11. Helen
When you’re smarter than everyone else you meet, your life is often filled with all kinds of frustration. You explain your ideas, but no one gets them. Things you try to delegate take you longer to explain than to simply do yourself. You have to make your point in a half dozen different ways, or the people around you can’t understand what you’re saying. When you make what you feel are fairly basic statements, people can’t keep up.
Simple things for me are often complicated for almost everyone else.
Maybe that’s why one of my great joys in life is driving.
It’s uncomplicated. It’s something I can control. And it’s usually a time when I can think. I release frustration, anger, and anxiety while the road flies past. I unwind from whatever deals I’m struggling with or problems I’m mulling over, and no one can badger me. “I can’t talk now—driving.” I love fast cars with great suspension, because they make an activity that already relaxes me even more fun.
But not when it snows.
If you’re going to live somewhere that snows all the time, even in October, that location should at least have a decent snow-removal system in place. Unfortunately, with a population density of one point three people per square mile, Daggett County simply can’t afford any kind of effective snow control at all. Unless I decide to start plodding along behind the wheel of a snow plow—not likely—I’m sort of stuck slowing to a crawl when snow billows down from the sky to blanket the road.
I hate it.
But it’s even worse when a pregnant woman’s shouting in my ear.
“Those contractions sound worse,” I say. “Or is that just me?”
“Not you,” Abby says. “I think they’re getting closer.”
“So. . .” I clear my throat. “We’re still twenty minutes away. If you could try really hard to keep that baby inside until we get there, that would be great.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Donna shouts. “Really helpful feedback.”
She makes an effort not to scream, and no baby has popped out yet, but by the time we reach the emergency room, I’m worried that’s only because something’s wrong. Instead of panting and whimpering during contractions, she seems to be whimpering all the time. She’s also sweating—profusely. During her next contraction, I whisper over my shoulder, hoping only Abby will hear. “Is she alright?”
“I texted Steve, and he called a friend over there. Labor and delivery is in the ER, waiting.”
By the time I pull into the drive of the hospital in Rock Springs, Donna looks even worse.
“There,” Abby points. “Pull over there.”
“But it says Ambulance Bay,” I say.
“Since when do you care about what’s allowed?” she asks. “Go.”
Everything about babies makes me nervous, and it’s not helping that I apparently have one inside me right now, too. Little parasites that wreck all the things that should work a certain way. “Fine,” I say. “We’re here.”
Donna isn’t moving, other than the panting and the moaning, and Abby’s stuck in the back seat, so I hop out and run around to the passenger side, waving as I go. “Hey!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “Pregnant lady about to deliver out here.”
No one seems to hear me, but when I open the door, Donna tries to get out. She’s struggling, and I’m not strong enough to deadlift her when she’s also growing a bowling ball in her belly, so I’m going to need a hand.
I shout louder. “Help us out here! Whoo-eee, whoo-ee! Pretend I’m an ambulance and come out already!”
A moment later, the door does open, and by that point, Abby has escaped through my side of the car. She’s jogging around to lend a hand, too. “My friend here is very, very pregnant,” Abby says. “She needs some help.” Then she drops to a hiss that it’s clear she’s hoping only the hospital worker will hear. “We think there may be a complication.”
Even at a hospital out in the boonies, within twenty seconds, several people have mobilized, and Donna’s carefully transferred to her back on a stretcher. Less than a minute later, there’s a tall doctor in dark blue scrubs at her side asking her questions.
“No,” Donna’s saying, “The last time I had a baby, it didn’t hurt like this.”
“Did you have an epidural?” The tall woman’s pulling her hair back into a ponytail, which doesn’t seem encouraging.
“Right before I had him, but that’s not—” And now she’s screaming again.
It’s a bit of a blur, but in the next two minutes, the tall lady doctor starts putting stuff on her, and a man in a white coat shows up and checks her. . .lady parts. I try to look away, but I can’t entirely. There’s definitely a baby head that’s visible when they’re checking things out.
“She’s crowning,” the male doctor says.
“How long has the pressure been like this?” the tall doctor asks.
“I don’t know,” Donna groans. “Does it matter?”
“Its head’s almost through,” the shorter, male doctor says. “But then it kind of sucks back in.”
“That could be a turtle sign. Donna, please listen to me. For right now, don’t push, alright?” The tall woman looks completely calm. “I think you may be dealing with shoulder dystocia, and if you push. . .”
Then they’re wheeling Donna through some doors and into a room off the ambulance bay, leaving Abby and me behind. Abby’s phone is pressed to her ear, so I assume she’s talking to Steve or Will.
“Yes, they’re rushing her back to, well, to somewhere. No, I’m not sure exactly—when are you going to be here?”
Will it is. Steve’s probably with their baby and can’t leave.
“Alright, well, when you arrive, run inside. They won’t let me follow, but it might be a different story with you. But Will, breathe. Do not get in an accident because you’re worried about her. She’s in capable hands. The head of the program happened to be here, and she really knows her stuff.”
The second she hangs up, I grab her arm. “Is she going to die?” For some reason, panic grips me. That baby’s going to kill her, and then Will’s going to be all alone with that tiny little girl and the little boy who isn’t even his. Actually, would that kid go to his awful father if Donna dies?
It’s bad all around.
This is why people shouldn’t have babies.
“Helen, it’s fine, I swear. Shoulder dystocia’s fairly common, and they know what to do about it. Trust me, she’s going to be alright, and so is that baby.”
And then, as if to mock Abby’s words, there’s screaming—so much screaming.
“What’s going on in there?” I’m pacing, and I know I should stop, but I can’t. Why’s Donna screaming so much?
Then, abruptly, it stops.
“They probably had to do an episiotomy,” Abby says. “When the shoulder gets caught, they have to make more space for them to get through.”
I’m swearing under my breath, and now I’m sweating nearly as much as Donna was.
“Are you alright?” Abby asks.
I seriously can’t stop pacing.
“Helen.”
What if something like this happens to me? What if they had to do whatever they just did to Donna to me? What if I die? It’s a no brainer. I have to terminate this thing. The sooner the better, really.
“Helen Fisher.” Abby claps right in front of my face. “What on earth is going on in that brain of yours?”
“I’m—” I stop, swallow, and start pacing again.
“You’re not even that close to Donna. Why are you freaking out? Is it making you think about my pregnancy? Because I’m done. That was my last one. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Ma’am.” A man in black scrubs is walking toward us. “Are you alright?”
Great. An orderly’s worried about me now. “I’m fine,” I snap.
“If you could just move your car, then there’s a waiting room you can go to.” He points.
My car.
Of course.
I’m nodding when the double doors fly open and Will comes shooting through, his eyes frantic and his breathing wild. “Where is she?”
Abby points, and then he’s gone as fast as he appeared, consumed by the room where all the howling went to die, and now that orderly is gawking at me again. “Fine,” I say. “Fine. I’ll move my car.”
Before I can put the key in the ignition, Abby’s hand stops me. “Let me do it.” She’s calm, she’s steady, and she’s absolutely insistent. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m sure you’re not safe to drive.”
I start bawling, then.
I’m not sure whether it’s the stress of Donna’s labor, or the miserably long drive to get here in lousy weather, or my worry for the obvious misery of a friend. Donna and I may not be that close, but I don’t have many friends. I can’t risk losing the ones I do have.
Or maybe it’s something else entirely. It could be hormones. How embarrassing.
Whatever the cause, I’m suddenly sobbing and hyperventilating.
“Helen, what is going on?” Abby tucks my keys into her pocket and yanks me to my feet, and then her arms wrap around me. “Something is wrong, and I’m not moving until you tell me what it is.”
“I’m pregnant,” I say. “Or at least, some crazy woman who took a blood test earlier says I am.”
Abby freezes. “Surely you’ve been using some kind of contraceptive.”
“Of course,” I say. “I mean, I’m almost forty-five. The OB told me I didn’t likely even need one anymore, but I have a Mirena—that’s an IUD they?—”
“I know what it is,” Abby says, but she doesn’t look better. She looks even more concerned.
“What?”
“Let’s get the car parked.” She shoves me just a bit toward the passenger side, and I finally go.
She says nothing as she drives, slowly in light of the quickly accumulating snow, but once she reaches the parking lot, she pulls into a space and kills the engine. She doesn’t turn toward me or interrogate me. She just sits there, staring at the steering wheel.
“Just say whatever you want to say.” I’m not sure why I’m so upset. It’s not like I’m keeping it. Surely Abigail knows that, too.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you don’t want to be pregnant.” She turns toward me slowly, then. “But you should get an ultrasound to confirm that test. It could be a chemical pregnancy, or worse, an ectopic one. I think they’re common in people who have a Mirena. It blocks the fallopian tubes, if I remember it right. The doctors would need to do something quickly if it is ectopic, or your tube could burst and you could die.”
She’s finally talking to me, and I can’t seem to do anything but stare at my hands. “Isn’t this where you tell me that a baby is a life in being and that’s a miracle?”
“Do you want me to tell you that I think abortion is wrong?” Abby asks.
I shake my head.
And my little sister, who in her entire life has never once kept her mouth shut, just shrugs. “All right, then.”
“Come on. I’m ready for it. I didn’t want to tell you, but now you know, so you may as well say it.”
“Helen, we had the same parents, but you and I are very different people. In the gaping vacuum that was our family, I sought some kind of meaning and purpose and found God in my search. You found a different kind of peace. I’d never try to judge you for what you found or what you believe.”
“But you think abortion is wrong.”
“I love you, and I know this is hard, and I support you.” She drops her hand over mine. “I always will. It’s not my baby, and it’s not my body, and I love you. I think that’s the part that matters most.”
That makes me bawl. Bawl, and bawl, and bawl some more. “I was thinking about breaking up with David because he wants kids and I don’t. And then this happened.”
Still, she doesn’t tell me it’s some kind of sign. She doesn’t tell me I’m wicked. She doesn’t tell me that this baby is a miracle, and that I’d be a devil if I end its life. “I am worried about you, though,” she says. “We’re at a hospital. While we wait, at least get checked out.”
“Fine.”
So I let my little sister, the person I’ve always tried to look after, shepherd me into the waiting room, and then I sit while she goes and argues with some nurse until we’re given a room.
“How’s Donna?” I hear her asking the large, black nurse who just showed us into a small space and turned to leave. “Is she alright? Is the baby doing okay?”
“They think their baby boy may have a broken arm,” the nurse says, “but Miss Earl’s alright, and bones at that age heal quick.”
“Thanks.” Abby’s smiling when she turns back.
“You’re happy he has a broken arm?”
“I’m happy he was born, and other than that, that he’s healthy. Babies recover in weeks at this age. They’ll splint it or something, and he’ll be alright.” She nods. “Yes, I’m happy.”
“I do not understand the joy you get from these babies. The world is full of babies. We don’t all need to have our own.”
Abby doesn’t argue.
But a moment later, when the tall doctor in dark blue scrubs comes into the room, she stands up and takes charge. “My sister Helen is forty-four, and she’s gotten a blood test that says she’s pregnant, but she has a Mirena. We need an ultrasound to make sure it’s not ectopic.”
“Hey Abby,” the doctor says. “Good to see you again. How’s little Nate?”
“He’s fine.” Abby’s face softens a little. “But I want to make sure Helen’s alright.”
When the doctor turns toward me, I recognize her. I met her several times while Abby was pregnant. I should have expected that she and Donna would have the same doctors. “I thought you were down in Vernal.”
The doctor shrugs. “In this area, we have to take turns covering the hospitals with labor and delivery. I’m actually taking call for Doctor Fleemen right now, and right before your friend Donna came in, I delivered a set of twins. It’s been a busy day over here.”
“Can you do the ultrasound?” Abby’s polite, but she doesn’t let things go.
As it happens, a nurse is rolling a cart into the room at that very moment, and I recognize the machine it’s carrying as an ultrasound. “The quickest way to check for pregnancy is a trans-vaginal ultrasound,” the doctor says. “If we see the baby right where it should be, then we don’t have to go hunting elsewhere. I’ll also look around for that Mirena.”
She’s going to look around for it? Like you’d hunt for your keys if you misplaced them? That doesn’t sound promising.
“How far along are you? Any guesses?” Her eyebrows rise, and I realize she’s talking to me now.
“I didn’t even know I was pregnant until a few hours ago.”
“Alright, well, we’ll see if we can get a decent guess on how far along you are as well.” She hands me a gown. As I walk to the bathroom to change, she pulls out the disturbing looking wand and starts to put a plastic sleeve over it.
Peachy.
As I change clothes, it occurs to me, and I feel a little bad about thinking this, but if it is ectopic, I won’t have to feel guilty for terminating the pregnancy.
Trans-vaginal ultrasounds are just exactly what they sound like they’d be. They stick the ultrasound probe up into places it should not be, and they take photos of what it finds with buttons on their little machine. As it happens, this particular cart at least has heated gel, and the doctor seems to know what she’s doing. Definite perks if you’re ever subjected to this particular form of abuse.
After a moment of shifting and making small squeaky sounds, the doc says, “Oh, there you are.”
“The Mirena?” I crane my neck to try and see the machine’s monitor.
“No,” Abby says. “And if you don’t want to see your baby, you should keep your eyes down.”
“Down?” I turn again, and this time, I can see the corner of it. I shift a little more and it comes clear. The image on the monitor looks like a little otter stuffy, all rounded and bulbous. “Should it look like that? Why’s its head so big?”
The doctor turns the machine, and suddenly I can see it almost perfectly.
“How old is it? That’s not a tiny bean. It looks huge.”
“It’s measuring between 10 and 12 weeks,” the doctor says. “And it looks just fine to me. The head starts out much larger than the body and slowly grows into it, but even when babies are born, their heads are much larger than an adult’s would be. Babies can’t even touch their hands together above the top of their heads, for instance.”
I exhale for some reason, like I’m relieved that it’s healthy, which is ridiculous. We’re only doing an ultrasound to rule out an ectopic pregnancy. My hands are shaking, and my heart’s racing, and the baby keeps kicking on the screen, and it’s all too much. I have to look away. I know it’s still small, but I didn’t expect it to look like anything yet. What’s ten weeks? Two and a half months?
“How could I not have known?” I ask. “Isn’t that weird?”
“You had a Mirena to prevent this from happening,” the doctor says, removing the probe and then clicking away on a lot of buttons on the keyboard. “That particular device is also known to eliminate periods, the lack of which is usually the first indicator of pregnancy.”
“That’s kind of a stupid side effect for a contraceptive, now that I think about it.”
“It’s a huge bonus for many women,” the OB says. “But it can also make it hard to know when you’re pregnant. You haven’t gained much size or mass yet.” She shrugs. “It’s not uncommon not to notice. I’ve had people come in who were in their third trimester who had no idea.”
She must be kidding. “Don’t they feel the baby moving?”
“It’s actually pretty common with a first pregnancy that people mistake any movement they feel for acid reflux or indigestion, and even seasoned mothers usually don’t feel the baby before about sixteen weeks, so it’s not at all strange you wouldn’t know.”
“Indigestion?” I can’t help flattening my hands against my stomach. “They think it’s indigestion?” It seems nuts.
She clicks a few more buttons and a little paper prints off. She hands it to me. “Congratulations. It looks like a very healthy baby, and you’re out of the scariest miscarriage risk window in the next week or so.” She leans a little closer. “At this age, your odds of getting pregnant hover right around five percent each month, and there appear to be no signs of abnormalities so far. Of course, you’d want to get a full ultrasound read by a radiologist to confirm all that, and you’ll need to start taking a prenatal vitamin right away if you want to keep it. If not, you can make an appointment for that too.”
“I—I’m not sure?—”
“I have to go back and check on Donna, but I’ll swing back by in an hour or so to answer any additional questions you may have.”
“Should I be worried that you didn’t see the Mirena?” I ask.
“If you do a complete ultrasound, they can search for it, but I didn’t see it in the uterus or anywhere obvious.” She stands and then shrugs. “Sometimes they just fall out.”
“Fall out?” I ask. “Are you kidding?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. That’s the one percent they talk about when they say it’s ninety-nine percent effective.”
I’m doing the math in my head as she walks out. One percent of the time, Mirena fails. Five percent of women my age can get pregnant. So that’s like one percent times five percent. . .My chances of having this baby are five one-hundredths of a percent. “I did everything that anyone reasonable would do,” I say. “I tried to prevent this from happening.”
“I know you did,” Abigail says. “No one could accuse you of being careless.”
I flop back against the pillow. “I can’t believe it.” But I keep thinking of that little otter, over and over. “I just can’t believe it.”
“I’ll call Steve and let him know I need to stay overnight,” Abby says. “I can keep an eye on you and Donna both.”
“Why?” I sit up. “Why do you need to keep an eye on me?” I narrow my eyes.
“I looked it up, Helen. Abortion’s legal in Wyoming, but only until 24 weeks. Since we’re already here. . .” Abby inhales and exhales slowly, and then she forces a smile.
“What if I said I might keep it?” I don’t even understand the words coming out of my mouth, but something about Abby being so supportive, for her, and seeing that little otter. . .
I don’t want a baby.
I don’t.
I never have.
I don’t even understand why Donna and Abby and, to a certain extent, even Amanda seem to love babies. Kids are fine, I guess, but the babies just take over and ruin everything. My board would lose their minds. My body would be wrecked. My life would be desecrated.
But that little otter.
“Excuse me?” Abby asks. “I feel like I misunderstood you.”
“What if I kept it?” I ask again.
Abby’s face comes alive in a way I’ve never before seen. Her eyes light up. Her lips tremble, and suddenly, tears begin rolling down her face. Her voice is wobbly and her brow is furrowed when she says, “Are you really thinking about that?” Her hands are shaking.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Oh my gosh!” Her voice is high and stringy and her hands are flapping around like she’s trying to swim through a riptide, and she keeps repeating the same phrase over and over. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Ohmygosh, ohmygosh!” Then she hugs me.
Not like a good-to-see-you hug. Not like a thank-goodness-you’re-alright hug, either.
No, this is a pop-the-bones-in-my-back kind of hug.
She shakes the bed I’m lying on.
And then she keeps right on hugging me. When she finally releases me, she’s still crying. Her voice is ragged and stringy. “Oh my gosh, Helen! You could have a baby!”
I hate that I like her excitement, but I can’t help it. In all my life, I doubt I’ve ever made my sister that happy. I’ve probably never made anyone this happy. Her excitement isn’t enough to ruin my life, but knowing she was holding all this inside of her, reining it all in to try and make sure I knew she loved and supported me, well.
It’s significant.
“Okay, okay. That’s enough excitement for now. I think it’s pushing me the wrong way,” I lie. Because if I don’t, I might do something stupid just to make Abby happy. Which would be the worst reason ever to have a baby I don’t want.
Abby drags in a huge breath, and then she drags in another. “Right. Right. Of course it is. Yes.” She swipes at her cheeks, and she wipes her nose, and she dries her face on her shirt. “And who knows what you’ll decide to do. I support you either way.”
That makes me laugh—great, big, gulping peals of laughter that fill the entire room. “Sure you do.”
Now my sister looks entirely sober. Utterly serious. “I do, Helen. I’m really, really trying.”
And she is. It’s probably the truest thing she’s ever said. In this moment, I love her more than I knew I could. The idea of terminating a pregnancy fills her with the worst kind of dread, I know. Her children are her whole life.
I’ve spent a little bit of time hating them for it. I’m a jealous person. But is it really a stretch to guess that she wants the same thing for me that she prizes for herself? Only, it won’t be like that with me. They won’t fill me with boundless joy. I’ll be much closer to Amanda’s constant low-key irritation. If I’m lucky.
“When I was pregnant with Whitney. . .” Abby sits next to me and looks down at her hands. “It was miserable. I was tired. I. . . Nate and I decided it was a smart move for him to get a vasectomy. I couldn’t handle any more pregnancies.”
“Spoiler alert,” I say. “You were going to have two more.”
“Yeah, so apparently less than a half a percent of vasectomies don’t actually work. The man’s tubes, like, repair themselves.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head.
“And Nate was among them?” I sit up straighter. “Wait, was Gabe an oops?”
She shakes her head again. “No, we had Nate tested six months after the procedure as they recommended, and we discovered that it hadn’t worked.” She sighs. “We prayed about it then, and I know that’s not your thing either, but we both felt like we were supposed to have just one more baby, and that’s why it didn’t work.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I flop back against the pillows. “Every baby is a miracle.”
“No.” Abby laughs. “Most babies are tired, grumpy, miserable little brats.”
“What?” My head whips sideways, but she seems serious.
“Babies are demanding little tyrants who make you wish you could just die so you could sleep without being interrupted.” She sounds sincere, but her eyes are also sparkling. “You’ve actually been around a little bit for Nathan, so you might realize that I’m serious.”
“And you think I should have this one?” I splay my hand over my stomach again.
“I do hope you’ll choose the adventure.” Abby smiles. “It’s horrible and scary and awful and also beautiful, exciting, and brilliant. But what matters isn’t what I want. It’s what you think.” She pats my hand. “The one piece of advice I’ll give is this. It took two people to make that little baby.”
David. She thinks I ought to tell David.
We sit there like that for half an hour or so before Abby decides it’s time to go check on Donna. I stand up and tuck the photo into my purse. “I’ll come too. Maybe it’ll be good for me.”
“Not all deliveries are as hard as Donna’s,” Abby says. “In fact, most aren’t. You should know that.”
“But some are worse.”
Abby shrugs. “True.”
“If I tell him and then I decide not to have it,” I say.
“I know.”
“Nothing could hurt him more than that.”
“But most of the time,” Abby says, “babies bring people together. Keep that in mind, too.”
I’m thinking about it as we walk out of the door and into the waiting room, and it’s right then that David Park walks through the sliding doors of the parking lot, his arms straining to carry four very full bags of food. “Hey!” He lifts his arms a few inches. “I thought people might be hungry!”
His face is so bright, so animated, and so beautiful.
Until I decide what I want to do, he can’t know. Losing this baby would break us, and losing him might break me. I just want to come out of this whole thing unscathed.
I’m starting to worry that my wish isn’t even possible.