CHAPTER FIVE
Laurel
By the morning of the twelve week scan, Graham had attended four appointments.
He had also rearranged two board meetings, canceled a dinner in Boston, and instructed his assistant to keep every Thursday morning free until the baby was born. The changes appeared on the shared calendar without Laurel asking for them.
For seven weeks, he had come home before dinner more often than after it.
He removed the wine from the dining room and sent the cook a list of foods Laurel should avoid, most of which Dr. Kessler had never prohibited.
Three pregnancy books appeared beside his side of the bed.
Each contained notes in Graham's handwriting and colored tabs marking sections about fetal development, nutrition, and warning signs.
The first time Laurel found him reading beneath the bedside lamp, she stood inside the bedroom entrance for several seconds before he noticed her.
“What?” He looked down at the book. “This one contradicts the other two.”
“About what?”
“Coffee. One author permits two hundred milligrams of caffeine. Another thinks you should avoid it entirely.”
“What do you think?”
“I think anyone who writes medical advice should be required to agree with everyone else first.”
Laurel laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
That night, Graham slept beside her again. By the end of the week, the guest suite had been restored for visitors. His clothing returned to the main wardrobe. His watch appeared on the bedside table each evening, and his pillow needed smoothing every morning.
Laurel began leaving the treatment records unlocked.
At the clinic, Graham completed the intake form while Laurel sat beside him. He answered every question and asked her before marking anything concerning her symptoms.
“Have you experienced persistent nausea?”
“Only in the mornings now.”
“You were sick after dinner on Tuesday.”
“That was your soup.”
“My soup was fine.”
“You ate one spoonful.”
“Because you had already informed me it was terrible.”
The receptionist smiled without looking up from her computer.
Graham checked the box for occasional nausea and added a note in the margin about Tuesday's soup.
When the nurse called them, he took Laurel's handbag before she could reach for it. He carried it into the examination room along with his phone, a bottle of water, and the folder in which he kept copies of every test result.
Dr. Kessler entered to find him reading the ultrasound equipment label.
“You are not permitted to compare the specifications with another machine while I'm using it.”
Graham looked over his shoulder. “I was checking the model.”
“You were deciding whether you should have purchased a better one.”
“I haven't ruled it out.”
Dr. Kessler gave Laurel a patient look. “Has he been like this for seven weeks?”
“He has opinions about caffeine.”
“I have evidence about caffeine.”
“You have three books that disagree.”
“That is why I have opinions.”
Dr. Kessler laughed and instructed Laurel to lie back.
Graham moved his chair closer to the examination table. The room became quieter as the physician prepared the scan. Laurel lifted her blouse and tried to ignore the nervous movement of Graham's thumb across the edge of her handbag.
She had undergone an early ultrasound at seven weeks. The pregnancy had been correctly located and a heartbeat detected, but the image had been too small for Graham to reconcile with the baby he imagined. Today, Dr. Kessler had told them they would see more.
Cool gel touched Laurel's abdomen.
Graham reached for her hand.
The monitor filled with shifting gray shapes. Dr. Kessler adjusted the angle, pressed more firmly, and then held the device still.
“There.”
Laurel found the outline only after the physician pointed. A small head. A body curved inward. The suggestion of arms and legs.
The baby moved.
Graham leaned toward the screen. “Was that normal?”
“Very normal.”
“It looked like a jump.”
“Your child is active.”
Another movement appeared. Laurel tightened her fingers around Graham's.
Dr. Kessler selected a control, and a rapid sound filled the examination room.
Laurel had heard it before, but today the heartbeat seemed louder, quick and insistent, occupying every part of the room that fear had claimed.
Beside her, Graham went completely still.
His attention remained on the monitor. Moisture gathered along his lower lashes before he looked down at Laurel.
“That's our baby?”
Dr. Kessler adjusted the volume. “That is your baby.”
Graham raised Laurel's hand to his mouth.
He kissed her knuckles while the heartbeat continued. Tears moved down his face without being wiped away.
Laurel watched him listen.
This was the man she had carried into every empty examination room. The man she imagined whenever a doctor turned the screen toward an unoccupied chair. He existed now, holding her hand and crying over the sound they had spent three years waiting to hear.
“Can I record it?” Graham took out his phone. “Just the sound.”
“For a few seconds.”
He opened the recording application and held the phone near the machine. When Dr. Kessler muted the sound again, Graham played the recording immediately.
The small speaker reproduced the heartbeat with less depth, but his expression did not change.
Dr. Kessler completed the measurements and showed them the baby's hands, spine, and profile. Everything appeared appropriate for twelve weeks. She printed several images and answered Graham's questions about genetic screening, exercise, travel, and fetal development.
When she asked whether Laurel had experienced any bleeding or severe pain, Graham answered before Laurel could.
“No.”
Dr. Kessler looked at him above her blue glasses. “I am pleased that you have become involved, but Laurel remains the person inhabiting the pregnancy.”
Graham nodded. “Of course.”
“Laurel?”
“No bleeding or pain.”
“Good. Your blood pressure is normal, and the measurements are reassuring.”
After the appointment, Graham stood in the corridor studying the ultrasound photographs. He touched the clearest image with one finger.
“I can see the nose.”
“That might be an arm.”
“It's a nose.”
“Our child has a very long nose, then.”
Graham held the photograph closer. “It's the angle.”
Laurel let him keep believing it.
In the car, he played the heartbeat twice before the driver reached the corner.
“You're going to make the recording wear out.”
“It's digital.”
“It already sounds frightened.”
Graham lowered the volume but did not stop it. “I want to send it to my mother.”
“We're having dinner with her tonight.”
“She has waited twelve weeks.”
“She has waited seven. You told her the day we found out.”
“I told her you might be pregnant. Tonight we're giving her the photograph.”
“You cried while telling her.”
“I did not.”
Laurel turned toward him. “You couldn't pronounce the word baby.”
“I had a difficult morning.”
“At eight seventeen in the evening?”
Graham tried to maintain his seriousness. A smile disrupted it.
Laurel rested her head against the seat.
His phone rang before they reached home.
Taryn's name appeared on the screen.
Graham declined the call.
The gesture was small enough that he may not have intended Laurel to notice. She noticed anyway.
“Is something wrong at work?”
“Taryn can handle it.”
He brought Laurel's hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist.
At home, Graham sent the staff away from the formal dining room and asked for dinner to be served in the smaller family room. He said the larger table made conversation feel like a negotiation.
Evelyn arrived carrying two gift bags and a covered dish.
“You have a chef,” Graham told her as she entered.
“Your chef makes decorative portions. Laurel needs food.”
“I'm twelve weeks pregnant, not preparing for winter.”
“You are too thin.”
Evelyn handed the dish to Rosa and embraced Laurel. She smelled of rosewater and the peppermint sweets she carried in every handbag. Before releasing her, she studied Laurel's face, wrists, and waist as though checking for visible signs of neglect.
“Are you resting?”
“Yes.”
“Is he allowing you to rest?”
Graham took his mother's coat. “I don't control whether Laurel sits down.”
Evelyn turned toward him. “You once scheduled her birthday dinner during a conference call.”
“That happened four years ago.”
“It happened twice.”
Laurel smiled. Evelyn collected grievances with remarkable accuracy, especially those involving her son.
They ate roast chicken and potatoes from Evelyn's covered dish. Evelyn watched Graham through half the meal.
“What have you done?” she finally asked.
Graham looked up. “What?”
“You have been attentive for almost an hour. Either you want money or Laurel has wonderful news.”
“I don't need your money.”
“Then I am waiting.”
Graham reached into his jacket and removed the ultrasound photograph. He placed it beside his mother's plate.
Evelyn adjusted her reading glasses. Her eyes moved over the image, then lifted sharply to Laurel.
“Is this yours?”
Laurel nodded. “Twelve weeks today.”
Evelyn pushed back her chair so quickly that her napkin fell to the floor.
She went first to Laurel.
Her arms closed around Laurel's shoulders. She kissed Laurel's hair and cried openly, whispering words of gratitude that were addressed partly to Laurel and partly to someone beyond the room.
Only after holding Laurel did she turn toward Graham.
“My boy.”
She cupped his face and pressed her forehead against his. Graham's composure lasted until his mother began crying harder. He wrapped both arms around her.
Laurel watched them together.
For years, every negative result had seemed to belong to her alone. Graham's disappointment entered the room and attached itself to Laurel's body. Evelyn's joy moved differently. She gave it to Laurel first, recognizing the person who had carried the waiting as well as the child now ending it.
Evelyn returned to her seat but kept the photograph beside her plate.
“I knew it would happen.”
“You told me last Christmas that we should stop trying,” Graham reminded her.
“I was attempting to reduce the pressure.”