Chapter 2 #5
It was an oversimplification. There were so many reasons to care—-beginning with Jesse being ready for children I didn’t even know if I wanted to have.
Hands curled around his coffee mug, a smile tugging at his mouth, Jesse watched me open my gifts. “You got me so many!” I said, scolding him. I’d opened a black cardigan with pearl buttons, an electric kettle, small gold hoop earrings, fuzzy slippers, and an even fuzzier robe.
Finally, we were down to the last present.
I dragged the purple Rubbermaid tub in front of Jesse.
It had a giant red bow on top. “Merry Christmas!” I said, clapping my hands together.
“I just want you to know, everything in here was hand--selected . . .” I felt my cheeks heat. “Because you matter to me.”
He framed my face with his hands and kissed me. Before I knew it I was draped across the Rubbermaid and half in Jesse’s lap. “Don’t you want to see what’s inside?” I asked, coming up for air.
Jesse reached into the tub and pulled out a can of beans. “You got me . . . cannellini?”
“Yes! It’s a field emergency kit!” I rummaged and pulled out another item.
“Water! I like the Mylar pouches, because you don’t have to worry about them degrading, but once it’s expired that’s okay, too, because you can mark them with electrical tape and use them to wash instead of drinking.
” I dove deeper into the tub, creating an array of items around Jesse’s feet.
“Freeze--dried food. Shower wipes. Three changes of clothes—-for rain, snow, and summer. A spare pair of sunglasses. Sunscreen. A portable tool kit. Soap and hand sanitizer.” I rocked back on my heels.
“Oh, and a propane stove and waterproof matches. And this little beauty . . .” I held up the LifeStraw.
“You can drink mud, basically, and it will filter everything out.”
I looked around, proud of what I’d assembled to keep him safe. It was only then that I realized Jesse hadn’t spoken.
“You hate it,” I said. “You think I’m insane.”
“I love you, and I think this is incredible. Not because I now own a LifeStraw, but because you wanted me to have one.” He grimaced. “I’m just a little embarrassed, because I got you the same thing.”
He reached into the couch cushions behind him and withdrew a small, jewelry--size box.
My heart began to pound, terrified. What if it was a ring?
What if it wasn’t?
I opened the box. Inside was a key.
Jesse closed his hand around mine. “I have a matching one. It opens a condo downtown that’s way too big for me, but perfect for both of us.”
There were too many thoughts crowding my head. “This is not the same thing I got you.”
Jesse kissed my knuckles. “Sure it is,” he said. “We got each other what we need to survive.”
Most of my team gives me a wide berth after Adelaide’s crew packs up their cameras and leaves. At four--thirty, Miguel pokes his head into my office. “We still meeting today?”
I snap at him over the edge of my computer. “Is there a reason why we wouldn’t be?”
Miguel’s eyebrows shoot up. Toby joins us in my office, and for half an hour we review plans for two exercises we’ve organized. Once we’re done, they are gathering their papers.
“Before you go, there’s something I need to tell you both,” I say, my heart suddenly pounding. “I’m pregnant.”
Both men blink at me. “What?” Miguel says, dumbfounded.
I raise a brow. “I said I’m pregnant. Not that I have Ebola.”
Toby clears his throat. “So, what does that mean, exactly?”
“Nothing changes, except my clothing size, and we all keep doing our jobs.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Toby asks. He has four kids and is coming from a place of knowledge I do not yet have, but it pisses me off anyway.
I narrow my eyes at him.
Miguel jumps in to rescue him. “If anyone else could deliver a kid in the middle of an emergency, Molly, it’s you. But . . . maybe . . . there are certain parts of your job you might want to curtail for the next few months.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, ending the conversation.
They are being tactful, and they aren’t wrong. It likely isn’t smart for me to be in the thick of a measles outbreak or in the active path of a hurricane. But that doesn’t mean I want to hear the truth.
Breaking the news about the baby is different later that night, when I go to my dad’s for dinner. Evie is cooking a roast chicken with root vegetables as I lean against the counter, watching her make homemade gravy. “How come when I try to do that it becomes glue?” I ask.
“Because you don’t follow the recipe,” Evie replies.
“I don’t know how I didn’t absorb any of this information when I was growing up.”
Evie looks at me. “You were more interested in taking things apart than learning how to cook. I remember once I came downstairs and you had completely dismantled the toaster.”
I shift. “Did it worry you? Knowing you were sending me out into the world as an adult who could barely boil water?”
Evie laughs. “You somehow have managed to not starve.”
“Because of takeout. And Jesse,” I point out.
Jesse and I wanted to tell my family together about the baby, but at the last minute he’d been delayed at work. He isn’t going to make it to dinner, and my father—-coming in on a flight from an expert witness gig—-is also going to be late. For now, it’s just me and Evie.
I watch her work efficiently. There’s never been a time in my life when I haven’t relied on her capability—-when I fell as a kid and banged myself up, when I needed tricks to remember the spelling words before a quiz, when a friend suddenly ghosted me.
She managed to always be right where I needed her to be.
I want to be that kind of mother.
“I’m having a baby,” I blurt out, and Evie’s whisk clatters out of the gravy pot.
She whirls around, one hand covering her mouth.
“What?” In an instant I am in Evie’s arms. She laughs and cries and asks how far along I am.
Then she peppers me with questions about cravings and morning sickness.
For someone who has never been pregnant herself, Evie is singularly focused on all the details of the condition.
I wonder if it is her way of living vicariously.
“Oh my God, a grandchild,” she says, with awe. “I’m going to buy her the cutest little outfits and get matching mani--pedis—-”
“What if it’s a boy?” I laugh.
“Then he’s gonna have cute outfits and killer nails, too.” She beams at me. “Do I look like a Grandma, or a Gram, or a Gigi . . .”
“You have about seven months to road--test them all,” I offer.
She squeals again and hugs me so tight it’s hard to breathe. “I can’t wait to have a baby in the house again.”
“Did you never . . . want your own kids?” I ask. It seems incredible that I haven’t asked this before.
She puts her hands on my cheeks. “Molly. I had one.”
“You know what I mean . . .”
“I do, and there’s nothing about the way our family came together that makes you any less mine.”
I can’t argue with that. If my mother’s untimely death hollowed out a space in me, it was Evie who filled it.
I remember Jesse telling me once that when Kate had her kidney transplant, they kept her original, janky kidney inside her abdomen, nestled beside the one donated by Anna.
It was still a part of her, even if it wasn’t what sustained her.
Evie pulls back suddenly. “I wish Eloise was here.”
My hand covers my abdomen. Twenty--five percent of the genes twining together now under my palm belonged to my mother. “She is,” I say.
I do not recommend being pregnant if your husband is a cop.
Jesse is overprotective on a good day—-like me, his job literally involves keeping people safe.
But overnight, everything has become a potential threat to me and our unborn child: a car driving on the opposite side of the road that might drift over the divider line; an approaching storm that could cut off electricity; an angry person honking in the parking lot of the grocery store who could be packing a gun in his glove compartment.
For this reason—-my shrinking field of autonomy—-I insist that Jesse not accompany me to my next ob--gyn appointment. It’s not one of the sexier visits (the ones with ultrasounds and cute pictures), just a regular checkup.
I have downloaded an app onto my phone that informs me when my baby is the size of an olive, a lime, or—-this week—-a pear. Arms and legs are waving around, according to the caption.
At Dr. Mantillard’s office, there is a new receptionist at the front desk.
This is only notable because ever since I went for my first gynecological appointment in my teens, the secretary at the desk has been a crotchety, pinched woman named Lucille, who seemed aggrieved at having to check anyone in.
She was old even back then, so I suppose the fact that she is gone—-retired?
dead?—-should not be shocking. In her place is a middle--age brunette with a kind smile. “You’re not Lucille,” I blurt out.
“Guilty.” She grins. “I’m Georgia, the new Lucille. You must be Molly Fitzgerald.”
I find myself smiling back. “And you must have ESP.”
“Sadly, no. You’re just the last appointment we have before the lunch break.” She asks for my insurance card and prints off a label she attaches to my chart. “Looks like Dr. Mantillard has you scheduled today for an AFP test.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a blood test, to rule out neural tube defects.”
I blink. “Neural tube defects?”
“Like spina bifida, or anencephaly.” Her face softens when she sees my reaction. “It’s just a screening tool.”
When I passed the twelve--week mark and the risk of miscarriage decreased, I felt like I’d dodged a bullet. Now I see that pregnancy is a ticking bomb, with any number of triggers.
Why the fuck did I tell Jesse to not come?
What if this blood test shows that the baby isn’t viable? What if I am the bad omen? The person destined to lose not just her mother but also her child?
I swallow. “I . . . I’ll be right back.”