Chapter 3 #2
"To Evan," Hamish writes in the tidy scrawl of a man trained to sign for strangers before he bought his first sofa. "Believe in yer touch, and hydrate 'til yer pissin' clear."
The boy laughs, startled.
"I'm a keeper," he says.
"Aye." Hamish hands the paper back. "Then protect yer brain."
"We're sorry about your knee," the father offers, all three of them looking down at it. "Hope you're back out there soon."
"Appreciate it," Hamish answers, steady. His hand slips to my lower back, warmth melting the little invisibility prickle that had started at my scalp.
We sign in.
The receptionist gives me a clipboard with questions as casual as a first date and as intimate as a confession.
Do you drink?
Do you smoke?
Do you sleep well?
Do you have support?
Do you have secrets?
Do you feel like an imposter?
Do you enjoy giving up your identity?
Do you think it's fair that something the size of a football is going to squeeze out a two-inch-diameter hole?
You know. The basics.
We sit. A television murmurs weather in a voice that sounds very important but has no actual consonants. A toddler flips through a board book with surgical concentration. A woman in a navy suit scans emails with a look that says a crisis is blowing up, her muffled profanities making me smile.
Ah, honey. Been there, done that, married the problem.
Nurses appear and disappear. I fill in blanks. Hamish watches my pen, looks at my belly, touches my shoulder, then settles his hand on my knee.
"So much paperwork," he hisses.
"Babies are a whole new human being. We're going to be drowning in administrative sludge for a while."
"Like when yer on yer monthly and dinna want sex?"
"That's not sludge."
"Ye have a lot o' requirements then, pet. Remember the time they were out o' the kettle flavor popcorn and I brought the chocolate caramel and ye told me ta go to hell and threw it across the room?"
His eyes go cloudy, then he frowns.
"Hormones. Ah, Christ. Better buy a case of the kettle flavor ta cover the next eight months. Mebbe two."
A nurse calls my name. She checks my weight, blood pressure, and does a quick audit of my clipboard answers. Hamish stands beside me, a very large, very gentle emotional support animal.
The exam room is warm wood and clean lines, as if somewhere in a procurement system, you can press a button and buy a complete kit for an OB exam room, color schemes and accessories included.
Does the speculum coordinate with the neutral tones?
A knock, and the OB enters with a smile that reaches her eyes. Same age as me, maybe a bit older. Dark hair pulled back, hands steady, badge reading Dr. Kalpana Biswas.
"Amy. Hamish." Firm handshakes, chairs indicated. "Congratulations. Seven—almost eight—weeks, I see. We're seeing you a bit early because of the holidays. How are you feeling?"
"Hungry. Sleepy at ten. Otherwise normal. Maybe too normal?"
Hamish and Dr. Biswas tilt their heads in unison.
"Too normal?" she asks.
"My mother and sisters all had really bad morning sickness. Norovirus level, to hear them talk about it."
"And you have none." She smiles.
"Zero. Not even a hint. By now I'm supposed to hate coffee so much, I'd make Hamish live in a doghouse if he drank any within twenty-four hours of coming near me."
"Every pregnancy is different," the doctor says. "And they're envious."
"Oh, they're definitely envious," I reply. "But other than tender breasts—" Hamish's eyes drop to my chest, "—and going to bed early, I don't feel any different."
"Maybe you're one of the lucky ones. Nothing else?"
I shake my head.
"Perfect. Keep moving your body if it feels good, run if you like running, lift within reason, and drink water. Prenatal vitamins. We'll do bloodwork today and a quick listen. The Doppler doesn't always catch a heartbeat at this stage, so if we don't hear anything, don't panic."
Hamish sits very still, absorbing instructions.
She starts the questionnaire. Estimated date of conception. Diet. Sleep habits. Allergies. Family history. Present medications. She is brisk and present.
To her, this is routine. I'm one of hundreds of pregnancies she'll touch this year. My body is a supply chain.
But to me, this is uncharted ground with no compass or map. GPS doesn't work inside a uterus, and my sherpa is an impossibly tall ginger husband who is so unfailingly happy, he makes me question my sanity.
Then she glances at Hamish and her face does a tiny involuntary flicker.
"I have watched you for years," she blurts out, then clamps a hand over her mouth. "Sorry. I kept it in for this long. My spouse is going to be furious I didn't take a picture."
Hamish smiles, softening without shrinking.
"We're here fer Amy and the bairn, Dr. Mouthwash."
"Biswas," she and I say together. Hamish blushes, then gives her a smile that would melt mesh postpartum panties.
"Sorry. I'm a bit nervous. Biswas." His hand rubs a spot between my shoulder blades. "This pregnancy is all about making sure Amy is happy. I'm just here to do whate'er she needs."
"That makes two of us," she says, recovering. "Hi, Amy."
"Hi," I say, amused and showing it. She's allowed to be a person. Marrying Hamish meant this came with the territory. I didn't think I'd be overshadowed in the OB's exam room, but there's a first time for everything.
She reviews basics, then, making conversation, asks, "Are you two local? I'm hearing a mix of accents."
"North End," I answer. "I'm from Mass, born and raised. He's... not."
"Aye, Amy's got a wicked accent," he says, which earns another grin from her.
"Right. I'm the one with the accent," I say as I elbow him. "I'm from Mendon. Tiny town off 495 - "
"Mendon?" Dr. Biswas perks up. "My spouse grew up there. Mendon High. She's an OB, too—different practice. You might have known her? Hannah Carter. Well, Carter-Biswas now."
Hannah Carter: valedictorian, cross-country machine, school-paper editor, scholarship collector. Perfect tiny handwriting slanting right. Straight teeth and glowing skin.
Of course she turned out to be an MD.
Of course she did.
"Of course!" I say, smiling. "Hannah's terrific."
"She is," Dr. Biswas agrees. "Of course, I keep patient confidentiality."
I just smile and don't know how to feel, but for some reason I blurt out, "Oh, it's fine! Tell her Amy Jacoby said hi."
"I will! Great. Now, ready to listen?" Dr. Biswas asks, wheeling over a machine that looks like a karaoke device.
"Is it going to play jazz?" I ask. The paper rustles as I lie back.
"A different kind of music," she says softly.
Cold gel on my belly, the wand pressed firm, her hands move with the care of someone searching for a hidden door. The room quiets. I stare at the ceiling tiles and let my brain be blank, Hamish squeezing my hand in his.
Static. Swish. My own heartbeat, loud and steady.
Then a sound threads through the white noise, timid yet insistent. Not a drum or a knock, but a flutter. A tiny bird.
Hamish's fingers tighten. I hear his breath catch.
"There you are," Dr. Biswas says quietly. "Hi there, baby."
Eyes closed, I listen to the whoosh whoosh, so rapid and light, strong yet airy.
The science involved in hearing my baby's heartbeat feels more mystical than grounded, the wonder of a machine that turns the rush of blood into a sound so marvelous.
I feel gratitude stretching back through every discovery, every invention, each iteration required to turn a heartbeat into love via electricity.
"Aye, dearie," Hamish says to my belly, voice rough. "So good ta meet ye, wee one."
My skin ripples with emotion, each pore tingling with cold and heat at once.
"Oh, it's so beautiful," I choke out. "And that's inside me."
"Ye're growing a life in ye, Amy. A whole life." He kisses the back of my hand. "Yer body is doing somethin' I canna ever do. I just—" His voice catches. "Thank ye. Thank ye for this."
We listen, soaking in the music of our baby's rhythm.
"Congratulations," Dr. Biswas says. "This never gets old."
She clicks the machine off, and when the sound stops, my heart seizes.
"Everything looks good. Keep doing what you're doing. Questions?"
I have a thousand questions, none of which fit on any of their intake forms.
How do I grow a whole human being inside my body?
What if I don't know how to be a mother?
What if the birth is too hard?
How do I balance being me with being a mom?
How do I give this baby everything he or she will need?
What if the baby cries all the time?
Which continent should we live on?
How do I please everyone in our lives and not have hurt feelings?
What if Hamish loves the baby more than me?
What if he doesn't?
"Um, no. You've covered everything," I squeak out.
"Wait," Hamish says. "The due date?"
Dr. Biswas laughs, embarrassed. "It would be nice to know, wouldn't it?" She looks at me when she answers. "July 30."
"July 30," Hamish and I both mutter. A perfectly average day suddenly elevated to greatness.
We schedule the scan. She gives me a handful of pamphlets that smell like smudged toner and reassurance: What to Expect in Trimester One. Food Safety vs. Cravings.
Your Pelvic Floor: Use It or Lose It.
In the elevator, I study our reflection in brushed steel. A very tall, very handsome man stands next to a woman in a good coat who looks shellshocked.
Because she is.
"Names?" Hamish says suddenly.
"Names?"
"Baby names."
"Oh, ugh. One more thing to fight about."
"Why would we fight?"
"Because that's what couples do when they're having a baby. No one casually suggests a name and they both love it, and that's it. Life is never that easy."
He contemplates the elevator buttons, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed.
"What about Bronwyn?"
"Bronwyn?"
"Aye."
"Strong. Literary. Could be a witch."
"A good witch."
"Does it pass the coffee test?"
"The bairn willna drink coffee, Amy." His eyes go to my breasts.
"Not as a baby, no. I mean the 'weird name on the coffee order' test."
He blinks.
"What?"
"You have to be able to order a coffee without the barista asking if you made it up. 'Bronwyn, short flat.' Acceptable. 'Moonbeam, triple macchiato with sugar-free raspberry syrup.' Not acceptable."
"Moonbeam as a name sounds made up," he says, very serious.
"Exactly."
"What about Winnie?" He leans against the wall.
"Half the female dogs we know are named Winnie."
He makes a face.
"Then no, no Winnie. But Bronwyn..."
"Is that a family name?"
"No. I just like it."
"Bronwyn McCormick. That's about as Celtic as you can get without giving birth to her in an old castle on a moor."
"Eh. Ye dinna like it. We can keep—"
"Actually, I do like it. I like it a lot."
"And for a boy?" I ask.
"Fergus," he declares, as if we've decided and that's that.
"FERGUS?"
"Aye. Namin' boys after their grandda is tradition."
"I refuse to have a child named Fergus."
"Then Jason. Jason McCormick has a nice ring ta it."
"I see we got lucky with Bronwyn. Let's quit while we're ahead and resume talks on boy names later."
He kisses my cheek, sweet and simple.
The elevator dings. We step out and I duck into the restroom. My phone pings.
Shannon: Well??
I reply: I am pregnant with a hummingbird.
Carol follows with: You're out by now, right?
I copy and paste my Shannon reply.
Carol responds with: I don't even want to know how that conception worked.
I look in the mirror. Deep inside my pelvis there's a life flickering, blood keeping its tiny heart going, my body building a placenta cell by cell, nutrient by nutrient, water turning into blood.
And then my bladder makes a very unequivocal demand.
When I come out of the bathroom, Hamish is holding both our coats and a paper cup of water. He lifts it.
"Hydration."
I drink.
We step into Boston air that smells different now, as if we entered the building in one season of our lives and came outside to another. He wraps one arm around my waist and I lean into him, stomach full of butterflies.
Or hummingbirds.