“I thought we might do some traveling during the offseason.”
“We can. Why don’t you do the tour with me? That’ll be fun. You can be my fan for once.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “For once?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve been your fan since the day we met.”
It’s not like he’s going to let me travel to Europe without him after he finds out about the baby. He’ll be stuck to me like glue, and more than likely we’ll be stuck together stateside.
He takes a swig of mouthwash, swirls it around in his mouth, and spits. When he looks up at me, there is a string of saliva hanging off his bottom lip and into his beard. The sight of it makes my stomach turn.
Next thing I know, I’m kneeling in front of the toilet bowl and vomiting my guts out. Luckily, I haven’t had breakfast, or this would’ve been worse.
Brayden’s attitude immediately fades. He’s at my side in an instant, dabbing my face with a cloth.
In all the ruckus, the pregnancy test slid from my pocket and is now on the floor next to the toilet. We both see it at the same time, but he’s quicker than I am.
“Is this what I think it is?”
I nod. “I wanted to make sure before I told you. This is the first test I’ve taken.”
He picks it up from the floor, and an even bigger smile spreads across his face. “We’re having a baby. We’re having a baby!”
He jumps up and nearly knocks me backward into the tub. Then he’s all over me hugging, kissing, and cradling me.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
He’s inspecting me, looking for bumps and bruises, I suppose. I can tell that he’s going to get on my last nerve with this pregnancy. He’s already doing too much.
“Are you happy? You don’t seem happy.”
“I haven’t decided how I feel yet.”
“But, we’ve wanted a baby . . .”
“You’ve wanted a baby.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t not want a baby. It’s just a bad and inconvenient time to be pregnant. With the tour and everything.”
“You won’t be able to do the tour pregnant.”
“I’m definitely still doing the tour.”
I was on the fence about doing the tour pregnant until just now. Until he tried to put his foot down and tell me what I’m not going to do.
“How? You’re not going to be able to travel to other countries that don’t have good drinking water.”
“You act like I’m going to the jungle or somewhere. I’m going to Europe in April. If I conceived when I think I did, I’m not going to be due until July. It’ll be safe.”
“We have the best doctors here. In Dallas. I want you to see a doctor here.”
“And I will, but I will see a European doctor in Europe if I need to. This isn’t up for debate, Brayden. Pregnancy is not a medical condition. It’s a normal part of life.”
“What if you need bed rest?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, but, babe, really? I’m in my twenties . . .”
“Late twenties.”
“Twenties still. I am fit, strong, and healthy. This pregnancy is going to be fine.”
“What about when the baby gets here?”
“What about what?”
“Are you going to quit working then, and raise our child?”
Anger overrides my nausea, and the queasiness in my stomach is replaced by fire.
“Are you going to stop working?”
“That doesn’t even make any sense. I take care of us.”
“So only my life changes when we have a baby? Yours stays the same.”
“Our life changes. We’re both going to be raising our child.”
“But you just asked me if I was going to quit working and raise our child.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We’ve talked about nannies in the past. Let’s revisit that.”
Brayden’s jaw drops as he stands to his feet, like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“Most women would be happy to be able to stay home and care for their child. They go back to work because they have to, not because they want to.”
“I’m not most women. I didn’t sign up to be just like your mother.”
“My mother did work. And she set a strong foundation for me. But I bet if she could’ve stayed home and raised me, she would’ve chosen that option instead.”
“Well, then you know working mothers produce well-functioning, well-adjusted adults.”
“No nanny is going to raise my child.”
“Then you quit working and stay home with the baby.”
“You’re just trying to win the argument.”
“No, I’m not. I just want you to hear how crazy you sound every time you ask me to give up what I love. This baby will be healthy and fine, and it will be raised by two loving, working parents.”
Brayden looks completely frustrated, and who doesn’t care is me. One day he’s going to understand that my career doesn’t stop for him, the NFL, or babies, either.
“Just promise me that if the doctor doesn’t want you to go on tour that you’ll stay home.”
“I promise that I’m going to do everything to keep our child safe. I shouldn’t have to promise that, though. You should know that I would keep this baby safe.”
“When are we telling our parents? Both of our mothers will be excited.”
“After we confirm things with a doctor. This could be a false alarm.”
“And you’d be happy if it was.”
Should I respond to this? I wouldn’t be unhappy if it was a false alarm, that’s for sure. I just hate that he’s trying to make me feel like a horrible person for it.
“If it was a false alarm, I wouldn’t be upset. I would think that it wasn’t the right time yet, and that we’ll have a baby when it truly is our time.”
This mini-speech is an exercise in futility. I know I’m pregnant. I don’t need a doctor to tell me what my body is already communicating. But what I do need is a mediator between me and my husband, because he’s already on my nerves. There is no way I’m going to be able to deal with this for nine months.
Chapter 29
This pregnancy is taking me out. Between the nausea, vomiting, vertigo, and lower back spasms caused by this little symbiont growing and resting its body on my spinal cord, I’m pooped. And nothing is glowing. Not my face, hair, nails, or anything that the old wives’ tales swear improve when you’re with child. In fact, my dentist just told me I have a cavity that needs a root canal, probably because the baby is sapping up my body’s calcium.
Of course, Brayden is beaming. You can’t wipe the smile off his face. He’s telling everyone that he’s having a son. I sure hope he’s not disappointed when he finds out today. It doesn’t make any difference to me. Baby boy or baby girl is going to spend at least two years in stinky diapers, spewing bodily fluids from both ends, and being basically helpless, so I don’t have a preference. I just want a healthy baby.
Today we’re not going to see the doctor, just the ultrasound technician. Then, we go back to get the results from the ultrasound explained by the doctor. And yes, each visit requires a co-pay. I swear this stuff is a complete sham. I bet I only really need to go to the doctor in the last trimester of pregnancy, when everything is huge and the symbiont is trying to burst out of my belly like the monster in the Alien movies. All these other visits are completely unnecessary, yet here I am, lying on this cold table, on a thin strip of paper that doesn’t even cover the width of the table, waiting for us to get this ultrasound show on the road.
“It’s too early to determine the sex, I think,” Brayden says from his too small stool next to the examining table.
“Where’d you read that?”
“In the baby book I bought you.”
I should ask which baby book, because besid
es grinning and bragging about this baby, Brayden has been buying stuff. And not just books. He’s bought infant football gear, boots, and other shoes. He bought a book about labor, a book about delivery, and a book about labor and delivery. I’ve got breastfeeding manuals, potty training guides, and a bunch of other things I’ll probably never read.
Thank goodness the ultrasound technician comes into the room, so I don’t have to hear any more pregnancy facts. I don’t need to hear about what I might feel or what I should expect—I’m actually feeling the stuff, whether I expect it or not.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter. Are we here for a full ultrasound today?”
“I think so. Is that what it says in my chart?” I ask.
The ultrasound technician nods. “Yes, it does. My name is Cindy, and I’m going to be taking photos of your baby today.”
“My son,” Brayden says.
“It could be a girl,” Cindy says.
“Nah, I talk to my son every night. He communicates with me.”
“You’re ready, huh?” Cindy asks as I snatch my blouse up, revealing my belly.
There’s no baby bump yet, but I am already weary of being pregnant. I am sick all the time, but I’m also always ravenous. I can’t stop wolfing down food and then throwing it up again. I feel like I have an eating disorder. I’ve gained two pounds in fourteen weeks. Nowhere near what I need—according to Brayden’s books.
I flinch when she spreads the cold gel on my tummy.
“Sorry,” she says, “I should’ve warned you.”
“I’m good.”
“So, let me just say that I won’t be able to tell the baby’s sex today with certainty, but there is a study we’ve been a part of that helps us with a good guess. Do you want me to guess?”
“Absolutely. My son is ready to meet us!” Brayden says.
“I feel for your heart if this is a girl,” I say.
Brayden ignores me and stares at the little screen, waiting to hear what he thinks he already knows. Meanwhile, Cindy is going crazy with the goopy and cold gel. How much does she need?
Finally, she places the little tool on my belly. It slides around in the gel.
“I’m going to measure all of the vital organs, the skull and extremities, and of course try to determine the baby’s sex, by looking at the position of the placenta. If it’s to the right of the uterus, more than likely it’s a boy. To the left means a high probability that it’s a girl.”
Cindy zooms in and starts taking pictures.
“Which side is it?” Brayden asks.
“Right side.”
Brayden jumps out of the chair and pumps his fist. “I knew it! A son!”
“I don’t think you were this happy on our wedding day!”
“I was, but this definitely matches that feeling.”
“Ten fingers. Ten toes,” Cindy says.
“I am gonna be the best peewee football coach.”
I squeeze Brayden’s hand. “Yes, you are, babe.”
“Skull is perfectly developed,” Cindy says. “Right on track for fourteen weeks.”
“Perfect skull for his perfect brain,” Brayden says. “My son’s got good genes.”
I watch Cindy hover her mouse over the baby’s heart. She squints at the screen and makes a note that I can’t understand. It’s in code.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Oh, well, Dr. Peters will discuss the results of the ultrasound with you. I’m just noting the measurements.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I’m not an expert,” Cindy says. “You should wait to talk to the doctor.”
I turn to look at Brayden. “Something’s wrong with his heart.”
“What? Is that true, Cindy?”
“Oh, I might be mistaken, so I don’t want to say anything for sure. That’s why you should wait and talk to the doctor. It’s probably nothing.”
The look on her face tells me that it’s not nothing. They only say wait for the doctor if there’s something wrong. Only a doctor can share negative news with a patient. I know it’s something bad, and she’s not going to be the one to break the news to us.
Brayden and I both fall silent. I don’t know exactly what he’s feeling, but suddenly my maternal instincts awaken. I feel protective of this little person, and beyond anxious to know what is wrong with him.
We can’t get to the doctor fast enough.
Chapter 30
Brayden gripped Chenille’s hand as they sat in their obstetrician’s office. He told himself that he did it to give his wife moral support, but his hand was the one clammy and trembling. The ultrasound results were in, and he was afraid.
“Did I congratulate you on that playoff win?” Dr. Peters asked.
Brayden forced a smile. “Thank you, Dr. Peters, I didn’t know you were a football fan.”
She chuckled. “Everyone in Dallas is a fan when the Knights are in the playoffs or at the Super Bowl.”
“That’s true.”
“What are the results?” Chenille asked, abruptly cutting off the small talk.
Dr. Peters cleared her throat and sighed. Not a good sign. There was never a pause when there was good news to share.
“Your baby has hypoplastic left heart syndrome. It means that the left side of his heart is not functioning properly.”
“Prognosis?” Chenille asked.
“He will be in for some surgeries right after he’s born. If those surgeries are successful, he will live, but he probably won’t play football, Dad.”
Brayden didn’t care if his son never played sports. He just wanted to hold his baby in his arms and hear him say “Da-Da.”
“He can be an engineer, then,” Brayden said.
“If,” Chenille said. “You said if. What if the surgeries aren’t successful? What are the chances that they will be successful?”
“It really depends on how severe his defect is at birth. There is no cure for this disorder, but there are steps we can take to help him have his best chance at survival.”
“Don’t mince words. Dr. Peters. What are the chances that my child will die?”
“Out of the three surgeries your baby will need, the first one is the most dangerous. About half of the infants that have the first procedure don’t make it. But if your son is strong enough to make it through the first surgery, he’ll have much better odds of surviving the other two.”
“Will the surgeries cure him?”
Brayden had barely digested the first part of this. Their baby had a heart condition that would require three surgeries. He could barely contain his emotions or even breathe, but Chenille pressed on with interrogating the doctor.
“The surgeries won’t cure him. He may end up needing a heart transplant at some point in his life.”
“A heart transplant.” Chenille repeated the doctor’s words. “A heart transplant.”
“Listen, we caught this early enough that your son is going to have an excellent chance of survival into adulthood.”
“Just survival? What will his life be like? Will he need constant care?” Chenille asked.
Dr. Peters gave Brayden an uncomfortable glance, but then trained her attention back on Chenille.
“All infants need constant care.”
“Sick infants need more.”
The doctor let out an exasperated sigh while Brayden sat horrified, listening to his obviously selfish wife. She was probably sitting there thinking about how inconvenient all of this would be to her business plans.
“There is still time to terminate, Mrs. Carpenter. It does take an exceptional amount of patience and fortitude to care for a child with this severe of a heart defect.”
“I lack neither. I just want all the facts, so I can consider all my options.”
“Don’t you mean our options?” Brayden asked.
“I said what I meant. Thank you, Dr. Peters. I wish you’d had better news.”
Brayden followed his wife out of the office, fuming
. His blood was damn near boiling. And Chenille strutted like she wasn’t carrying his legacy in her womb. Head up, shoulders back, heels clicking against the pavement.
They got to the car, and as always, Brayden opened the door for Chenille and closed it for her. There was a peaceful look on her face, and that worried Brayden. How could she be peaceful after the news they’d just heard?
“Where are we eating lunch?” she asked as Brayden slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m hungry.”
“Do you really think we’re not about to talk about what happened in there?”
He pressed the button to start the car, but made no attempt to put it into reverse. They were going to discuss his concerns whether she wanted to or not.
“What do you want to talk about? The fact that only half our son’s heart works? Or that a surgeon is going to cut him open right after he’s born? Or that if he survives the first surgery then we’ve got to get him through two more, and he still might need a heart transplant?”
“None of the above. I want to talk about how you think everything is your decision.”
“Until this baby leaves my womb, it is my decision.”
“So I don’t get a say when it sounds like you want to have an abortion?”
“Oh, I already know your thoughts on the matter. Give birth to a sickly child. Stay my ass at home like a good mama should and nurse him to health. Watch him struggle to breathe, and be terrified every time he takes a nap that he might not wake up. Bake cookies and throw elaborate birthday parties full of kids he doesn’t know and doesn’t play with, because HE CAN’T PLAY. He can just watch all the other kids throw water balloons and play catch with his NFL daddy. His hero. While I’m nobody’s hero, just a mother who has to bury her son before he graduates high school.”
Brayden blinked rapidly, mostly from the shock of Chenille’s intense emotions. He could feel the pain in her trembling voice. He’d confused her interrogation of the doctor with being selfish, but this wasn’t that. This was fear, from the core of her being.
“Babe, I’m scared, too. You think it doesn’t break my heart to know that I will never cheer for my son while he’s sprinting down a football field? That is my dream! But I know my grandmother always says that if God brings you to it, He’ll bring you through it.”
The Outside Child Page 13
