incredible. I love you, baby — both of you."
"I love you too." I'm laughing now, crying and laughing at the same time. "Help me get dressed so we can go home and stare at these pictures for the next three hours."
"Sounds perfect."
He pretends to be fascinated by a poster on the wall while I change. I get dressed in a daze, stealing a glance at the ultrasound pictures next to my purse, still hearing that heartbeat in my head.
We head toward the front desk, and Kevin guides me down the hall with a gentle hand on the curve of my back. I schedule the next appointment for four weeks from now.
Then the woman behind the desk slides a paper toward me.
"Here's your global bill. That’s what the bundled fee for your prenatal care is called. We include routine labs and three ultrasounds in our practice. The first installment is due today, so that’s here,” she taps the paper once.
“And then the remaining amount here is due before your next appointment. "
I glance down.
$3,847.
All the joy I've been carrying evaporates like snow in the sunshine.
"That's—" I stop. Swallow hard. "That's just for today?"
Non-profits don't really have the funds for fancy health insurance plans so I have an individual health share plan.
They've always been easy to work with and have reimbursed fairly.
I pay upfront, submit for reimbursement, then wait six to eight weeks, at minimum.
But I'm never sick. I've never had a bill this large.
And they don’t cover maternity without some sort of extra rider put in place and paid for years in advance.
Which I absolutely do not have, because that would require planning.
And I never planned on becoming pregnant. Not with Kevin, not with anyone. Not at this time in my life. And probably never at any time in my life.
I don't have almost four thousand dollars just sitting in my checking account. I have maybe fifteen hundred in savings, and that's supposed to be my emergency fund.
This is an emergency, technically. But what happens at the next appointment? And the one after that? How much is this going to cost before the baby's even born? I press my palms against the slick counter. I feel absolutely sick.
"I'll take care of it," Kevin says, already pulling out his credit card.
Of course it's an Amex Black. Of course he has the fanciest credit card out there that comes with income and net worth requirements.
And of course he checks all those boxes.
Because of course hockey player money is what's going to solve my non-profit director money problems. Ugh.
Now I feel sick, plus a violently throbbing migraine is rapidly emerging in my skull. "Kevin, no—" I start.
"Sarah. It's fine."
"It's not fine. That's almost four thousand dollars—"
He leans past me and hands his card directly to the receptionist. She runs it without hesitation. Hands it back with a receipt.
"All set. See you in four weeks!"
I don't say anything. Can't say anything. Just stand there feeling like I can't move, can't do anything. I feel numbness all the way down to my toes. Kevin guides me out to the truck. Opens my door. Waits until I'm buckled before closing it and walking around to the driver's side.
We sit in the parking lot for a moment. The ultrasound pictures are in my lap. That beautiful, perfect image of our baby.
But even with all that, all I can think about is that number. $3,847. For one appointment. Then there’s more due in four weeks.
And I hate myself for focusing on that. It’s like a reflex. It doesn’t matter what I want to do, how I want to react. Dollar signs and commas like that immediately kick me into a trauma response.
"I can't pay you back for that," I say quietly once he starts the truck.
"Not right away. My health share… I have to pay upfront and then submit for reimbursement. But it takes weeks, sometimes months. And I don’t think my plan even covers maternity.
I don't have almost four thousand dollars just sitting around. "
He speaks over the sound of the engine starting up. "I'm not asking you to pay me back."
"But I really need to—"
"Sarah." He turns to face me. "I'm not asking you to pay me back. Not today, not ever. This is our baby. You and me. You're doing the hard work. I just pulled out a credit card. I've got this part."
The words should be comforting. They're meant to be comforting. He means this sincerely, from the bottom of his very generous heart.
But it just makes me feel so small. So messy. "I can't afford this baby without you," I say. The admission tastes bitter.
"You're not without me."
"But what if I was?" I turn to look at him. "What if Vegas calls in January? What if you get traded? What if you get hurt and can't play anyore? What if—"
"Sarah, listen to yourself. You're panicking about things that haven't even happened yet.
If Vegas calls, I'm going to make sure my agent drives Austin's front office crazy about an offer to stay. If I get hurt and can't play anymore, I’ll get another job. Brett's doing just fine coaching hockey. I'll do just fine too. And I’m well-paid now. There’s money in the bank and invested. You don’t need to worry. We'll do just fine."
"I'm being realistic." But my hands are shaking. "I knew babies were expensive, but I didn't think about the appointments. The tests. The hospital bills. The—"
"Hey." He reaches over, strokes my hair, brushes the curve of my cheeks. "Look at me."
I do. His blue eyes are steady and calm and everything I'm not right now.
"We're going to figure this out together. Okay? Not you alone. Not me alone. We're in this together."
"But—"
"No buts. We just saw our baby's heartbeat.
We have pictures. We know everything's okay.
All I want is for you and me to be happy about that right now.
I want to text my mom those pictures. I want to stop somewhere on the way home and get a frame for those photos and hang them on the wall.
I want you to hear me promise you that this is all good.
All of it. Even an almost four-thousand-dollar bill.
Because that bill let us see our baby, hear that heartbeat, get those photos.
I'd pay that bill again and again to hold your hand and see that miracle practicing dekes on the screen. "
And then just like that, Kevin leans in and kisses me.
I kiss him back, trying to tell him what I can't say--that I'm scared, but I'm choosing to trust even though I don't fully know how.
Trying to say that I believe in him.
That I believe in us.
I let the kiss say it for me.
His tongue sweeps against my bottom lip and I open immediately, pressing closer.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers in my hair, grip tight enough that I feel it everywhere.
I lean across the console, my hand on his chest. His heart's pounding almost as fast as that tiny heartbeat we just heard.
He groans against my mouth and the kiss shifts. Gets deeper. Urgent. His hand finds my waist, pulls me as close as this stupid console will allow. I want more. Want to climb into his lap. Want to forget we're in a parking lot in broad daylight outside a medical building.
But we are.
He breaks the kiss first, breathing hard, his eyes searching my face. His hand is still tangled in my hair, the other still gripping my waist like he's not quite ready to let go.
"Thank you," I whisper against his lips. "For being all in. Even when I'm a mess who panics about bills."
"I promise you I'm all in, Sarah." I can hear him, just on the verge of being completely wrecked.
"And I meant what I said. We're going to frame those pictures.
We're going to text my mom. We're going to go home and stare at them for three hours, just like you wanted to do.
And we're not going to think about bills or Vegas or anything else. Just our baby. Just us. Okay?"
It doesn't make the dollar amount smaller. But it makes it feel less like I can't do this and more like we're investing in something together.
Hearing that heartbeat is a down payment on a future that I'd have never let myself dream about a few months ago.
I nod, my fingers still pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. "Okay."