The People We Keep(95)
We look at the screen, where she’s pointing, “See, that’s your baby!” she says, but it looks like TV reception in a snowstorm. So we focus on the sound. Robert’s hand squeezes mine ever so slightly in time with the beat. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it. I don’t want it to stop, but then Dr. Katim takes the wand off my stomach and says, “Alright, Daddy, I’m going to have you step out to the waiting room now, while Mom and I do some girl stuff.”
Robert looks panicked. And it takes me longer than it should to realize that I’m the mom. I don’t want him to leave, but Dr. Katim says, “Nothing to worry about.” She grabs a tissue and wipes my belly. She doesn’t get all the goo. There’s a clump of it right by my belly button that she can’t seem to see. She pushes some buttons on the machine. “Just a few simple tests, but it’s all a little unflattering. We’ll try to keep some sense of mystery in your relationship, right?”
She looks down at her clipboard and makes notes while Robert gets up and kisses me goodbye. He walks slow and rubs his forehead as he leaves, like he can’t quite believe the static he saw. I wipe my belly with the palm of my hand and wipe my hand on the corner of my paper gown.
As soon as the door closes, Dr. Katim looks up from her clipboard, like she was only pretending to read it. “April,” she says, and kicks her legs to wheel her chair closer to me, “I wanted us to have some privacy, because I don’t know what the situation between you and Robert is.”
“He’s the father,” I say. “He’s my—” I can’t think of the right word, because he’s more than my boyfriend the way Matty was my boyfriend, but we’re not married. I get a sinking feeling that’s just drowning without the happy. “Is my baby okay?” I ask, even though I think I know what she’s going to tell me.
“Your baby looks perfectly healthy, has a strong heartbeat, and has to be at least eight weeks old.”
She grabs a printout from the machine and shows it to me. It’s a photo of the static, but when I look closer, I can see shapes. I think maybe even a face.
“See here,” she says, using her pen to point to a spot in the snow. “That’s one of your baby’s elbows. I can see feet and hands and even the beginnings of fingers.” Thin streaks of blue ink from a glob on the point of her pen drag across the photo as she points to different parts of my baby. “These are levels of development we can’t see until eight weeks. So we’re a bit off from Robert’s estimate.”
She gives me the picture. My hands shake.
“I didn’t put the fetal age on the picture,” she says, “because I want to let you have that discussion on your own terms.” She reaches out and puts her hand over my hand. “If there’s a discussion to be had.”
* * *
“Are you okay?” Robert asks when I get to the waiting room. “Is the baby okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s just overwhelming, you know? It’s just—it’s a lot.” The picture is folded up in my pocket. I don’t show him. He’d want to show Ethan and Ethan’s been reading about babies too much. He’d see the elbow. He’d know.
Robert holds my hand as we walk to the parking lot. His fingers are still tapping out the heartbeat.
— Chapter 56 —
I buy a book. One that tells you everything you’re supposed to know about having a baby. I sit at the kitchen table and read the whole thing while Ethan is at a meeting. I hope to find some kind of wisdom that will put everything right in my brain, but each chapter makes me feel worse. There’s all this stuff about what you should eat and what you shouldn’t and pain management and tearing in places you wouldn’t even think could tear. Then there’s the section on how to take care of the baby when it’s actually here. None of it tells me what I most need to know.
I don’t want to be growing a person in my body. Even if the baby was Robert’s, I think I would still feel like I am trapped inside myself and my skin is too small and I can’t breathe enough air into the deepest parts of my lungs. I press my forehead to the cold enamel tabletop, panting like a puppy on an August afternoon.
“What are you doing, Angel?” Ethan asks when he walks through the door. “Are you okay? Is the baby—”
“Ethan—” I try to catch my breath. “Ethan—” and for a moment I think I will tell him everything. Ask what I should do. But if he knows, this family we have won’t work the way we have it. Ethan could tell Robert. Or he could not tell Robert, and I don’t know which is worse. I don’t want him to have to carry my secret or exist in the middle. He was Robert’s friend first. “Ethan, there are bones in my stomach,” I say.
“Huh?”
“There are bones. Like actual baby bones growing in my stomach.”
“That’s kind of the point, right?” Ethan says, putting his bag down. “Babies are supposed to have bones. It’s a problem if they don’t.” He kisses the top of my head and gives my shoulders a squeeze. “What are you worried about, sweetheart?”
So I say the other things I’m thinking instead. “What if I can’t do it, Ethan? What if I can’t stay in the same place? If I’m like my mom and I just can’t handle it?” It’s not hard to push aside the Robert problem when these fears are also true. I can remember watching my mother pack a duffle bag with clothes. And I can so clearly imagine myself in her place, saying, It’s just for a day or two. To clear my head, baby. I’ll be back by the weekend. It’s not that far a leap.