“Yes. I ate a rancid ham sandwich during a snorkeling excursion, and I’ve been puking ever since. I’m planning on suing.” His lips twitched. “This isn’t funny. I’m seriously ill!”
“Tell me a little more about the nausea.”
“I’m just going about my business, and then suddenly I’m retching.”
“Any diarrhea?” I shook my head no. “Stomach cramps?” I shook my head again. “How do you feel after you vomit?”
“Perfectly fine.”
He asked several more questions that clearly had no relevance whatever, and then said, “When was your last period?”
“It was…um. Well, it was before the wedding, I know that. Things have been very hectic.”
“I imagine so.”
“I’m on the pill. It should be in my chart,” I said, craning to see what was written there. “What does my period have to do with anything, anyway? Look, I’ve done my internet research. Don’t you get it? I have the black plague! I’m sure it’s highly contagious, and I’m probably spreading it everywhere I go. You realize you’ll be held responsible when the CDC finds out you’ve ignored the situation and they have to quarantine all of Eastern North Carolina. Do you want that on your head, mister? I’m quite certain it will ruin your career. I’m Typhoid friggin’ Mary, here.”
He smirked as he wrote probably mean things in my chart. “I’ll send in the nurse to take blood and urine samples.”
“That’s more like it,” I huffed.
I handed her the filled cup, and she thanked me by stabbing me with a needle. After a million minutes ticked by, feeling my life-force slowly draining from me, the nurse returned, beaming for all she was worth. “The doctor wants to see yew in his office.” I followed her bouncing form down the hall, wondering why the hell she was suddenly so happy. Maybe she had another victim to stab.
Diplomas hung boastfully behind his desk. I studied them and their dates, suddenly feeling every bit of my thirty-one years. Dr. Jordon whisked into the office. “I have good news for you, Mrs. Walsh. You are not dying. We’ll have the full report back in a few days, but in the meantime, congratulations. You’re going to be a mother.”
And that’s when the room went as black as my tongue.
32
The Beginning of the End
I awoke to the stench of ammonia and a bevy of hushed voices. Waving the smell away, I tried to sit up. When I took in the room, I realized I was on the couch in Dr. Jordan’s private office. Finally gathering my wits, I remembered why. Panic gripped me in its jaws, and I frantically met a nurse’s calm eyes. “You didn’t call my husband, did you?”
“Not yet. But I was about to.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t.”
With a cold compress on the back of my neck and the room still spinning, I rocked back and forth on the couch, mumbling to myself like a crazy person. Once I’d slurped the entire contents of the juice box forced upon me, the doctor returned. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, not pregnant!”
He chuckled to himself. “I’d like to tell you I’ve seen worse reactions to the news, but I’m afraid I’d be lying.” I gave him a jaundiced look. “Mrs. Walsh, while experiences vary, morning sickness typically begins around week six.”
I gasped in horror. “Week six?!”
“Without an ultrasound, I can’t pinpoint the exact date. But since you began experiencing nausea last week…does week seven sound about right?”
“I can’t be seven weeks pregnant! I just got married and I’m still on the pill.”
“Do you remember missing any days?”
“Well…” I thought back. Seven weeks would be back in March, right after Quarterlies. I’d forgotten to get a refill before leaving, and had run out midway through the week. Then there was Pete’s birthday, but I’d refilled it the following Monday. “Only a few, but I was out of town for most of that time. We only had sex a couple”—seven?—“times before I got my refill.”
“It only takes one strong swimmer.” And if anyone was a good swimmer… “Surely you’ve noticed the changes.”
I glared at him as I thought about it: enlarged breasts, the mood-swing business, the hurling every flippin’ time I turned around…Oh, God! “I am not pregnant,” I stammered. “I want a second opinion!”
♥
“What’d the doctor say?” Mona asked, all perky when I stamped down the hall.
“I’m not dying, unfortunately.”
“That’s good news. Did they give you any medicine?”
“Nothing useful.” I scowled, thinking of the prenatal vitamin samples tucked in my purse.
“We’re still comin’ over tonight, right?” she asked. “I can’t wait to see the pictures!” She nearly squealed with a jubilation I did not share. “What can we bring? Strawberries are in season. Why don’t I make shortcake?”
“Sounds great. Listen, I’ve got some work to do.”
“’Course, ya do. What with the weddin’ and honeymoon and all, you’re probly way behind. I’ll leave ya to it then. Oh, and I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Once she closed the door, I dropped my forehead on the desk and had a nice cry. Okay, it was more a tantrum—an epic one, actually—but it was immensely cathartic. I’d quietly locked the office door, hit the remote until my speakers were blaring Vivaldi, and then knocked everything off my desk. Papers went flying, pens soared through the air like poison darts; my desk plate left a very nice divot in the wall. I’d then dropped to the floor and put my head between my knees, simply trying to breathe. Finally, I curled into the fetal position and helplessly sobbed—sobbed for marriage, sobbed for my future, sobbed until I had nothing left inside me but a cold, leaden ball. My life was ruined, all because I failed in the trivial, yet monumental task of taking a stupid pill.
I never imagined doing this, but in this very dark hour, I picked up my phone and hit speed dial.
“Mom, I’m in trouble…”
♥
“Are ya all cured?” Pete asked as I tossed my keys on the table. He was cooking for an army, and it smelled…rather noxious, actually. I raced to the bathroom.
“No better, huh?” He was standing in the doorway, wearing a canvas apron and a serious expression.
I wiped my lips with the hand towel then drank great gulps of water. “I’m seeing a specialist next Monday. It’s the earliest they could get me in,” I responded, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.”
I examined myself in the spray. I wasn’t showing or anything, but my boobs were big—like, plastic surgery big. I shook my slightly jiggly stomach. I’d attributed my weight gain to too many piñas coladas by the pool, but…holy crap! I was going to get fat! Really fat! Like, ginormously fat! Worse, Pete was going to find out.
I dressed in a non-clingy sheath and followed the voices of my dearest friends.
“And then she knocked Piper right in the head, jumpin’ for the bouquet.” Mona giggled uncontrollably. “Hey, Susan!” she then chirped. I forced a smile.
“Dinner’s about ready, y’all,” Pete announced. “Grab a seat, and I’ll pour the wine.”
I took a neat sip and then privately freaked. I wasn’t supposed to drink. Then: Oh crap! Did all that Mexican rum hurt the baby? Will it come out deformed? I lost my grip on the glass, and it toppled over, white wine turning the tablecloth translucent. Mona hopped up with a yelp and ran inside for paper towels.
Pete set the bottle and the appetizer platter on the bench, and after everyone held up their plates, whipped off the tablecloth like a carnival magician.
“Okay,” he said, as we all resettled, “let’s try that again.” He set a fresh glass in front of me and picked up the bottle.
“Um, Pete. Could I have some water instead?” With a rather odd expression, he nodded and disappeared.
The dish was gorgeous, the channel bass decorated with thin strips of ginger and lemongrass. Much to Pete’s utter joy, a large Harris
Teeter grocery store had recently opened in Morehead City, and it amazingly carried real, actual food, along with the standard staples of Sex Wax, tourist t-shirts, folding chairs, and boogie boards.
He heaped a large portion onto my plate. “I made it special for ya, Susie-Q. I know it’s your favorite.”
His perfect face was painted with tenderness, and at that moment I knew I was surely the luckiest woman walking on the planet. Of course, when he found out I was pregnant, that tender expression would turn horror-filled and he would leave me. I sighed deeply, imagining none of this was real, that there wasn’t an alien creature growing inside me; a demon poised to destroy my life.
“It smells just wonderful,” Mona gushed. “It’s my favorite, too.” Jimbo looked at her adoringly. She was the one who wanted this. To her, pregnancy would be the ultimate joy, the perfection on top of a perfect marriage. I’d wished this for her. No, I wished this on her! The Devil’s curse!
Taking my hand, Pete said, “Let’s bow our heads. Dear Lord, thank you for this delicious food and these dear friends. Please bless us and keep us whole. And dear Lord, please bless my precious wife—a gift I don’t deserve, but will treasure as long as you’ll let me live.” I heard a faint feminine sniffle and smiled as Pete finished with a solid “Amen.” Blessed didn’t begin to describe the gift I’d received. But then I remembered this thing inside of me and wondered once more if God hated me, if this was a cruel joke—giving me something precious then snatching it away. I felt lightheaded and gulped a large sip of ice water.
“Alright, eat up, everybody,” Pete ordered.
“Mm mm,” Mona murmured. “You’ve outdone yourself. I sure wish I could cook like this.”
Pete looked expectantly at me. I scooped up a large forkful of foul-smelling fish and popped it in my mouth. It tasted so vile I could barely swallow it, my salivary glands squirting liquid into my mouth like a fountain. My stomach seized up, and I raced to the railing, spewing vomit all over Myrtle’s hood. Based solely on my feelings towards that ugly piece of crap truck, it would have been the ultimate in satisfaction, however, before I could even muster a smile, a second explosion of projectile disgust shot from my esophageal cannon.
Pete rushed to my side and held back my hair. “Sweetheart!”
“Don’t. Ever…insert gag…Make…add dry heave…That…stringy dripping spittle glob…Dish. Again!” I wilted onto the bench lining the expansive deck. Pete marched to the table with purpose, picked up the platter, and promptly dumped its entire contents onto the row of azalea bushes bordering the house.
Before I could mutter thanks, Mona pressed a wet napkin to my forehead and made soothing sounds like a mother to her young. “Let’s get ya inside. It’s hot out here and ya probly need to lie down.
Watching the blur of the ceiling fan blades a little later, a tear ran down my temple. Its twin followed. My life was over.
33
Second Opinion
Carteret General Hospital housed the brand-spanking new Brady Birthing Center. A modern structure, its rounded glass foyer protruded out like a pregnant elephant. I hadn’t mustered the courage to tell Pete the department in which the specialist worked, or that the specialist was really just your average, run-of-the-mill Ob-Gyn.
My palms were sweaty as I met my soon-to-be ex-husband at the hospital’s entrance. Cleverly, I led him on a circuitous route through the building’s interior before entering the bank of birthing center offices through a side door. He didn’t seem to catch on right away, but when he surveyed the waiting room filled with bloated women, anxious men, and parenting magazines carpeting every table and couch, his expression blanked.
Scurrying to the counter to sign in and have my insurance card scanned, I returned with a clipboard and pen. To his credit, he did not say one word, but rather snatched up a magazine and began flipping through it, essentially hiding his features. I was in a panic, but any immediate drama would be tempered by our public surroundings and Pete’s Southern manners. Tears, which had been held under the restraint of my iron will for hours, began breaking free, and I had trouble breathing as I checked the yes box for family history of cancer. I nearly lost it completely at the when was your last period question; the answer terrified me.
We were led back to a spacious room. Pete chatted away with the pink-clad nurse as she rolled a thermometer over my forehead and cuffed my arm with a blood pressure apparatus. After glancing through my paperwork, she asked general questions about my family history—the same ones I’d just flippin’ answered, and then handed me a small cup and escorted me to a generous bathroom.
As women lack the garden hose with which men come conveniently equipped, successfully urinating in a small paper cup is challenging on a good day, but with hands shaking and tears dripping, the whole enterprise had become especially daunting. I placed the cup on the back of the toilet as instructed and slipped out, pretending none of this was real.
Pete raised an eyebrow when I returned, but remained silent as I changed into the stupid cloth gown, tying it up the front. It was ten sizes too big, and I was struck with terror that it might soon fit. I climbed onto the table and spread the tissue sheet over my waist and legs, all the while wondering if I could hide underneath it and pretend Pete wasn’t there. I stole a glance. His face was once again hidden behind a parenting magazine, and I wanted to die, or for him to say something…or yep, for me to just die.
A faint knock on the door announced Dr. Adams. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late forties, with light brown hair and a warm smile. He shook our hands in introduction, flipped through papers that had miraculously become a thick chart, and then spoke. “So, we’re here for an ultrasound, I see.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I blurted out. “I’m just…well, not pregnant. I have a stomach issue from eating rancid ham in Mexico, and my regular doctor said I needed an ultrasound. Evidently, you’re the only office in town with this equipment.” Untrue, but still…
He smiled. “Yes, Dr. Jordan sent over your information.”
“Oh,” I said, looking at my lap. I swear to you, Pete chuckled. I whipped my head around and glared at him. His face dove behind the stupid magazine with the stupid happy family picture on the stupid glossy cover.
“Well, shall we?” the doctor asked. He rolled a tan cart beside the examining table. “We’ll be doing this transvaginally, so please scoot down to the edge and place your heels in the stirrups.”
“Transvaginally?!” Mortified, I said, “It’s a stomach issue. Is this really necessary?”
The doctor looked over his rimless glasses, his blue eyes twinkling. “Yes, Mrs. Walsh.”
Pete snorted, and I narrowed my eyes. I had no words for that walking sperm bank.
I scooched my butt down the table, crinkling the paper liner, and prepared to ride the invisible stallion. On the list of shit women have to endure, this tops it: legs propped open, straddling the shoulders of a complete stranger, a huge and fearsome lamp illuminating every errant strand of hair and who only knows what else down there.
Dr. Adams produced a thick, round wand, sheathed it with a condom, and squirted clear lubricant on the top. “Okay, this may feel a bit odd. Just relax. It won’t hurt.”
How the fuck was I supposed to relax with a cold plastic dildo moving around inside me, and the man responsible for this whole situation now leaning over the doctor’s shoulder in complete fascination? With the slightest pressure on my abdomen, I suddenly had to pee. This had become a fairly regular problem. It was like I had to go to the bathroom every five minutes. And it had been exactly twice that time since I’d filled the little cup.
The large computer screen showed a black blob resembling Jupiter’s spot. Inside that blob was a funky gray shape, looking vaguely like a deformed hourglass.
“What the hell is that?”
“Oh, sorry.” He pressed a button, and we were assaulted in surround sound by what I could only describe as sheet metal rippling in the wind.
; “That, Mrs. Walsh, is your baby.”
“I don’t have a baby.”
“He started measuring the object and clicking things on the monitor. “Eight weeks. Hmm, that would put conception on, or very near—”
“My birthday!” Pete exclaimed. The biggest smile I’d seen in our whole lives together erupted on his face. He looked at me like he’d just singlehandedly won the World Series. “I never in a million years thought you could top last year’s present, but ya just did.”
My lips peeled up over my teeth, and an honest to goodness growl ripped from my throat. “Wipe that damned smile off your face. You did this on purpose!”
Pete did not respond. Frankly, I think he was in such a state of blissful joy that he was dazed and blinded to reality. I wanted to strangle him.
Turning back to the monitor, I asked, “What’s that fluttering thing?” It appeared the blob had swallowed a butterfly.
“Your baby’s heart. That’s the sound you’re hearing.” Pete and I gasped simultaneously, his eyes flooding with childlike wonder. “These are the arm buds, and here,” he continued, pointing to two stumpy shapes, “are the legs—or the beginnings of them. Two arms, two legs. Perfect.” Pete sighed as if he’d been holding his breath.
All of a sudden the alien thing moved. Pete inhaled a week’s worth of air and then stared at the image like he’d just glimpsed heaven. The blob twitched again.
“What a vibrant little one. Moving already.” Dr. Adams’ face beamed with pleasure at this bizarre—okay, maybe amazing, but really fucking scary event.
Pete touched the screen, his fingers lingering over the tiny fluttering heart. He turned suddenly, his eyes glowing like the August sun. “Susan,” he whispered reverently.
“Don’t Susan me! This is your fault. And stop looking at me like I’m the flippin’ Virgin Mary!” I snapped, as tears began streaming down my temples.
Back Where I Belong: A Wonderfully Witty and Completely Absorbing Love Story (Susan Wade Series Book 3) Page 23
