by Lili Valente
Hopefully she’s right. Hopefully it will be fine.
And if it’s not…
Then I’ll have to tell her the truth. Tell her that I’ve been keeping an ugly secret that may leave her devastated and sad and wishing she’d never met me. I should be focused solely on the baby, but a part of me can’t help imagining what it will be like to have Mandy look at me with loathing, to have this completely wonderful woman despise me.
The wrenching jerk in my gut assures me it will be absolutely fucking miserable.
She reaches out, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re stressed, but I love that you’re worried. If there was any doubt in my mind that you want this little girl as much as I do, it would be long gone, baby.”
The term of endearment, spoken in her “I love you” voice, is enough to turn me inside out again. I lean in, kissing her forehead in response, not trusting what might come out of my mouth if I let myself speak.
By the time I sit down, the tech is closing the door behind her, shutting out the stream of light that briefly cut across the room, illuminating the pale sphere of Mandy’s exposed stomach.
“Hey there, I’m Tina,” the tech chirps, circling around to sit on Mandy’s other side, by the monitor and the rest of the equipment. “I’ll be doing your twenty-two-week ultrasound. Do we want to know the sex today?”
“I already know it’s a girl,” Mandy says with absolute certainty. “But yes, please. Just to confirm I don’t need to take back all the pink things I’ve bought.”
Tina laughs as she squeezes gel onto Mandy’s stomach. “Oh man, I know. It’s so hard to wait. I started shopping the second the lines popped up on that stick. By the time my son was born, I had enough baby clothes to outfit triplets for a month without doing a single load of laundry. I couldn’t help myself. Baby clothes are my weakness.”
“They have so many cute things these days,” Mandy agrees. “How old is your son?”
“Three in March.” Tina swirls the wand through the gel, her focus on the screen. “Time flies so fast when they’re little.”
“I can imagine.” Mandy’s breath catches as a tiny, perfectly formed foot appears on the screen. She reaches out, and I take her hand, filled with the same sense of wonder I felt the first time I saw a child I’d helped create. But this time, there is terror, too, fear so sharp and sour it floods into my mouth with a taste like grapefruit mixed with battery acid.
“There’s Baby’s foot and tibia. And a femur.” Tina’s tone is upbeat as she takes measurements, finishing her click on the baby’s hipbone a second before it kicks and shifts position.
“I felt that!” Mandy says, squeezing my hand tight. “I felt her move! That’s the first time I was sure it was her and not the peppers I ate last night!”
Tina laughs and I find myself smiling. It’s hard not to be caught up in Mandy’s excitement, and so far, everything seems okay. The baby is moving, for God’s sake. That didn’t happen the last time I sat in a chair like this, watching the ultrasound tech’s expression grow drawn as her measurements revealed something was wrong with the too small, too still baby Renee was carrying.
“Yeah, she’s busy this morning.” Tina slides the wand across Mandy’s skin in search of Baby. “Did Mama have coffee?”
“Half a cup,” Mandy says guiltily. “I’ve only been having half a cup a day. Dr. Nash said that was fine, but if it’s making her too hyper I can stop.”
“No, it’s fine. Some babies are just more active than others. If Dr. Nash says you’re clear for caffeine, no need to suffer. Mornings without coffee are brutal.” Tina leans in as she brings a delicate string of pearls into focus. “And here’s the spine.”
“So beautiful,” Mandy breathes. “I never thought bones could be so beautiful.”
I squeeze her hand again, heart twisting in my chest, breath held tight in my lungs. We’re almost there. We’re almost in the clear. I wasn’t paying close enough attention the first time I sat through a developmental ultrasound, but surely we have to be through at least half of the measurements.
“Good baby,” Tina murmurs, clicking away. “Just hold still for a few more seconds…” She smiles as baby shifts position again. “Or that’s good, too, handsome. Okay, Mom and Dad, it looks like Baby is ready to give up the goods. See this here?” She motions to the screen with two fingers. “This is your son’s penis.”
“What!” Mandy’s shout of surprise makes the baby flinch again.
Makes my son flinch again.
“It’s a boy?” I ask, unable to control the grin stretching wide across my face. “Are you sure?”
Tina nods. “Yep. That’s a penis. No doubt about it. Hope you saved your receipts for the pink clothes, Mama.”
Mandy laughs. “Oh my God, a boy! I was so sure she was a girl.”
“Now we can let the kid out of the house before he’s twenty,” I say, getting a laugh from Tina. “I was anxious about having a girl. I’ll admit it.”
Mandy looks over at me, eyes shining. “You were. It was cute.”
I scowl, and she laughs, swiping tears from her cheeks as she shakes our joined hands. “But a boy is good. A boy is great,” she says, tone softening. “I’ve got a soft spot for boys these days.”
I lift my free hand, brushing her always-too-long bangs from her face. “Yeah? You’ve decided we’re not all made of sticks and snails and puppy dog tails?”
She smiles. “No, not all of you. Some of you are all puppy dog tails, which are adorable. Not many things cuter than a puppy dog tail.”
I’m about to lean in for a kiss, unable to resist, when Tina lets out a soft sound of surprise. It’s so subtle I’m sure the average father-to-be wouldn’t have noticed the lightly disturbed exhalation.
But I’m not your average father-to-be.
For me, the shift in mood is immediately apparent and immediately terrifying.
Chapter 20
Petrov
*
I glance the tech’s way, watching her brow furrow as she clicks something on the screen. It looks like the baby’s head, but it isn’t small and narrow the way that other, long-ago baby’s head was.
It looks normal, but what the hell do I know?
“Everything okay?” I ask lightly, not wanting to scare Amanda if my gut is wrong and there’s nothing to worry about.
Tina presses her lips together, her attention fixed on the screen. “Just taking a few more measurements and we’ll be done.”
“But everything’s okay?” I press. “The baby is fine?”
“I’m so sorry, but I can’t discuss the results with you, Mr. Petrov,” Tina says. “Aside from the sex of the baby, anyway. Dr. Nash will go over the rest of this with you in just a few minutes.”
The rest of this…
And I’m suddenly “Mr. Petrov.”
The tech is sitting in the same spot she was a few minutes ago, but I can feel her pulling away, stepping back, putting emotional distance between herself and the unfortunate couple beside her. There is no more laughing or friendly banter.
She finishes clicking at the screen, offers Mandy paper towels from a pile near the monitor to wipe the gel off her stomach, and smiles stiffly, without making eye contact. “The doctor will be in in just a few minutes. Good luck with everything.”
“Thanks.” I make no effort to hide the bitterness in my tone. It’s amazing how quickly people turn and run. The first tech did that, too. As if she were afraid our bad luck was contagious. Like Renee and I had done something to deserve a broken baby, something aside from having bum DNA.
“Yes, thank you,” Mandy says with considerably more warmth, compensating for my lack of manners. As soon as Tina leaves the room, she frowns and adds in a whisper, “What’s wrong with you? She was telling the truth. She just does the scan; the doctor is the one in charge of interpreting it for us.”
I shake my head, tongue curling at the back of my fear-tightened throat.
What can I say to her? How to explain th
at I know everything’s going bad? How to tell her that our baby’s in trouble and it’s my fault because I’m a bad egg, a shitty bet, a monster who should have had himself sterilized no matter how many times the doctors assured me that rapid advances in genetic testing could ensure the next baby was safe, assuming my wife and I used IVF and had the embryo screened prior to implantation.
But Amanda and I didn’t have the chance to take those precautions. And now we’re going to suffer for those broken condoms or forgotten pill or whatever shitty twist of fate made this happen. Again.
Again.
Fuck, I can’t do this again…
I want to run. To gather Mandy in my arms and get the fuck out of this room, this office, this city. The primal idiot deep in my brain insists there has to be a way to get out ahead of this, to escape, to avoid the threat that’s making my heart slam in my chest.
But that voice is wrong. There is no escape, no way out, nothing to do but sit here trying not to be sick into the trashcan in the corner as the doctor steps inside.
One look at Dr. Nash’s unusually sober expression, and Mandy’s hand flies to cover her mouth. “Oh no. What’s wrong? Please tell me fast. I don’t think I can take it slow.”
“The ultrasound shows an abnormal amount of fluid in the brain. It could be something that will resolve itself as development continues,” the doctor says, even as her furrowed brow telegraphs her worry. “Or it could be a sign of a genetic problem.”
“Oh no,” Mandy whispers, her voice hitching. She reaches out, taking my hand again. I hold it tight with both of mine, trying to be there for her even as my synapses are melting down in a miserable combo of guilt, shame, and self-hatred.
My fault, my fault, this is all my fucking fault.
“We won’t know for sure unless we do an amnio,” the doctor continues, “but the most likely candidate in a situation like this is Trisomy Eighteen.”
I look up, frowning hard. “Trisomy Eighteen?”
“Yes. Which I’m so sorry to say doesn’t have a high infant survival rate. Especially for boys. Only about half of affected children live through delivery, and those who do usually only survive a few days to a few weeks. There are some exceptions, but they are very rare, and the quality of life for those individuals isn’t high. They need constant care, and most still die before they see their first birthday.”
Mandy makes a gasping, suffering sound that cuts straight through my heart, carving it into pieces.
“Why?” I force the word through the misery curling thick fingers around my throat. “Why did this happen?”
“It can happen when the mother is older,” Dr. Nash says as Mandy leans into me, sobbing softly into the curve of my neck, making the carved pieces of my heart sting like an open wound. “Or a parent may be a carrier of the faulty gene but not present the disorder. But often it’s just bad luck.”
Bad luck. She’s probably right.
After losing my daughter, I had my DNA profile tested. I’m a carrier for Neonatal Marfan Syndrome, but that’s it. Aside from that terrifying, almost-entirely-fatal nightmare lurking in my genetic code, I’m sperm-donor worthy material. What’s happened to this baby isn’t my fault.
Too bad that doesn’t make it one iota less painful to hear another baby I want to love might die before he has a chance to be born.
As the doctor hurries through the rest of her spiel, directing more and more of her monologue to me as it becomes clear Mandy is too traumatized to process information, I do my best to think clearly. I memorize the statistics, catalog the information, and evaluate the risk factors associated with each decision we could make.
When the doctor leaves us to discuss next steps in private, I kiss Mandy’s tears away and calmly repeat everything to her, stopping to answer her questions and telling her this isn’t her fault every time she tries to apologize. “Stop it. This isn’t your fault. And even if it were a genetic thing, I would never blame you. I love you, and I know how hard you’ve tried to do everything right.”
She sucks in a breath, blinking fast through her tears. “What did you say?”
“I said this isn’t your fault.” I’m doing my best not to fall apart. “It isn’t anyone’s fault.”
“No, before that,” she whispers. “You said you loved me.”
“I do love you.” Tears rise in my eyes. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry this is happening to you. I’m so fucking sorry.”
As I break down, losing my shit with low, wrenched-from-my-gut sobs, she wraps her arms around me and pulls me close. I try to stop, but the more I try, the worse the falling apart gets. Finally, I stop pretending to be strong, because clearly, I’m not. I’m weak, helpless, and a fool for thinking I could protect anyone or anything.
After God only knows how long, I become aware of Mandy rubbing warm circles on my back and whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”
I lift my head from her shoulder, swiping at my eyes, completely ashamed of myself. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I do.” She cups my face in both hands, holding me close when I try to sit back. “We just got horrible news, Alexi. It’s okay to cry.” I shake my head, but she continues in a firm voice, “Yes, it is. You don’t have to pretend or play tough with me. I’m scared, too. But we can’t lose hope yet. Dr. Nash said we can’t be sure the baby’s in trouble unless we have the test. So let’s do the amnio. I know there’s a slight risk involved, but I think it’s worth it to know for sure. What about you?”
“Yes,” I say, voice tight. “I think it’s worth it.”
She nods. “Then that’s what we’ll do. And once we know, we can go from there. No sense in grieving something that might not be lost.”
I shake my head numbly, but no words come.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, smoothing my hair from my forehead. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m better now. I can take over. I’ll tell Dr. Nash how we want to proceed and see how soon we can have the test done.”
The doctor comes in a few minutes later, nodding her approval of our decision and sharing the good news that there’s an opening for an amnio appointment this afternoon. That’s the kind of good news we’ve been reduced to—that we won’t have to wait as long to find out if the worst is true. That because I’ve got money and am willing to spend it, we can have the results rushed and get our verdict in as little as three days.
Three days…
It’s going to be an eternity.
We step out into an unusually warm, unusually sunny December day, but the sun can’t banish the big black cloud hovering in front of me, a void I won’t be able to see past until we know what we’re facing.
“Want to go have a drink?” Mandy asks, slipping her hand into mine. “I mean, I obviously can’t drink, but you could. After all the crap with my dad, I don’t usually advocate medicinal drinking, but there are times when getting numb is good.” She glances down at her wrist. “And it’s almost five o’clock, so it won’t even be scandalous.”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I don’t want a drink.”
“Morphine drip?”
My lips curve. “You got one?”
“No, but I know a couple places that serve breakfast all day. How about French toast? My treat. And we can both drown our troubles in syrup.”
I squeeze her hand. “Sounds good.”
It doesn’t sound good, and food is the farthest thing from my mind, but she’s trying to be brave, and I’m going to help however I can. I might not have much hope of my own right now, but I can cup my hands around Mandy’s and keep the wind from blowing it out.
It’s the very least you can do.
Though, you might want to step it the fuck up if you don’t want to lose her. No matter what happens with the baby, you can keep Mandy if you pull your head out of your ass.
It shouldn’t be a shocking thought—I meant what I said in the ultrasound room; I’m totally and completely in love with her—but i
t is. From the moment Mandy swept back into my life, the baby has taken center stage.
The baby is the reason she didn’t walk away from me and never look back. I suspect the baby is also at least part of the reason she moved to Portland after she was let go from her old job, in hopes that the move would make it easier to track down the father of her child. And the baby is the only reason she moved into my pool house. She says she loves me now, but if it weren’t for our accidental, miraculous conception, she wouldn’t be a part of my life at all, let alone the most important part.
And she is the most important part.
I want her in my life for a thousand reasons aside from the child she’s carrying, but I’ve been so focused on the baby’s health and the secret I was trying so hard to keep that it somehow managed to escape my notice. Escaped it to the point that I waited to tell her I loved her until it slipped out in an unguarded moment while I was trying not to fall apart.
The inner voice is right. It’s time to step it the fuck up. Past time.
“How about we do French toast at home?” I hold open the truck door, helping her into the passenger’s seat. “I can make breakfast for dinner as well as any diner.”
“You can, but are you really in the mood to cook?”
“I’m always in the mood to cook.” I brush her hair out of her eyes. “And I’m definitely in the mood to be alone with you. Just you and me and no one we have to pretend to be happy for.”
She leans into my touch. “Good point. Though, I’m going to try not to cry anymore. I think it stresses the baby out. She was kicking a lot when I was upset.” Her eyes close as she shakes her head. “I mean he… I keep forgetting he’s a he now.”
“He’s probably always been a he.”
Her lips curve as her eyes open. “No, all babies begin as female. They only become male if chemicals come along to suppress their ladyness.”
“Really?” I ask, cocking my head.
“No, not really. But I had a teacher in high school who insisted that was true. When I brought in research proving that all human fetuses technically start as blank slates that express neither gender until they begin to differentiate at around five or six weeks, he told me I was too uppity for my own good.”
