43. Lucia
43
LUCIA
A fter my showdown with Saverio, I spent the rest of Saturday and Sunday almost comatose. I lazed on the couch and watched two seasons of Sex and the City while waiting for an epiphany to hit me. While Carrie and her friends drank Cosmos and discussed men, I sipped on ginger ale and avoided thinking about them. It was not a productive use of my time, but I couldn’t force myself to do anything else.
The work week begins too soon, and I call in early enough for the district to get a sub for my classroom. I tell them I’m feeling under the weather, but the truth is, I need to see a doctor. I need to find out what the next step is when you’re pregnant. There are too many articles online about what to expect when you’re expecting. I don’t know which one to listen to or if I should listen to any of them at all. Instead, I make an appointment with an obstetrician in hopes she’ll give me a solid starting point.
I sit in the waiting room of the OBGYN’s office, the sterile smell of disinfectant stinging my nose. The walls are a soft, pastel green, meant to be calming, but the nerves thrumming through my veins make everything feel sharp and bright. I clutch my phone in my hand, flipping it over and over as I try to distract myself. But it doesn’t work. My thoughts are everywhere.
I think I’m five weeks pregnant. Five weeks and five days if you want to get granular. Five weeks and it already feels like the weight of this pregnancy is crushing me. I haven’t told my family yet, but I haven’t known that long myself. Besides, when would I have told them? Friday night when they were beating the shit out of Kristopher Tate, or Saturday morning when I was kicking myself for getting knocked up by the guy that convinced them to beat the shit out of Kristopher Tate?
The door opens, and a nurse calls my name. I stand on shaky legs, trying to calm my breathing as I follow her down the narrow hallway to the exam room. The walls are lined with posters of smiling pregnant women, and information about fetal development and prenatal care is plastered everywhere I look. It feels suffocating.
The nurse gestures to a chair, and I sit down, my hands gripping the armrests as she takes my blood pressure and asks me a series of questions—basic, routine. But the more she asks, the more real it all feels and the tighter the knot in my chest becomes.
“When was the start of your last period?” she asks, flipping through a clipboard.
“Uh… I was on birth control,” I murmur, the words barely escaping my throat. “Then I went off birth control, and I got pregnant. I’m five weeks, five days, I think.”
The nurse writes something down and continues. “Any medical conditions we should be aware of?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. My voice sounds distant and hollow as if I’m watching this happen to someone else from across a vast, empty room. The words feel foreign on my tongue, disconnected from reality. I swallow hard, trying to ground myself in the moment, but the surreal feeling persists.
“Are you taking any prenatal vitamins?”
I freeze. “No,” I admit softly. “Not yet.”
The nurse makes a note, her expression neutral, but I feel a rush of guilt wash over me. This is something I should be taking seriously, something I should’ve done already. All the articles I read mentioned prenatals. But everything feels overwhelming, and I can barely keep up with the thoughts swirling in my head, let alone researching which prenatal is right for me.
“The doctor can prescribe prenatals. You’re not too far along, so it’s okay. Don’t worry,” the nurse says with a smile. She finishes her notes and steps out, telling me the doctor will be in shortly.
The moment she’s gone, I exhale, trying to steady myself, but the silence in the room only amplifies the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but it does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my chest.
I don’t know if I can do this alone. But the idea of allowing Saverio to father this innocent life I’m carrying terrifies me. What kind of father would he be? What kind of life would this child have?
The door opens, and the doctor walks in, a warm smile on her face as she introduces herself. Her calm demeanor does nothing to soothe my nerves, but I manage to give her a tight-lipped smile in return.
“Good morning, Lucia,” she says, settling into her chair and reviewing my chart. “So, you’re about five weeks along, huh? That’s great. Congratulations! Have you had any nausea or fatigue?”
I nod, my hand unconsciously drifting to my stomach. “Yeah, a little bit of both,” I admit. “The nausea comes in waves, and I’m exhausted most days.” I don’t know if these symptoms are solely from the baby or a manifestation of the turmoil in my life. Is there a way to tell the difference?
The doctor scribbles something down. “That’s completely normal at this stage. We’ll want to get you started on some prenatal vitamins as soon as possible. I’ll prescribe them for you before you leave.”
I nod again, though my mind is already wandering. Her words blur into the background as I think about Saverio. About how easy it would be to let him into my life, to be the father he’s always wanted to be. He’d bend over backward to make me comfortable and get me what I needed. But what would happen after that? He’d want to control everything. He’d want to control me and, more than that, our child. I can’t let that happen.
“And what about the father?” the doctor asks, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “Will he be involved?” It’s like she can read my thoughts.
I feel my throat close up, the question hanging heavy in the air. I blink, my hands gripping the edge of the chair. My mind races, trying to find an answer that doesn’t feel like a lie. All I can manage is the truth. “For now… no,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “He won’t be involved.”
The doctor’s expression softens, and I can feel her studying me, but she doesn’t press. She nods and writes something down, continuing the rest of the appointment. But my heart is pounding, and the pressure in my chest grows with every passing second.
When the doctor finishes, I barely register her instructions. The room feels too small and too hot, as if the air is too thick to breathe. I nod as she talks about the importance of nutrition and follow-up appointments—once a month until I’m in my third trimester, unless something comes up. But all I can think about is the storm brewing—the one I’m not sure I can outrun.
I’m still reeling from the appointment when my phone buzzes in my hands. I glance down and see a message from Luciano.
Luciano
Dinner this week? Friday night at Dante’s?
I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen. Manhattan. Where Saverio is. If I go, he’ll know. He’ll track me. He’ll want answers. But it’s my family. Luciano, Dante, Niccolo, Salvatore, Mom—they’ll be there. I can tell them about the pregnancy; I can tell them everything.
It’s just dinner, I think to myself. I can manage that. And I can handle Saverio if I have to. Please God, don’t let me have to.
Lucia
I’ll be there
I type back, hitting send before I can second-guess myself. Luciano returns a few minutes later with details, but by then, I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot of the OBGYN clinic. I have to go to Walmart to pick up a prenatal prescription. I need a cup of coffee if I’m going to make it through the day. But didn’t the doctor say something about caffeine? I wasn’t paying attention.
I lay my head on the steering wheel and coach myself to breathe. I’m only five weeks along. I have thirty-five more weeks until this baby is born. I’ll figure everything out by then. I have to. I can’t have this baby without a plan.