The doctor was faster than Lillie had been, her movements brisk. She felt around the “bump”—it felt squashy and fat now, not the firm little bump she’d wanted. She put something against her belly, and once again, Melissa heard that otherworldly wow-wow-wow of the baby’s heartbeat.
“You’re seventeen weeks along, according to the chart,” Dr. Owens said. “Do you want another ultrasound, or shall we wait for next week, when we have it scheduled? I’m getting the sense that you’re mostly upset with the weight gain.”
“I walk for an hour every day. Quite fast, too. I used to run, but . . . with these things, I can’t.” She gestured to her chest, mortified. “And I do yoga, too. Also every day. Well, at least four or five times a week.”
“Mm-hmm. And how are you eating?”
“Great! Fine! Really clean!” Well, that was partially true. She did eat healthy foods. And unhealthy foods, too.
“So, here’s the thing about pregnancy,” Dr. Owens said, sitting down in the rolling chair. Her eyes were lovely, so big and brown, but she could use some help with makeup, that was for sure. An eyebrow tutorial for starters. “You only need to eat about three hundred and fifty calories more per day. That phrase ‘eating for two’?” Melissa nodded. “It doesn’t mean you should double your calories. You’ve already gained thirty pounds”—did she have to say that in such a loud voice?—“and you’re less than halfway there. So obviously, you’ve been eating quite a bit more than you need.”
“But I’m so hungry,” Melissa said, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of the robe.
“You need to stick to the nutritional information we gave you, Melissa. But just to reiterate, three hundred and fifty calories is about half a cup of trail mix, the kind without the chocolate. An apple sliced up with a tablespoon of peanut butter. You can keep some hard-boiled eggs on hand for some additional protein.”
Yesterday, when she’d been alone in the house, after her kale and quinoa salad, Melissa made a fluffernutter sandwich on white bread. An hour later, she’d made scrambled eggs with Kraft shredded cheese. Lots of cheese. Just thinking about it made her feel famished for the food of her youth. Cheetos. Twinkies. Chick-fil-A and orange pop. Mee-Maw’s shoofly pie.
“We recommend about five small meals throughout the day,” Dr. Owens said, snapping her back to reality. “Lots of dark greens, like kale and spinach. Beans, broccoli, salmon, sweet potatoes, bananas . . . I can have Carol print out some recipes or recommend some good cookbooks.”
“What about my face?” Melissa asked. She sounded worse than Ophelia on a whiny day. “I’m breaking out. And my . . .” She gestured to her breasts. “They’re huge and weird and . . . there’s hair.” Her throat tightened to a whisper as tears flowed out of her eyes. “My shoes are tight. I think I have . . . I think I have cankles.” She sobbed, then clenched her Kegel muscles so she wouldn’t wet herself (again).
Dr. Owens covered her mouth with her hand. “Mm. Yes, your feet can spread during pregnancy. Especially with a sudden weight gain like this.”
“Will I ever fit into my nice shoes again?” All those gorgeous shoes and boots that had made her legs look so fantastic . . .
“Probably not,” Dr. Owens said. “Most of us go up at least half a size and don’t come back down. Listen. With the holidays coming up, you’ll need to be extra careful about what you eat. Be very sparing on sugar, absolutely no alcohol. You don’t want to get gestational diabetes—”
“What’s that?” It sounded familiar.
“It’s when your blood sugar is too high during pregnancy. It often results in very big babies, which can complicate labor and delivery, and the health of both of you. High blood pressure, preeclampsia, preterm delivery, serious breathing troubles for baby . . . all sorts of things you don’t want.”
Melissa swallowed. Her little plum could come out looking like a fat piglet. Could be sick, too. “I understand,” she said, feeling chastened. “Um, is there a way I can lose this weight now? Liposuction, maybe?”
“God, no!” Dr. Owens snapped, then corrected herself. “Listen. Your body is no longer your own, and I understand it’s an adjustment. But if you want a healthy baby, there are basic things you need to take care of. Mostly, you need to eat healthfully, exercise moderately and regularly, and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll have Carol print you out some literature, okay? And if you go online, please go to reputable sources. Hospitals, doctors, certified nurse-midwives, okay? Don’t listen to celebrities who think they have all the answers.”
How bossy. And celebrities did have answers, many of them. Was not Gwyneth Paltrow a nutrition guru? Kim Kardashian had been pregnant a bunch of times, and she’d lost a ton of baby weight. Melissa took a breath and reminded herself of who she was. Melissa Spencer Fairchild, a wealthy and admired woman. “Of course. Thank you, Wanda. Can I call you Wanda?”
“I prefer Dr. Owens,” she said. “Anything else for today?” Her face was impassive.
“No. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
“We’re always here for you. Have a good day.”
Dr. Owens walked out of the exam room without even saying goodbye. Not super friendly or kind. Melissa almost preferred Lillie. Lillie, who was not statuesque, like Dr. Owens. Lillie, who obviously loved food. Who had been pregnant herself, even if it was only once. Did Dr. Owens even have kids? Melissa didn’t know. Probably not, if she was so heartless.
Maybe Melissa would change practices, just to get a little more respect than she got from Dr. Owens. Someone who cared about cankles.
She should have stayed in New York or moved to LA, where all the good doctors were. The kind who’d do anything you asked.
But she was stuck here instead.
CHAPTER 23
Lillie
On December 19, I leaped out of the car in the pickup zone at Logan and hugged my child. “Oh, honey! It’s so good to see you!” He tolerated a few kisses on his stubbly cheek. “Are you growing a beard?”
“Maybe,” he said. “How are you, Mom?”
“I’m very happy,” I said, hugging him again.
Oh, it was so wonderful to see him! To actually see him live and in person. He slung his giant duffel bag in the back and got in the passenger seat. I got in, too, and looked at him. My handsome boy. My eyes were wet with happiness.
“Okay, Mom, maybe you should start the car or something? I’d like to get home and see everyone. Do you want me to drive?”
Everyone would have to wait a day or two. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, that’s all.” I patted his knee. “I’ll drive. Traffic was murder on Route 3.”
“Someday, Ma, you’ll have to let me drive through Boston, you know.”
“Not if I can help it, sweetie.”
He grinned, and my heart grew three sizes, like the Grinch’s.
“So how’s everything?” I asked, finally starting the car.
“Good. Finals were okay. I think I did pretty well.”
“Attaboy. When are grades posted?”
“A few weeks. But you know, you can’t see them. Because I’m eighteen.”
“Don’t remind me. But you’ll tell me, right?”
“Probably.” He smiled at me, but there was definitely a . . . well, an independence. A bit of a wall. “Hey, I might have to join a gym over break. Coach wants daily workout and food updates.”
“Really? Well, I guess that makes sense.”
“How’s the dog?”
“Very excited to meet you,” I said, inching onto the highway. “He’s great. Very mellow and easily trained.”
When we were on Route 3 and cruising along, I asked him questions about school, Chloe, the team; told him what I was planning for dinner (roast chicken, mashed potatoes, blackened carrots and a coconut cake for dessert).
“Sounds great,” he said. After a moment, he asked, “So it’ll just be the two of us?”
I read into his question, his tone, wondering if he was envisioning lonely dinners with his mother, year after year after year. “Actually, I invited Pop and Hannah, too. They’re dying to see you.”