The Empty Jar(33)

“So, you’re firm? You’ve already made up your mind, it seems.”

I nod. “Yes. I have. Unless I physically can’t carry the baby, unless I lose it naturally,” I croak, stumbling over words that feel like doom on my tongue, “then I will deliver this child, healthy and whole, before I die. I’m determined.”

Dr. Stephens nods once and stands. “Then let’s go get you on the ultrasound, see how far along you are.”

********

Two hours later, I leave the obstetrician’s office with a page full of lab orders I’m to confer with my oncologist about and an ultrasound. An ultrasound that confirms what I already knew, and confirms a gestational age I was already pretty confident of.

I slide the glossy square picture into my coat pocket after taking one last look. My hand rests over it protectively, my fingers stroking the cool, slick paper as though I’m actually touching some part of the baby growing inside me.

I finally have proof, proof of the existence of a dream.

I have a picture of my nine-week-old baby.

He or she looks to the world like a tiny baby-shaped kidney bean, but to me it’s the shape of a miracle. Everything in my life is different now, has been since I took that pregnancy test in Rome, and will be for as long as my life will last. And in another thirty or forty minutes, my husband’s life will be changed as well. Forever changed, for as long as he lives, which I hope will be a good, long time.

I walked into that office as a woman with a little newly-recovered hope. I walked out of that office as a woman with a lifetime of hope and a reason. A reason to live and fight and be strong and push through.

And I will do exactly that.

I will take one more chance on a God who has let me down before, and if He comes through for me this time, I’ll gladly trust that my husband and our child will be okay in His divine hands.

Unlocking the door and sliding behind the wheel of my car, I sit for a moment, thinking about Dr. Stephens’s last words.

“Talk to Dr. Taffer before you make up your mind, Lena. Promise me you’ll at least pretend to listen to what she has to say.”

I smiled and nodded, but Dr. Stephens knew there’s nothing Dr. Taffer, my oncologist, will be able to say to change my mind. It’s made up.

Once more, I take out the shiny black and white picture, the image of a future I thought had been stripped away from me, and I run my fingertips over the beginnings of a teeny profile. “I won’t give up on you,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the photo before stowing it away in my pocket again and heading home.

The garage door rising triggers an onslaught of emotion. Knowing what’s coming, my chest tightens and my throat constricts. The conversation of a lifetime only moments away.

It will be as good as the conversation about my diagnosis was bad.

I’m excited.

I’m nervous.

And some part of me is a bit afraid of Nate’s reaction.

Will he be upset with me for keeping this from him? Will he ever be able to understand my reasons for doing so? Will he welcome the baby as I have? Will he laugh, will he cry, will he stare numbly at me?

I have no idea.

So often over the last six weeks, I’ve imagined what he will do, what he will say, how he will react. I’ve pictured him ecstatic, walking with me through every day of my pregnancy, and then holding our child in his arms on the day of delivery.

Maybe that was all wishful thinking, but knowing Nate like I do, I think that’s how it will be.

But still, I won’t be able to rest easy—I haven’t been able to rest easy—until I know. Until he knows.

Now that the time is at hand, I’m nearly sick with anticipation. I go straight into the house, search him out in his office, take him by the hand, and lead him to our bedroom.

Of course, Nate’s smiling when I turn to face him, but not for the reason I was thinking he’d be smiling. This is the smile that says he’s ready for sex. This is a lazy, sensual curl of his lips that’s reflected in the smoke filling his eyes. This says he has no idea what’s coming.

“Whatever this is about, you know I’m always your willing sex slave. Do your worst!” he teases, running his hands around my waist.

I laugh nervously, coiling my fingers around his muscular forearms. “Nate,” I begin. I go no further when he goes completely still. His smile fades, and his features cloud with concern. He stills instantly, whether from my action or my tone.

“What is it?” His voice drips with trepidation. “What’s wrong?”

I cast a jittery grin up at him, one meant to be reassuring. “Nothing. Just…just come and sit with me.”

I back away from him, running my hand down his arm to his fingers, which I braid with my own. Tugging, I lead him to the settee that rests in front of the fireplace in our bedroom. I sit and urge him to do the same. He does so stiffly, apprehension evident in his every rigid muscle.

I realize the mistake I made in how I’ve approached this. The last time I took him aside for a “serious talk,” I had to tell him I’m dying.

Purposely, I smile broadly so he can see it’s nothing bad.

As I move my eyes over his handsome face, the face I’ve found even more appealing as the years have worn on, I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. My smile isn’t working. He’s trying hard to keep his anxiety from me. I love him all the more for that, but I feel horrifically guilty for causing it in the first place.