Chapter 4 Steven #2
I turn around so slowly it’s awkward. My smile is awkward. My jazz hands are awkward.
“Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”
She watches me like I’ve just murdered a puppy, but I ignore this, projecting my own joy onto the situation.
Maybe not the most professional way to handle it, but I love babies, and I don’t get a lot of these moments in the ER.
The last one was for myself, telling Emma we were pregnant, at ages thirty-eight and forty.
She looked about the same as this patient does, horrified and nauseated, not liking my optimism much either.
Ms. Richards stares at me—er, more like through me—for a long second before I finally ask, “Is there someone I can call for you?”
She blinks, coming out of whatever premonition consumed her, and stutters, “I’m—I’m pregnant?”
“You are.”
“Are you sure?”
“We could do a blood test to confirm, but these”—I wave to the stick sitting on the counter—“are highly accurate.”
Before I have the last syllable out of my mouth, she begins to weep, gasping out erratic wet breaths that alert my senses like a greyhound. I take a seat at the foot of her bed.
“I didn’t think this would ever happen,” she whimpers into her hands.
“I’m almost forty. He’s forty-five.” I nod in understanding, and she goes on, keeping her face in her hands, muffling her words.
“You go so long without any chance, so you just stop thinking about it, ya know? I can’t believe this is happening. ”
I rest a hand on her ankle. “There are resources. We have centers and social workers. If this isn’t what you want, we can—”
“What?” Her head snaps up, her red, watery eyes locking onto mine.
“If you don’t want this, there are resources out there to assist you and the baby,” I say.
“Oh no, I want this!” She’s beaming now, still crying, but it’s different.
It’s the good kind. “I didn’t think this would ever happen for me.
I was married before, and he left because we couldn’t get pregnant.
And Tommy…gosh, he’s so wonderful. He was fine with just us, but I know he wants this.
Oh my gosh, I can’t wait to tell him.” The tears are now dried up as she pulls out her phone, lets out a soft belch, and begins texting.
“Well, this is exciting,” I say, returning to the computer and clicking over to the discharge flowsheet in her chart. “I would schedule an appointment with an OB this week. If you need a referral, I can send one. I’ll send some nausea medicine to your pharmacy as well.”
“Thank you, thank you.” She’s giddy as she encloses my hand in both of hers, shaking my arm in an aggressive form of gratitude.
“Good luck, Ms. Richards.” I smile and guide her down the hall.
I ride the high of her elation for the last few hours of my shift, thinking back to when Emma got pregnant with the boys or when we found out Josie was a girl.
The love-struck emotions I have for my kids are hard to explain to people.
Most days, like right now, I find myself just staring at the lock screen on my phone, a photo of Easton and Sawyer, wearing matching Big Bro t-shirts, announcing to the world our growing family.
My home screen is a photo of Emma, holding a three-hour-old Josie, looking equal parts exhausted and euphoric.
Emma’s hair is in a poor attempt at a braid she asked me to do mid-labor.
Josie’s cheeks take up half the screen, and a small tear sits at the corner of Emma’s eye as she fawns down at her.
Once my charts are cleared for the morning, I check my phone again. Still nothing.
This is her first week back at work after maternity leave.
She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to stay.
She didn’t want to talk about either. And instead of being a safe, open space to come to when she’s ready to talk about it, I let my exhaustion rear its ugly head.
I gave her more reason to keep her emotions hidden from me.
Still no confirmation from Emma on receiving the flowers. My confidence in the rose-and-carnation assortment begins to dwindle down to a molecular level when my phone finally rings. But it’s not her.
“Dad?” I answer quickly. “Everything okay? Is it Mom?”
“Your mother is fine.” His deep voice settles the nerves in my chest. “I was calling to confirm you’re still coming next week.”
“Next week? Right, yes, we’ll try to be there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yeah. We’ll try.” I sigh, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. I’ve been avoiding my family for a few years now. Every time we visit, it’s just a reminder of how different things are. How changed we all are.
I try to make small talk, but it feels forced. “Everything else good, though?”
He chuckles on the other line. It’s a deep, aged version of the laugh I grew up hearing. “You sound busy.” I don’t; he just knows me too well. “I can call Emma.”
“No,” I snap. “Don’t bother her. There’s enough going on.”
There’s silence on the other end, and knowing my dad, I know he’s contemplating asking how things are going.
For all forty years of my life, my father has had this innate ability to read the room even when he’s not in it.
I always wondered if that was why he became a rancher.
Reading people can be exhausting. Why not focus your energy on the animals and crops?
But he doesn’t ask.
If he did, what would I even say? I can’t lie; he’ll see right through it. I can’t tell the truth; he’d worry. But I tell my dad everything—or I used to anyway. But for the last four months, we’ve barely spoken. I’ve dodged his calls, sending “sorry I missed you” texts instead.
“How’s Mom?” I ask, willing anything to distract him away from my well-being.
“She’s Mom.” I can feel the weak smile on the other line, the smile that silently says, “I can’t tell you everything because it’s too painful to share, but it could be worse, so I’m going to focus on that.”
He clears his throat, not elaborating past the two-word answer. “Let me know when you’ll be in on Monday. We have the guest rooms ready for you. Oh, and your sisters will be here too.”
“All of them?” I grimace at the image of me, my wife, and my three children, all crammed into a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot house barn with my sisters. Four sisters. And their families.
“Yep, not every day your mama turns seventy, now is it?” Gratitude gleams in his voice. Gratitude for another year with my mom here. “Give Emma and the kids a hug for me. We’ll see you soon.”
“See ya,” I mumble into the already disconnected line.
All four of my sisters. Together.
Me: You’re all coming?
I send the message to the group text labeled “Most Bestest Siblings Everrrrrr” much to my chagrin.
Shayna: STEVENNNNNNN <3 you know you want us there
Jay: It would be boring without us!
Tamara: I was told I would be disowned if I didn’t come
Shayna: YOU WILL BE DISOWNED
India: Please ignore them, Steven. We will all be on our best behavior <3
India’s text opens a can of worms loaded with savage accusations and a barrage of ridiculous emojis tossed back and forth like insults.
Each clown face adds a spike to my rising blood pressure.
It ends with all of them asking how Emma is, how the kids are, to send pics, all leading me back to not hearing from Emma yet.
Maybe she’s just busy. Maybe her new responsibilities are overwhelming, and she doesn’t have time to text back. Maybe I should text her again.
“No, don’t do that,” I mutter to myself. “Don’t be desperate.”
I shift in my seat, and my fingers tap erratically against my phone, the desk, the edge of my computer screen. I can’t stay still.
“Stop it.” My hands fly up, exasperated with myself, which startles an elderly patient now picking up speed as they shuffle past. I force myself to look away from my phone. My thumb twitches with temptation, but I resist.
I blow out a breath and grab my next patient’s chart—hypertension. “You and me both, brother.”
With one last pitiful, hopeful glance at my phone, I accept there are no messages from my wife coming in and swallow the sting of rejection it brings.
We’re going to be fine.