by Leigh, Tara
I feel pregnant. Definitely.
It’s been nearly a year since I flushed my birth control pills down the toilet. But every month, before the devastating pink tinge of the toilet paper takes away my hope, my excitement, I always feel pregnant.
When my period came that first month, and then the second and third, I’d been disappointed, but chalked it off to the lingering contraceptive chemicals still residing in my body, like unwanted houseguests. I bought a Vitamix and began blending smoothies bursting with kale and antioxidant-rich berries every morning. I switched from coffee to green tea. Caffeine free, of course. I joined a yoga studio.
I put an end to binging and purging, too. It hasn’t been easy. There are times when I gnaw on ice chips just to satisfy the urge. But health has become my priority, not solely chasing after a number on a scale.
I didn’t become pregnant the fourth or fifth months either. But again, I didn’t think too much of it because of what happened with Tucker’s parents. After apparently suffering a massive stroke while driving down the highway, Hewitt crashed into a construction zone. Tucker’s mother was in the passenger seat. Cecelia died instantly, and his father died in the hospital two days later.
As their sole child and heir, Tucker instantly became the public face of Stockton Capital. He had to project confidence and calm, conveying to employees and clients that it was business as usual at the firm. I stepped in to plan the funeral service and memorial, familiarizing myself with the Stockton Family Foundation and their many charitable obligations.
But more months have slipped by, and I’m still not pregnant.
There are a few tests beneath the sink. I go so far as to open up the cabinet doors and check. Yes. There they are, a neat little stack of boxes. All three are digital, the rectangular indicator box taking away the guesswork of straight lines or plus signs. Either Pregnant, or Not Pregnant.
Should I? Maybe this time…
But instead of a positive test result, I envision only a boldfaced Not Pregnant. Again.
I turn away, deciding that, at least this morning, the frustration of not knowing is infinitely better than the crushing disappointment of seeing my failure spelled out in black and white. I can wait. Besides, I’m trying out a meditation class this morning that I overheard a woman in the elevator raving about—a woman with a swollen stomach.
I don’t have a job to rush to anymore. I took a leave of absence when Tucker’s parents died and had only been back a few weeks when Tucker got angry with me, pointing out that work stress could prevent me from getting pregnant. At first, I ignored him, thinking he was picking a fight with me as some kind of displaced grief over his parents. When that didn’t succeed, I tried explaining. My job was important to me. I loved knowing I was making a difference in the lives of kids who had grown up just as I had—not knowing who to trust, feeling unloved and abandoned. Like they didn’t matter.
“What about our kids?” he’d shot back angrily. “When are you going to make them a priority?”
“Let’s at least put a pin in it until I get pregnant.”
“A pin? A fucking pin? How long do you want to wait— No. How long are you going to make me wait for a family?” The unspoken was obvious. Losing both his parents in one fell swoop had rocked Tucker’s world. He was untethered, and desperate for me to replace the family he’d lost.
I knew I was fighting a losing battle, but I wasn’t ready to capitulate so quickly. I gave it another try. “Tucker, you know the kind of work I’m doing with TeenCharter. Don’t you remember the kids we helped? Please, don’t ask me to—”
“What I remember about TeenCharter is you. You were the reason I got involved, you were the reason I stuck with it. Those kids aren’t my concern. I want kids of my own.”
Tucker’s caring, playful attitude with the at-risk teens was the reason I gave Tucker a second chance, and I chose to believe it was grief making him sound so heartless. “I do, too.”
“Then prove it. Put your pin in TeenCharter and focus on me. On us, and the family we both want.”
I didn’t want to back down. But… was it really such a big ask to take a step back, temporarily? As much as I loved my work, I hated the strain it was putting on my marriage. It was obvious that Tucker needed me now, more than ever. After all he’d done for me, why wouldn’t I do this for him? Shouldn’t he and our future children be my sole focus?
But now, month after month of not becoming pregnant is a different kind of strain.
Every time I look into Tucker’s eyes, knowing I’ve failed him, that my body has failed us both, is torture. Each pregnant belly I see is an accusation pointed my way. Cherubic infants and tiny toddlers are indictments of my worth.
There are days when it’s hard to leave the apartment at all.
My phone rings with an unfamiliar number as I’m choking down a kale and avocado smoothie. I almost let it go straight to voice mail, pulled by the sudden impulse to take a test after all. Maybe I’ve miscalculated, maybe this is the month.
But I force my thumb over the screen. “Hello?”
The voice on the other end of the line is crisp, efficient. “Mrs. Stockton?”
“Yes?” I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear as I rinse out the blender.
“This is Manhattan Fertility Solutions. You have an appointment with us next month?”
Next month will mark a full year of trying, and failing, to conceive. I made the appointment weeks ago, hoping I would already be pregnant by then. “Yes.”
“The doctor will be attending a conference overseas regarding a recent breakthrough. I’m rescheduling all of her appointments that week. We have an opening this afternoon, are you available?”
This afternoon. Today.
No, it’s too soon. It hasn’t been a full year. I haven’t even told Tucker that I’ve sought professional help. Haven’t decided whether to tell him about it unless absolutely necessary, actually. But—how can I say no? “Sure. Yes, of course.”
“All right, we’ll see you at two o’clock.”
I hang up and rush to my meditation class, although I probably shouldn’t have bothered. My mind is a chaotic mess. Should I interrupt Tucker at work to tell him about my appointment? He hates when I call him during office hours, says he can’t flip back and forth between hard-edged rainmaker to loving spouse at the drop of a hat.
But… shouldn’t he know the effort I’m putting into creating our little family?
Ultimately, I decide against it. This is probably just an exploratory meeting. There’s no reason to get Tucker involved. Yet, anyway.
I arrive at Manhattan Fertility Solutions early to fill out paperwork, plowing through the stack of forms secured to a clipboard as if I am being timed.
Once I hand everything back to the receptionist who, disappointingly, makes no comment on my remarkable form-filling prowess, I take a minute to look around. The designer could have been hired by Tucker’s mother. Mid-century modern meets sanitarium. Neutral walls. White leather. Chrome and glass tables with sharp edges. Not child friendly in the slightest. And, oddly enough, there are no pictures of babies anywhere. Instead, the art is abstract and oversized, like enormous Rorschach inkblots on a white canvas. Nothing to indicate that this is a place that caters that in medical miracles. It could have been the waiting room of a psychiatrist, or the lobby of a venture capital firm. I feel cheated, craving visual proof of their successes.
“Mrs. Stockton?”
Vaulting off an Eames chair, I follow a woman dressed all in white, wondering if I should ask whether colors are reserved only for the fertile. Pastels for pregnant women and infants, bright primary colors for toddlers, neon for grade-school aged kids.
Five minutes later, I’ve peed into a cup, been weighed and measured, and am sitting, shivering, in a flimsy gown. A woman breezes into the room, small and thin with gorgeous black hair cascading to her shoulder blades in a smooth line. “I’m Vivian Lu. Thanks for coming in today, I’d like to examine you
first, and then we can talk once you’re dressed, all right?” she asks, the breathless rush of her words softened by an open, easy smile.
I like her right away. “Sure.” I lie back, putting my feet in the stirrups and chanting nursery rhymes in my head as I’m poked and prodded.
“Okay, all set. You can get dressed and meet me in my office. It’s the room right across the hall.”
She is gone before I sit up. Anxiety cinches like a too-tight belt around my ribcage. She was very fast. Too fast. She must have found something. Some reason I will never get pregnant.
What will I tell Tucker? Failure, failure, failure.
There are several boxes of tissues in the exam room, and I go through the better part of one as I pull my clothes on and find Dr. Lu in her office, collapsing into a chair facing her desk.
“So, it’s not often I say this to new clients at our first meeting…”
My face crumples. “Oh my God, I knew it. I’m never going to have a b—” I can’t even get the word out of my clogged throat.
“No, no. Mrs. Stockton, please. That wasn’t what I was going to say at all. Your urine sample registered high, but I wanted to confirm it with a physical exam.” As I rub at my eyes with a fresh tissue, she announces what I’ve been waiting eleven months and a lifetime to hear. “You’re pregnant.”
Chapter 39
New York City
Six months later
Standing in the nursery of our new apartment, I rub my already bursting-at-the-seams belly. Today marks the start of my twenty-third week. Twins. A boy and a girl. I can’t even believe it, and yet I can, because my babies will also be Tucker’s babies, and that’s just how he rolls. An overachiever, born into a charmed life.
My obstetrician uses a 4D sonogram machine on me at each appointment. Over the past few months, seeing their perfect faces, their tiny hands waving at me from an enormous flat screen monitor, I’ve connected with them in a way I never knew possible.
I became a mother from the minute I learned I was pregnant, but actually seeing my babies growing and thriving inside me… I’m already so in love with them it’s overwhelming. I can barely wait for them to be born, to hold them in my arms and breathe in their delicious baby smell.
We moved out of our Tribeca loft last week. Not into his family’s stuffy brownstone, which he’d sold after receiving multiple offers the day their obituary was printed. We chose a four-bedroom high-rise overlooking Central Park. There is still plenty of white furniture, but there are no more sharp corners. It is a home for a family. The family Tucker and I are building, together.
I designed the nursery myself. It’s not the biggest room, but it’s closest to our master suite, and that is what matters most. Right now, my babies are such a part of me, I can’t imagine being separated from them. In the beginning, their movements were the faintest caress of butterfly wings deep inside my belly, but now I can watch their limbs streak across my skin. Sometimes I swear they’re having a one-on-one soccer match in there.
The rug beneath my bare feet is a thick pile, an Ikat pattern of white and khaki with just the palest hint of gray. I had the walls painted the exact color of the winter sky, just before it snows, and the wood trim is a glossy white. Two elegant cribs dominate the center of the room, beneath a chandelier that shoots prisms of light around the room like dazzling jewels. Window treatments—long gauzy panels and, of course, blackout shades behind them—are being installed this afternoon.
I haven’t been back to Dr. Lu and her cold, quiet office. Once I stopped crying, she referred me to an obstetrician and since then, all of my appointments have gone smoothly.
Tucker is thrilled, although he’s been so busy with work he’s hardly around. And even when he’s not in the office or on a business trip, work is always on his mind.
Tucker is determined to prove, to himself and everyone who doubted him, that he is up for the job. But the long shadow cast by Hewitt Stockton sometimes haunts my husband. Tucker barely sleeps, and when he does, he’s so restless. I believe our babies will give him something to come home to, the same sense of stability I found in him. We will be a family.
“Isla, I’m meeting my sister to go shopping, you’ll let—”
“Yes, yes. Of course, the drapery installers. I’ll take care of it.” Tucker hired Isla full time once I became pregnant. She coordinated our move and so much else. I only have to focus on growing two healthy babies and waiting for my belly button to pop, like the timer in a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Thank you.” I shoot our housekeeper a grateful smile and grab my purse, deciding to walk the few blocks to the chic Madison Avenue shop that sells the most gorgeous baby clothes and crib bedding I’ve ever seen. Spending money on my babies doesn’t bother me in the slightest, even though I still cannot walk into stores like Louis Vuitton and Gucci without a serious case of sticker shock. Nothing but the best for my Stockton twins.
I’m finally starting to feel good again, now that the morning sickness has subsided. Or, in my case, all day sickness.
Turning the corner onto Madison, I feel a twinge in my back. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart idea to walk. But I’ve remained fairly active, despite the morning sickness and, well, twins. My yoga studio offers pre-natal classes and I’m a regular. Surely a fifteen-minute walk isn’t too much?
But then, Ouch, there it is again. A little lower this time.
Spotting the familiar dove gray awning emblazoned with white lambs, I push through the door and head straight for the kidney-shaped sofa in the middle of the store. Amanda, the sales clerk with whom I have an appointment, comes right over. “Mrs. Stockton, so nice to see you. I have a few things set aside already, if you would like to come with me?”
“I think I just need a minute,” I wheeze, rummaging in my bag for a bottle of water. “Shoot, I forgot—”
“Something to drink? Of course. Water? Or tea? We have green, iced, sweet, or non?”
Her words blur together. “Just water, please. Cold.” I close my eyes, resting my head against the back of the couch.
“Here you go.” Amanda returns moments later, holding a glass.
My hand shakes as I bring it to my mouth. Water has never tasted so good.
“Mrs. Stockton, I don’t think you look very well. Can I call someone for you?”
“No need! I’m right here, sorry I’m late.” Sadie breezes in, looking effortlessly pretty in a crisp black top and frayed skinny jeans, a messenger bag slung across her body and oversized sunglasses perched atop her head.
With my mom doing well, she moved to the city from Sackett a few months ago, around the time I found out I was pregnant. I’m glad to have Sadie close. With Tucker so busy at work, my sister has been an absolute godsend. She’s been staying in our guest bedroom for the time being, working odd jobs and looking for an apartment. Tucker and I have both offered to help her get on her feet, but selfishly I love knowing she’s just down the hall, especially when Tucker’s away. And her erratic hours make it easy for her to join me at doctor’s appointments and shopping for the babies.
I finish the last of my water and hold out the glass to Amanda. I feel better now. “Hey, sis. I must be turning into a whale. I’m winded just walking here.”
She reaches out her hand. “Come on, you’ve barely crossed the half-way point, it’s too soon to be playing the prego card.”
I force a laugh and let her help me up. Sadie is right. Twenty-three weeks is too early to become a couch potato, even with twins. Back on my feet, I take a deep breath. “Okay, let’s start with bedding. The cribs are all set up and I’d like—” Suddenly, there is a strange, twisting pain deep inside my stomach and warmth rushes down my pants.
Oh my God, have I wet myself? I’ll never be able to show my face in this store again.
Then I see their faces, looking first at Sadie and then to Amanda. Identical expressions of horror. I peer down. There is a puddle leeching into the white rug at my feet, and my pants are wet. Glancing back at t
he gorgeous gray silk couch, I breathe a relieved sigh, thankful that at least that has been spared. And that’s when it hits me. Something is wrong. Very wrong. My eyes are drawn back to the rug—the very white rug with a distinctively pinkish puddle. Oh, dear God. No. No, no, no.
Sadie is the first to speak, turning to Amanda. “Get us a cab. Now.” Amanda sprints outside as Sadie takes my arm, guiding me though the store and out the front door. A yellow taxi screeches to a halt at the curb and we get in. Sadie barks the name of the nearest hospital to the driver, and I take one last look at the white lambs happily prancing across the store’s elegant gray awning before we pull away.
“Just breathe, Poppy. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” Sadie is jabbing at the screen of her phone, and I know she’s trying to reach Tucker. I wrap my hands around my belly, telling myself that Sadie is right. Everything is going to be just fine. It has to be. These babies are Tucker’s, too.
Of course, they will be fine. Better than just fine, actually. They will be perfect.
Chapter 40
New York City
Three hours later
The words of a doctor I’ve never met until today wash over me, leaving a filthy grime.
My son is dead.
According to him, my baby boy was dead when I walked from my apartment to the Madison Avenue store, had probably been dead for several days. Dead, and I didn’t know it.
If what he’s saying is true, it means that I stood in the nursery this morning, supervising the delivery of the cribs and changing table and dresser. That I’d sat in the rocking chair with my hands over my belly, humming nursery rhymes and envisioning the day I would bring my babies home and put them to my breasts, knowing everything was just as it should be.
But it wasn’t. It isn’t.
