Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Hailey
Defensive Zone Coverage: Keeping It Together
I was hoping for something different today. Something casual, easy, lighthearted—maybe even enjoyable.
Not this.
Not me, sitting in a sterile room, perched on crinkly paper, waiting for confirmation of something I really, really don’t want.
I swing my legs a little. Not because I’m impatient. No, that would be normal. I do it because the alternative is sitting completely still, letting my thoughts spiral into one of those slow-motion disaster montages where everything seems fine—until it isn’t and the end of the world begins.
I sigh loudly.
I have a great imagination. Some might even say too great. If there is a worst-case scenario, my brain will find it, highlight it, underline it twice, and make me feel it before it even happens—if it ever happens.
Which is ironic, considering I usually believe things will work out. Flights get rebooked. Lost luggage turns up. The world doesn’t end just because I misplace my passport in a questionable hostel in Nepal. I’ve had close calls. I’ve been stranded, stuck, lost. And I’ve always figured it out.
But this?
I glance around the room, as if one of the educational posters might suddenly contain the answers I need. There’s a deeply haunting diagram of the female reproductive system in front of me, and I’m avoiding eye contact with it like it just caught me sneaking out past curfew.
Instead, I focus on the clipboard I had to fill out earlier—one of those Are You a Functional Human Being? checklists.
Am I alive? Check.
Do I sometimes drink alcohol? Check. How often? Mind your own fucking business. Okay, that’s not what I answered. Two to three glasses of wine a week—unless there’s a snobbish party I have to attend.
Do I have a history of goat-related illnesses? No, but now I have questions.
Then the real kicker:
Parents alive?
Well. That’s complicated.
Mother: Deceased (car accident).
Father: Alive, but let’s call that a technicality because we really don’t talk much unless it’s his birthday, a holiday, or he needs to tell me that my life choices are deplorable.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders. I am fine. This is fine.
The door clicks open.
I sit up too fast, too eager to just get this over with.
My doctor walks in, holding my chart like it contains my fate. It sounds too dramatic, but hear me out, this is a fucking death sentence. Trying to travel the world as a single mother is not going to be easy.
She gives me a polite, professional smile—the doctor smile. The one that says, I have news, and I don’t know how you’re going to take it, so let’s see what happens.
I brace myself.
“So,” she says, scanning the chart. “You took three at-home tests?”
“Four,” I correct her. Because if I’m going down, I’m going down with irrefutable evidence.
The doctor makes a thoughtful hmm, flipping through her notes. “And how are you feeling?”
I consider this. “Emotionally? Or physically? Because emotionally, I would describe it as mild existential crisis with a side of dread.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t outright laugh, which I respect.
“And physically?”
I hesitate. “I mean . . . I feel normal? Maybe a little more tired than usual, but honestly, that could just be because I’ve been traveling a lot.”
She nods like this is a completely reasonable explanation and not a desperate grasp at an alternative reality. “Well, we’ll draw some blood to confirm, but the urine sample indicates that you are, indeed, pregnant.”
“But it can be wrong, like the other four I took,” I argue.
“Sorry, that’s not how it works. Your last period was eight weeks ago and . . . well, you have almost all the typical symptoms. You. Are. Pregnant.”
Silence.
My brain short-circuits.
I blink at her, processing the words like they’re in another language.
Pregnant.
I am pregnant.
Knocked up.
Baby on board.
Baking a human like I’m some sort of biological Easy-Bake Oven.
In conclusion, I’m fucked.
She says something else—something about confirming with bloodwork, scheduling follow-ups, next steps—but her voice fades into white noise, like one of those scenes in a movie where the protagonist gets devastating news and everything distorts around them.
Except this isn’t a movie.
This is my life.
A life that wasn’t supposed to go like this.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay present. I am fine. This is fine.
The doctor keeps talking, but I only catch fragments.
“Options . . . prenatal care . . . your partner . . .”
My brain trips over that last part. Support system.
She keeps going like I’m still actively participating in this conversation. “It’ll be nice if he joins you for your first sonogram.”
“My who?” I ask, because I’m barely grasping the first part of this conversation, and now she’s throwing new information at me like I’m supposed to be following along.
“Your partner should join you during the first sonogram,” she says patiently. “It helps to have them involved from the beginning.”
I blink. “Uh, there’s no partner.”
Wow. I have to tell the father, don’t I? That’s a thing people do.
My stomach flips.
How do I tell the father when I didn’t get his number? I don’t remember his name. It definitely started with an M, Mark—us? Michael . . . oh, fuck.
All I know is that he was on vacation. That he lives . . . somewhere in the Northeast. New England, maybe? Did he really? Well, he talked about it a lot. That narrows it down to only a few million people. Perfect. I’m good at researching, I can find him.
The doctor, unfazed, switches gears. “Well, you need your support system.”
And just like that, my brain flatlines again.
Support system.
I almost laugh.
My father is . . . well, our relationship mostly consists of birthday texts and the occasional phone call where he reminds me my life choices are disappointing at best.
Mom is gone.
My siblings . . . my sister is okay and my brother, like my father, is always MIA because his job is the most important thing in the world to him. They remember I exist when I’m in town, and even then, it’s hit or miss.
Then there are my amazing grandparents, who unfortunately are too old, too judgmental, and would probably tell me this is my penance for not settling down like a nice woman.
And then there’s Leif.
My stomach twists. No. I won’t drag him into this.
I’ve spent my entire life being independent, untethered, the person who fixes things herself. That doesn’t change now.
I take a slow breath, keeping my hands still in my lap, every limb locked down like I’m bracing for turbulence. The doctor watches me carefully, waiting for some kind of reaction. I could freak out. I could cry.
Instead, I nod like she just told me my car needs an oil change.
“Okay,” I say, my voice shockingly even. “So, what happens next?”
She hesitates, then launches into another explanation—options, appointments, vitamins, things I need to consider.
This time, I listen. Sort of. Definitely better than earlier.
But my mind is already miles away, sprinting toward a reality I never planned for.
I leave the doctor’s office feeling like my whole world just tilted slightly to the left.
It’s drizzling outside, a misty kind of rain that clings to my skin, the kind that isn’t quite enough to pull out an umbrella but just enough to be annoying. I step onto the sidewalk, watching cabs blur past, people moving in every direction like nothing has changed.
And then, because there is literally nothing else I can do right now, I sit down on a bench, drop my face into my hands, and let myself breathe.
A baby.
An actual human being that will depend on me for survival.
I press my palms into my eyes. This is impossible.
Because what kind of mother would I even be?
My life is a never-ending itinerary. Flights, hotels, interviews, cameras, countries that feel familiar for a moment before I leave them behind. I love my life. I chose my life.
But a baby?
A baby doesn’t fit into a suitcase.
People walk past, umbrellas spinning, voices blending into the hum of the city. Normally, that sound makes me feel alive. Right now, it makes me feel . . . adrift.
I think about my dad. His disappointment, the way he’ll say, You messed up again, without even needing to actually say it. I think about the baby’s father. The fact that this isn’t some grand love story where I tell him and he suddenly transforms into the perfect co-parent. Well, if I ever find him.
I think about how much easier it would be if I could just call my mom. She would know what to say. Where to start and . . . I miss her a lot. But I have no one to share this with.
I could call Leif. He would answer. But this isn’t something I want to bring up yet. Not until I know exactly what I’m doing.
I close my eyes, breathing in the smell of rain and pavement and city life moving forward, regardless of my crisis.
What am I going to do?
It doesn’t matter right now.
I take the subway to the hotel, letting the movement lull me into a state of semi-functionality.
The train is crowded but quiet, filled with people who have places to be. I watch them—a mom rocking a toddler in her lap, an old man reading a book, a college student nodding off against the window.
And I wonder if any of them have ever felt this lost. Or if I’ll ever find myself, which I might have to do because this baby will need me.