Chapter 4 Liz #2
Dr. Rosenblatt just nodded, his fingers several inches deep in Liz’s vaginal canal.
Though it was uncomfortable, it wasn’t painful.
Still, Liz resisted the urge to clench at the physical intrusion.
Dr. Rosenblatt continued, “A kumquat—or a cocktail sausage—doesn’t need a couple thousand extra calories. It only needs a couple hundred.”
Before Liz could ask for clarification on when she would have free rein to eat as much as her appetite demanded, Dr. Rosenblatt moved on.
“Let’s take a look and see if there’s a heartbeat,” he said, referring to this possibility as casually as if he were discussing the availability of a reservation on OpenTable.
Preston shot Liz an excited look. Dr. Rosenblatt explained that he would be using a transvaginal ultrasound not only to check for a heartbeat, but also for early detection of abnormalities.
Without further ado, he slapped a condom on the ultrasound wand, applied a dollop of lube, and inserted it several inches into her body.
Liz tried to focus on the matter at hand rather than processing why she was mortified by having a condom-covered piece of medical equipment inserted into her in front of the person who had impregnated her.
She looked at Preston, but he didn’t even seem to notice the value-sized container of lube.
As Dr. Rosenblatt continued his examination wordlessly, Liz held back the tears that threatened as she sank into the amazing horribleness of the moment.
Was there anything more capable of creating such an insane mix of emotions?
Liz either stood on the precipice of parenthood with all its hope and love and expectations…
or not. Preston’s hand instinctively moved to hold Liz’s and she grasped on to it.
Dr. Rosenblatt, Liz, and Preston all looked at the ultrasound machine’s screen as if it held the answers for the rest of their lives, which, for two out of the three of them, it did.
Liz couldn’t breathe. The silence accompanying the appearance of a black-and-white blur on the screen felt oppressive, interminable. But then, finally, Liz heard a steady whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound.
“There’s the heartbeat,” said Dr. Rosenblatt.
“Yes!” shouted Preston, fist-pumping like he did when any of his clients won any sort of sporting event.
Liz tried to swallow the enormous lump that had formed in her throat. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t be dramatic, but she burst into tears that flew from her eyes like a sprinkler, staining her flimsy paper gown.
“Sorry,” Liz said. “I’m just so relieved.
” She stared at the image on the screen: It looked like nothing, a black-and-white smear, but now this incomprehensibly small cluster of cells was a life they had created.
Liz couldn’t believe that such magic could exist within four such nondescript walls, that such a fantastical but commonplace feat—procreation!
—was happening all the time, all over the world, and that she was being allowed to participate in it.
“Is that what I think it is?” Preston asked, pointing proudly to the screen.
“No,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “We can determine gender from the blood test, though.”
“Oh,” Preston said, disappointed. “I thought it was a boy.”
“I don’t think we should find out the gender.
” Liz had only just come to that decision, having not allowed herself to mentally go there before they knew if there was a heartbeat or not.
“What do you think?” she asked Preston. “Let’s be surprised?
” Before Preston could answer, Liz added, “If the blood tests show it’s viable, of course,” addressing Dr. Rosenblatt, but really reminding herself.
“I don’t know if I can wait!” Preston said.
“It’s fun to wait. There aren’t too many real surprises left in life anymore, you know?” Liz said this to the room, but she willed Dr. Rosenblatt to weigh in, supporting her position.
“What do you mean?” Preston asked. “This baby was a surprise!”
Liz cleared her throat uncomfortably. She hadn’t specifically told Preston that she didn’t want their doctor to know the baby hadn’t been planned, but she’d hoped they had an unspoken agreement, the kind born of instinct, from being reasonable people.
Liz willed Preston to let it go, but mental telepathy failed. Preston pointed to her abdomen and informed Dr. Rosenblatt, “That was an accident. What’s a bigger surprise than that?”
“I wouldn’t call it an accident,” Liz said. Dr. Rosenblatt didn’t comment. “It’s…unplanned,” Liz offered.
“How’s that different?” Preston asked. “Accident, unplanned—same thing. Right, Doc?”
Dr. Rosenblatt continued jotting notes in Liz’s folder. Liz took the opportunity to shoot Preston a look that she hoped came across as kind but also crystal clear: Shut the fuck up. (Please.)
Preston did, but they continued the conversation in the elevator after the appointment.
“There’s a stigma when you say it was an accident. Dropping a glass on the floor, getting into a fender bender. Those are accidents,” Liz said.
“So is getting pregnant when you thought you were using birth control,” Preston challenged.
“I was,” Liz said, failing to meet his eye. “The pill is only ninety-nine percent effective. No one talks about the other one percent!”
Never mind the fact that the efficacy rate dropped when combined with antibiotics, which Liz had been prescribed for a bout of strep throat.
Never mind the fact that the rate went down even more if the pills weren’t taken diligently each day.
And especially never mind the fact that on one Friday evening, Liz had glanced into her toiletry bag and noticed three little pink egg-shaped pills for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday that she had neglected to take.
And then Liz hadn’t dry-swallowed the forgotten pills on the spot.
She hadn’t told Preston that he should pull out.
She hadn’t mentioned it at all. Liz had tempted fate.
She had, if not flat-out invited the pregnancy, at least opened the door and put out a welcome mat.
Liz rationalized that this didn’t make her a bad person.
No one told the person they were with everything.
The world would cease to function! Preston didn’t need to know that Liz waxed her naturally furry mustache once a month, or about Liz’s hand in the pregnancy.
She hoped that the guilt gripping her internal organs would eventually dissipate.
The elevator arrived and Liz darted forward, as if to outrun her own thoughts. Preston followed her into the lobby of the medical building. Momentarily stunned by the burst of sunlight streaming through the glass doors, they both put up their hands to shield their eyes from the glare.
People of all ages filled the lobby, but Liz zeroed in on a new dad toting a car seat, his newborn swaddled and tucked inside it like a pearl in an oyster shell.
His wife, beside him, was still swollen from the battle her body had waged, and fatigue was evident on her face, but she beamed with love and joy and pride.
They were so happy—the whole tableau was so tender—that it almost hurt for Liz to take it in.
Liz looked away and Preston must have caught her pained expression. “Sorry!” he said quickly. “I get it. We won’t say the pregnancy was an accident.”
Liz thanked him. They exited the building and Preston walked Liz to her car, gesturing that his was across the parking lot.
“I really don’t want the baby to know that he or she was unplanned,” Liz said, getting worked up again.
“A child who thinks they weren’t wanted can struggle with those feelings their entire life.
” Liz gave him what she hoped was a calm, unbothered smile but it probably looked how she felt, which was deranged.
Preston took Liz by the arm. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I have to get back to work, but…”
I’ll stay here if you’re going to have a mental breakdown in the parking lot of the medical complex.
“I’m fine!” Liz assured him brightly. Chill, easygoing Liz was back, the break in character a blip, an acute but brief outbreak of irrationality that had been contained—no need to phone the CDC!
“I’ll come by your place later to help you finish up the boxes,” Preston said, giving Liz a peck on the lips.
As Preston jogged away, Liz slumped against the passenger door of her old Audi.
She frowned, then thought about her own mother as she unlocked her car and slid behind the wheel.
She hadn’t informed Angela she was pregnant yet.
She had told Preston she didn’t want to tell anyone until they got the results of the genetic testing back and knew that the pregnancy was viable—a totally reasonable and typical approach.
Then again, reasonable and typical never fared well around Angela.
Which was probably why, a few days later, when Liz and Preston received a stellar DNA report, Liz still balked at the idea of picking up the phone.
She rationalized her hesitance: It was big news, better conveyed face-to-face.
Plus, Angela was probably joining a cult in some backwoods corner of the globe with bad cell service.
Liz couldn’t imagine trying to deliver her pregnancy news over the static of a poor connection, the conversation devolving into a frustrating game of Mad Libs while they struggled to make out each other’s words.
The real issue, however, was that announcing her pregnancy wouldn’t be like poking the bear.
It would be like ramming it with a stick, midwinter, and shouting, Get the fuck up, bitch! Feeding time!
That night, while Preston was scooping takeout onto plates, and after he’d announced that he wanted to try going vegan, Liz made her case. She had solid reasons to delay telling Angela about the mini cocktail sausage—the baby.
“Of course you’d want to do it in person,” Preston said. “So it’s great timing.”
“What’s great timing?”
“Your mom’s coming here next week. Didn’t she tell you?”
Liz’s face burned. “No. I mean yeah, I just didn’t know it was definite. You know what she’s like.”
“She sounded sure,” Preston said happily. “Which is awesome. I can’t wait to tell her.”
Liz nodded numbly. Preston had only met Angela once, when she made a pit stop in LA with a boyfriend who had some ridiculous name Liz couldn’t remember.
Angela and Kale or Lyon or Tide had been on their way to a holistic health retreat in Joshua Tree, which Liz translated to mean a weekend of magic-mushroom-fueled past-life regressions with sound baths and vortex vibrations. Whatever those were.
Liz had steeled herself to introduce her mother and boyfriend and prepped Preston with the basics: Angela was a free spirit, Liz’s childhood had been chaotic, they were on fine terms if not exceptionally close.
But to Liz’s dismay, Angela and Preston had hit it off.
The Angela who had shown up that day was fun and warm, like she had upgraded to the breezy bohemian model of herself.
Angela had offered freshly rolled joints, trilling that it was legal now, and a bottle of skin-contact orange wine, insisting that it was the color to be drinking.
She told rambling, amusing stories, pausing to let her stupidly named boyfriend add something here and there.
Liz had remained pretty much monosyllabic.
After the visit, Angela had traded in Kale or Lyon or Tide for an energy healer she’d met at the orgy in Joshua Tree, and Preston said he didn’t understand why Liz told him that her mom could be difficult. He thought Angela was terrific!
Preston smiled at Liz across his vegetable chopped salad. “How should we tell her?” he asked, spearing lettuce with his fork. “I want to plan something special.”
Liz took a sip of water to avoid answering. Though she was loath to endorse any of Angela’s claims about her intuitive gifts, Liz did have to admit that her mother had an uncanny ability to tease things out. For more reasons than one, Liz was dreading the reunion with every fiber of her being.