We Are Not Like Them(47)

There’s no way Dr. Wu doesn’t know what’s going on with Kevin, but her face doesn’t give anything away. She extends her hand to Lou and offers her congratulations.

“Your first grandchild?”

“Yes. Thank God! A boy!”

Dr. Wu looks over at me quizzically. She knows it was supposed to be a surprise.

“My mom looked at the file. She accidentally ruined it.”

“Ruined it? I mean, you’re still having a baby.” Lou sounds like a defensive teenager. “And this way you can plan. Surprises are overrated. You were a surprise, and I cried for three days straight.”

Dr. Wu musters an amicable laugh and then trains all her focus and attention on me like I’m the only thing that matters to her. This is why I love my doctor—she looks you in the eye, talks to you like she has all the time in the world, as if there aren’t forty other women in the waiting room.

“How are you feeling?” she asks now.

Like I want to murder the woman who gave birth to me. But that’s not what I say; what I say is: “I’m having a boy.” As if I’m breaking the news to Dr. Wu.

“Yep, looks like that cat’s out of the bag. You are.” She sounds genuinely happy for me. “So let’s get everything checked out and see how he’s doing in there.” She pulls out a blood pressure cuff.

“Rita already did my vitals.”

“I know. I just want to check them again.”

I watch Dr. Wu as she clocks the numbers, the cuff on my arm squeezing tighter and tighter. I swear I see a frown when she slowly removes it and pulls out the measuring tape. She opens the paper gown to expose my veiny belly, holds one end of the tape right under my boobs and wraps it down and across my tummy to measure the growth of the uterus, the growth of the baby. Before I got pregnant, I assumed I’d get an ultrasound at every checkup, that I’d be constantly peeking inside my uterus, watching the baby flip and wave, but they are few and far between. I wonder if there would be more if I had better health insurance. It’s pointless to even ask.

“Let’s check the heartbeat.”

There is a frown. I’m sure of it now. Dr. Wu isn’t as upbeat as usual. I move from imagining the worst and start praying for the best. Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay. I squeeze my eyes shut as the doctor rubs the gel on my belly.

“Is it too cold?” Dr. Wu mistakes my cringe.

“It’s fine.”

There won’t be a heartbeat. This is it. The baby is dead. My baby is dead, and this is exactly what we deserve. Revenge. Karma. Justice.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

The room is silent except for the thunder of my own heartbeat; the clatter of the busy office outside the door fades away.

I look to Lou for reassurance. My mom is tapping away at her phone, oblivious to the signs and signals that something is wrong.

And then there it is: that reassuring whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, the sound of a racehorse galloping across the finish line.

Little Bird’s—Chase’s—heart is strong as ever. I try to focus on the steady rhythm, to pay attention to the moment.

He’s alive.

Dr. Wu looks confused, and I realize that I said this out loud. He’s alive.

“Of course he is. He’s developing well.” Dr. Wu was there for all the miscarriages, so she understands my thirst for reassurance and patiently obliges. I’d maybe even consider her a friend if such a relationship was possible with the medical professional who has such intimate knowledge of the inner workings of your vagina.

The doctor rolls closer on her stool; our knees are almost touching. “How are you feeling, Jen? How are you feeling, really?” Her voice is thick with concern.

“I’m tired.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Not really.”

“And you’ve been more stressed than usual,” Dr. Wu says. More a statement than a question.

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to be honest, but I don’t want you to panic.”

“We just heard his heartbeat.” My skin feels like it’s being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles. “It’s… he’s strong.” Chase is strong.

Dr. Wu grabs my hand. “Yes, he is. I’m more worried about you, Jenny. Your blood pressure is high. Your feet and fingers are swollen. Have you noticed?”

I nod.

“And you know what that means?”

I do. I’ve googled every possible pregnancy symptom to find out what’s good, bad, or meaningless. I’m aware of all the ailments and disasters. “I have preeclampsia.”

“Now, we don’t know that yet. But I’m worried. I’m worried enough that I want to check a few more things. We might need to put you on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy. When moms have this condition, babies can come early. And we don’t want that. We want him to get to at least thirty-six weeks, so let’s keep him snug in there until then. Okay?”

“Is it stress? This is caused by stress?” Even asking the question makes my heart beat faster again. It’s a vicious loop, stressing about stress.

“Not exactly. Sometimes it’s genetic. Sometimes it just happens, but stress can be a factor. It can raise the blood pressure and it can sometimes exacerbate other problems.” Dr. Wu goes over and starts riffling through the sleek cabinets. “I’m going to give you a shot of a steroid that will help the baby’s lungs develop faster. Just in case.”