Chapter 6 #2
She dims the lights and wheels over a machine that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. I lie back, and she pushes my shirt up, exposing my rounded stomach to the cool air.
"This gel is going to be cold," she warns, and then squirts what feels like an entire bottle of arctic liquid onto my skin.
I gasp. "That's not cold. That's glacial."
Trace moves closer, eyes fixed on the monitor as Dr. Martinez moves the wand across my stomach. Static and shadows at first, and then—
"There we go," Dr. Martinez says softly.
And there's the baby.
My baby. Our baby. Moving, real, undeniable.
I've seen ultrasounds before—three of them, actually, all in Florida with me sitting alone in rooms that smelled like antiseptic while technicians made small talk and pretended not to notice I didn't have anyone with me.
But this feels different. Maybe because Trace is here, leaning forward in his chair like he's trying to memorize every pixel.
Maybe because I'm in Alaska, in a place that's starting to feel less foreign and more like somewhere I could actually be.
Maybe because for the first time in seven months, I'm not doing this alone.
"Strong heartbeat," Dr. Martinez says, and a rapid thump-thump-thump fills the room, impossibly fast, impossibly real. "See that fluttering there? That's the heart. And here—" She points to the screen. "That's a foot."
"A foot," Trace repeats, his voice rough. "That's—that's a whole foot."
"Complete with toes." Dr. Martinez smiles, adjusting the wand slightly. "And if you look here, you can see the baby moving. See that? That's an arm. Baby's quite active today."
I watch the screen, mesmerized. The baby shifts, curls, stretches. A tiny hand comes into view, fingers splayed like a star.
"Oh my God," I whisper. "Is that—"
"That's the hand," Dr. Martinez confirms. "Ten fingers, ten toes. Baby's measuring right on track. Good size, good position. Everything looks perfect."
"Is the baby healthy?" Trace asks, and I can hear the fear beneath the question.
The same fear I've been carrying for months, the constant low-level terror that something will be wrong, that I'll have done something to mess this up, that the universe will punish me for hiding this pregnancy, for not telling him, for all my mistakes. "Everything okay? No problems?"
"Everything is perfect," Dr. Martinez assures him, her voice warm and certain. "Strong heartbeat. Right on track for development. All the measurements look good. Amniotic fluid levels are normal. Placenta is in a good position. This is a very healthy baby."
I look over at Trace and realize his eyes are wet. He's not quite crying, but close. He's staring at the screen like it's the most important thing he's ever seen, one hand pressed against his mouth like he's trying to hold something in.
And something in my chest—something I've been keeping carefully locked away since I found out I was pregnant, maybe even since that morning I left his bed—cracks open.
This is real. This man, this baby, this moment. All of it.
"Do you want to know the sex?" Dr. Martinez asks.
Trace and I look at each other.
"No," I say at the same time he says, "Up to you."
"I want to be surprised," I add. "If that's okay."
"Perfectly okay." Dr. Martinez makes some final notes, takes some measurements, and then wipes the gel off my stomach. "Baby looks great, Patrice. You're doing everything right. Let's schedule you for a follow-up in two weeks, and we'll keep monitoring progress."
She leaves us with a stack of pamphlets about birthing classes and breastfeeding and approximately eight thousand other things I haven't thought about, plus a strip of ultrasound pictures that Trace immediately picks up like they're made of gold.
"We'll take them," he tells the nurse who appears to schedule my next appointment.
"Take what?" I ask.
"All of them. The birthing classes. Hospital tour. Everything."
"Trace—"
"We're doing this right," he says firmly. "Which means preparation. Planning. Being ready."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's being overbearing again. But the truth is, I'm terrified. I have no idea what I'm doing. And having someone here who wants to learn with me, who's taking notes and asking questions and actually showing up?
That's not the worst thing in the world.
The hospital tour is led by a cheerful nurse named Beth who's probably in her sixties and treats the labor and delivery wing like it's her personal kingdom.
She shows us the spacious rooms with beds that can be adjusted a hundred different ways, the monitors that track contractions and the baby's heartbeat, the private bathrooms with massive tubs for water birth if that's what I want.
"This is where you'll come when you go into labor," Beth explains, gesturing around one of the rooms. "We encourage partners to stay for the whole process.
There's a fold-out chair that's surprisingly comfortable—we upgraded last year—and we can bring in extra pillows and blankets.
Some partners even sleep here after delivery if they want to stay close. "
Partners. She keeps saying partners, and Trace doesn't correct her. Neither do I.
We see the recovery rooms, smaller but still private, with space for the baby to stay in the room instead of going to the nursery. Beth shows us the nursery anyway—rows of tiny bassinets behind glass, currently empty but clearly well-maintained and ready.
"We're a small hospital," Beth says, "but we've got everything you need.
Dr. Martinez is excellent, and we've got two other OBs on staff who can step in if needed.
Plus we're connected to the hospital in Anchorage if there are any complications that require specialist care, though that's rare. Most of our deliveries go smoothly."
"What about pain management?" Trace asks, his phone out again, taking notes.
Beth walks us through the options—epidural, IV meds, nitrous oxide, natural methods.
She explains what an epidural involves, when it can be administered, how long it takes to work.
Trace asks follow-up questions about side effects and recovery time, and Beth answers everything patiently like she's done this a thousand times before.
Which she probably has.
As we walk back through the hallways toward the exit, we pass several people who recognize Trace.
A doctor in scrubs stops mid-stride. "Trace! Hey man, how's it going?"
"Dr. Reeves. Good to see you." They shake hands with the easy familiarity of people who know each other well. "This is Patrice."
"Pleasure to meet you." Dr. Reeves smiles at me, then glances at my stomach with the practiced assessment of someone who sees pregnant women regularly. "Congratulations to you both. When are you due?"
"About eight weeks," I manage.
"Exciting time. Well, you're in good hands with Dr. Martinez. And if you need anything—" He claps Trace on the shoulder. "You know where to find me."
Further down the hall, we pass a maintenance guy pushing a cart.
"Trace!" He grins. "Roof's still solid. No leaks through that storm last week."
"Good to hear, Jim. Stay warm out there."
"Always do." Jim tips an imaginary hat at me. "Ma'am."
In the lobby, an older woman with a walker stops us.
"Trace MacKenzie, is that you?" She peers up at him with sharp eyes behind thick glasses.
"Mrs. Patterson. How are you feeling?"
"Oh, can't complain. Hip's healing up nicely." She turns to me with unconcealed curiosity. "And who's this lovely young lady?"
"This is Patrice. Patrice, Mrs. Patterson. She runs the library book club."
"Used to run it," Mrs. Patterson corrects. "These days I mostly just attend and complain about everyone's choices. You're the one carrying Trace's baby, aren't you? Linda called me right after you checked in."
I blink. "That was only an hour ago."
"Small town, dear. News travels fast. Especially good news." She pats my arm. "You'll do just fine here. Trace is a good man. Takes after his mother, God rest her soul."
And just like that, she shuffles off, leaving me standing there trying to process the fact that apparently everyone in town already knows I'm here and pregnant with Trace's baby.
"Sorry about that," Trace says, looking apologetic. "I should've warned you. Privacy isn't really a thing in Ashwood Falls."
"It's fine." And weirdly, it is. Everyone was friendly. Welcoming. Not judgmental or gossipy in a mean way, just... interested. Like they're genuinely happy for Trace. For us.
For us.
When did we become an "us"?
We're walking back to the truck when he stops by the driver's side door, pulling out the ultrasound pictures.
He looks at them with this expression—soft, awed, a little terrified.
Then, very carefully, he opens his wallet and tucks one of the pictures inside, right behind his license where he'll see it every time he opens it.
The wall I've been building—the one that cracked during the ultrasound—crumbles completely.
This is real. He's real. This isn't obligation or duty or whatever I convinced myself it was.
This is a man who spent last night listening to pregnancy podcasts, who asked Dr. Martinez about episiotomies without flinching, who just put a picture of our baby in his wallet like it's the most precious thing he owns.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
"Ready?" he asks, looking up and catching me staring.
"Yeah," I manage, climbing into the truck. "Ready."
As we drive back toward his cabin, I watch him from the corner of my eye. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between us. Close enough to touch if I wanted to. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
His protectiveness is starting to feel less annoying and more... comforting. Like maybe having someone who wants to take care of me isn't the worst thing. Like maybe I don't have to do everything alone just because I've been doing it alone.
Like maybe this could actually work.
"Patrice?" he says, glancing over at me.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For keeping the appointment. For letting me come. For—" He pauses, searching for words. "For giving me a chance to be here. I know I screwed up, making it without asking. But I'm glad you went anyway."
"Me too," I admit quietly.
And I mean it.
We drive the rest of the way in comfortable silence. When we pull up to his cabin, I stay in the truck for a moment, watching him grab the stack of birthing class pamphlets from the back seat like they're mission briefings.
He catches me looking. "What?"
"Nothing." Everything. The wallet picture. The emergency contact form. The way he types notes about epidurals like he's preparing for combat.
I don't want to leave. Not tomorrow, not after next week, not when Tessa's wedding is over and I'm supposed to head back to... what exactly? The Anchorage job where I know no one? The apartment I'll be alone in?
The baby kicks, hard enough to make me wince.
"You okay?" He's already coming around to my side of the truck.
"Fine. It’s just reminding me it’s here."
"It does that a lot?" He helps me down, his hand steady on my elbow.
“Yeah. It does.”
And so does he.