Chapter 29 Michelle Destiny’s Child
MICHELLE: DESTINY’S CHILD
The waiting room looked like it hadn’t been updated since Nixon. The magazines were curled at the corners, the carpet was a suspicious shade of gray-green, and the air conditioner rattled loud enough to drown out the soft rock station playing from a dusty clock radio.
“Well, one thing’s for sure.” Scott leaned close, his voice low but teasing. “We’re not in L.A. anymore.”
He wasn’t kidding. This was our first time at this office since moving to Ventura, after weeks of waiting for our insurance to kick in.
It was nothing like the trendy Santa Monica one I’d gone to for the other kids’ births.
And we’d been on Medi-Cal at the time. This, apparently, was what private insurance got me further north.
“I guess our co-pay doesn’t cover complimentary Perrier anymore.”
“If you think about it,” Scott said, “L.A.’s home to the most valuable vaginas in the world. Makes sense they’d have quality waiting rooms. Here? It’s just working-class wombs. And the décor reflects that.”
His comment set off my giggles. I picked up a magazine and handed it to him. “No more shower thoughts for you today.”
Scott had only just begun flipping through the pictures when the nurse called us back. We followed her down the narrow hallway in single-file and into an equally no-frills exam room. No pink smock. No fluffy socks. No Ivy League obstetrician.
What we got was Dr. Ellen—middle-aged, no-nonsense, and refreshingly unpolished, like someone’s smart aunt who didn’t have time for mirrors. After the usual questions and checks, she smiled. “Right on the curve. I’m happy. Any questions, or shall we have a look at this baby of yours?”
Moments later, I was on my back in a dimly lit room. The machine buzzed softly as cold gel hit my stomach. The screen flickered to life, and grainy shapes shifted until a tiny body appeared. A strong, steady rhythmic beat filled the small room. “There’s the heartbeat.”
Scott’s breath caught. Mine didn’t. And I hated myself for it.
Dr. Ellen took measurements, explaining to us what we were seeing as she went along. “Baby is measuring right where it should. Strong and healthy.”
Scott squeezed my hand, his eyes wide with wonder as he got his first look at the baby.
It was clear by his expression that he felt it—that unconditional love.
I tried to meet him there, in that joy, but the connection still felt.
.. distant. Physically, I’d recovered from the accident, but mentally I was still struggling to accept the life growing inside me.
I thought by giving it time, I’d be more excited, but that hadn’t happened yet, and I wasn’t sure it ever would.
“Would you like to know the sex?” the doctor asked.
I said no. He said yes.
“How about I give you time to think about it?”
Seeing Scott’s disappointment changed my mind. Just because I didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl shouldn’t rob him of the moment.
“Actually,” I said, “I changed my mind. I do want to know.”
“In that case,” she said, turning the screen slightly, “congratulations, it’s a boy.”
On the car ride home, Scott rattled off names. Tyler, Brody, Zack. Every one of them sounded like they came with a surfboard accessory. I didn’t really care, because inside a quiet thought stirred. I just hope you’re strong, kid. Because you’ll have to be with me as your mother.
“Brett?” Scott tried again.
I shook my head. “Too... uncle-ish.”
“Okay, what about Chase?”
“No, I don’t want our son to have frosted tips.”
“You’re judging a baby for a hairstyle he won’t have for fifteen years?”
“Why set him up for failure?”
Scott drew in an exaggerated breath, playfully admonishing me. “Then what?”
“I don’t know, Scott. We still have a couple of months to decide.”
“Only a couple of months,” he repeated, beaming as he rested a hand on my knee. “It feels real now, doesn’t it? Seeing him.”
“Yes,” I replied on autopilot.
His brows furrowed, and his eyes returned to the road. “Hey, it’s going to be fine. The minute you hold him in your arms, you’ll know it’s right.”
My breathing turned shallow, uneven. I stared at his profile, searching the hard line of his jaw and the slight downturn of his lips for any sign, any crack in his perfect, supportive-husband facade. There was nothing.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice a thin, reedy thing I barely recognized.
He glanced over, a slight frown creasing the space between his brows. “I mean… it’s a big change. We’ll need a damn minivan. But it’s our baby, Michelle. It’s right because it’s us.”
He said it so simply, so earnestly, that for a second, I almost believed him.
I almost let the wave of relief wash over me, chalking it up to my own paranoia.
But his eyes, they held a flicker of something else.
Not concern. Not exactly. It was… knowing.
A deep, settled understanding that felt miles older than this conversation.
He knew.
The certainty hit me like a physical blow, winding me.
“I’m just… not sure I’m cut out for this,” I whispered, testing him. Throwing a pebble into the vast, still water of his knowledge to see how big the ripples would be.
Scott took my hand, and his thumb stroked over my knuckles. “You don’t have to be cut out for it,” he said, his voice low and steady, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You just have to be here. And you are. That’s all that matters.”
And you are.
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and telling.
You’re here. You didn’t go there. To the clinic.
He was telling me, in his own way, that he knew about the choice I’d almost made.
And he was telling me he’d forgiven me for it.
But that forgiveness felt like another layer of expectation I had to live up to.
He wasn’t just expecting me to love this baby; he was expecting me to be grateful for the chance.
After a long stretch of silence, I surrendered to it. What choice did I have? This baby was coming whether I was ready for it or not. Naming him felt like the first step toward accepting that fact.
“Jake,” I said softly.
“What?”
“His name. It’s Jake.”
Scott did a slow blink before a smile swept his face. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not naming my son after your teenage crush.”
“It doesn’t have to be Jake Ryan. Just Jake is fine. Take it or leave it.”
“Now, hold on,” he protested. “Shouldn’t this be a joint decision?”
“Sure, Scott. Like how you named Keith after the famous skater whose slasher graphic is on your board?”
“Keith Meek is a legend.”
“So is Jake Ryan.”
We’d both drawn our line in the sand. The question was when Scott would cave.
He looked at me for a beat, then sighed. “All right, fine. Jake McKallister it is.”
The drive from the clinic wound north along the coast, and I looked out over the calming waves, breathing in the sea air.
Funny—it was the same ocean as Venice Beach, but here it felt less…
threatening. Of course, it helped that Scott made good on his three-step ‘get my family back’ plan, quitting his delivery job only after every stolen case had been replaced with the help of the gifts I’d pawned during my week and a half of luxury.
Once Marty lost his leverage, he went hunting for another easy mark.
The kids on the street swarmed us the second we parked, following us inside like a parade.
After paying the sitter and shutting the door on the chaos, Scott chased the kids into their room for wrestling.
Laughter filled the house, reminding me how much I loved it here.
The place wasn’t much—just a squat, sun-bleached two-bedroom rental with a crooked fence and a yard that lost the war to weeds—but it already felt more like home than the apartment ever had.
I set my purse on the counter next to Scott’s new postal uniform hanging over a chair.
He loved his new mail carrier job. It was the perfect fit for him.
His looks charmed the ladies, his humor won over the men, and a pocket full of dog treats kept the canines from biting his ankles.
Most of all, the job provided us with the security our family had never known.
I drifted toward the corner of the living room where, against one wall, stood an unexpected miracle: a baby grand piano.
Mrs. Cartwright, an elderly woman on Scott’s postal route, had insisted he take it.
No one in her family wanted it, and she was eager to give it to someone who did.
“Every home needs music,” she’d said, placing her family heirloom in his hands because she’d seen the good in him—and trusted it.
I lifted the lid, ran my fingers across the ivory keys, and sat down.
Since receiving it a few days ago, I hadn’t had the chance to play, but now felt right.
The keys were both foreign and familiar.
When I struck the first chord, comforting notes rang out.
Then another. And another. That’s when I felt it—a sudden, forceful kick.
I froze. I’d experienced flutters before and little somersaults, but this was the first time it felt deliberate. I pressed a single key. Another kick.
“Jake?” I whispered, one hand splayed over my stomach, the other still playing.
He kicked again, like he was keeping rhythm.
My heart recognized him. For months, I’d tried to force the bond that should have come naturally.
But this… this felt real. Like he was hearing me.
Like he understood and had forgiven me. Tears blurred the keys.
I laughed softly through them and played on, keeping time with my own little drumbeat.
That moment at the piano had been a turning point. Since then, his kicks had become a familiar language, a private conversation no one else could hear. And now, as I sat on the sand looking out over the setting sun, I felt only peace.