The Empty Jar(45)

I try to put thoughts like that out of my head, but I can’t stop them from creeping in. And when they do, they do their damage, no matter how quickly I can get them out. They’ve been steadily chipping away at my morale until sometimes I feel like all I do is worry, especially when it’s quiet or I’m alone.

Nate, however…ever perceptive Nate, seems to know that I’m no longer fond of quiet or solitude. He makes a concerted effort to keep me entertained at all times these days, God bless him. Thankfully, he has invested wisely over the years and we’re doing well financially, allowing for Nate to be with me twenty-four seven if need be. I don’t necessarily need help that consistently, but I love having him around. And I think he just wants to be around, too.

This time is all we have left. Every second is precious.

Gratefully, I turn to find him in the dark room, reaching for his hand and entwining my fingers with his. “I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you more,” he answers. His smile is casual, but I can see the underlying tension. Although he never says as much, I think Nate is always concerned on ultrasound days. I suspect he worries that they’ll find some sort of abnormality or not be able to find the heartbeat or something. He would deny that, of course, and he tries to hide it, but I watch him too closely. I’m too attuned to him to miss the slight change that occurs at this point every time we sit in this room, waiting for the doctor.

Today is no exception.

I flinch when the door suddenly swings open and a cheerful Dr. Stephens explodes through it. “Sorry for the delay, folks. Sometimes babies just don’t want to wait to be delivered.”

She is still in her green hospital scrubs rather than her normal dress clothes and long, white lab coat. Her shoulder-length brown hair is up in a ponytail with short tendrils curling damply around her face. She looks a bit…frazzled.

“Had to earn your keep today, eh?” Nate asks congenially.

“And then some! Phew!” she exclaims tiredly. But then she smiles, slaps her palms together, and rubs her hands vigorously. “How about we find out the sex of this baby today?”

I smile. Nate smiles. I squeeze his fingers. He squeezes mine back. I feel the slight tremor in his grip. He watches the screen and refuses to look into my eyes. And so we dance the dance of denial, the delicate ballet of pretense, until I, too, turn to watch the small monitor, waiting to see what our baby carries—or doesn’t carry—between its legs.

As the doctor slides the probe around on my belly, spreading conducive jelly this way and that, she chats nonchalantly, asking me questions about my diet, my energy level, even my urine. Then, after a longish pause, she addresses another issue, one that she knows will be a sore spot for us.

“Have you given any more thought to an amniocentesis?”

My stomach clenches. I thought I’d made myself clear last time. I don’t want to even have this discussion again.

“No. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Lena, if there’s a genetic abnormality—”

“That won’t change anything,” I interrupt somewhat tersely. “We want this baby. Period. We won’t love it any less if it has some disability.”

“But the test could prepare you for—”

“If there was no risk, I might consider it. Might. But there is a risk to having an amnio, and I already have enough risk stacked against me. I appreciate your concern, but I’m declining the test.”

I know my tone brooks no argument, and the doctor simply nods, unwilling to press me any further.

Good!

“Well, I don’t see any obvious abnormalities, but what I do see is…” The doctor pauses dramatically, running the probe over one spot and pushing up and into my belly. She clicks a button and then rolls a mouse, clicking again. Expertly, she wields the probe and works the computer until she turns to Nate and me, and with a smile announces, “I see no little boy parts. Mr. and Mrs. Grant, I’d like you to meet your daughter.”

She enlarges a photo on the screen that shows our daughter lying in the perfect position for us to see the blank slate between her legs.

I gasp.

“It’s a girl?” I whisper, trying to keep the quaver from my voice.

“It’s a girl,” Dr. Stephens confirms, her eyes crinkling at the corners as her grin widens. “And she’s sucking her thumb.” She minimizes the picture back down to its normal size, and I can clearly see the little arm with its tiny hand tucked up to her mouth.

“Our little girl is sucking her thumb,” I say in awe, turning to glance back at Nate. He’s watching the screen, mouth slightly ajar, eyes shining brightly in the eerie glow of the monitor, and I know he’s moved beyond words. He merely nods. Only after a few more seconds of gazing in wonder at the digital image does Nate finally drag his eyes away and toward my face.

Between us, no words are spoken, but a wealth of sentiment is exchanged as we stare at one another. There have been moments in our life together when everything has changed. We’ve had so many of them in the last six months, it’s hard to say which ones rank highest on the list.

Until today.

Today is something different, something special. And we both know it. This is real. This is happening. After all the trying and waiting and being disappointed, after finding out that I’m going to die and that our time together is drawing to a close, we’re finally going to have a child.