Despite the lack of soundness to this entire conversation, my heart swells at the thought of giving Nate a little girl. “And how did you reason out that it’s a girl?”
“Well, if it was a boy, he wouldn’t be able to hide his…appendage. After all, I’m the father and, well, have you seen me naked? I mean, come on! If they’d seen a third arm, they’d have known it was a boy. But they didn’t. Therefore, it’s a girl.”
A bark of laughter bursts from between my lips. “My God! Men and their penises. You’re like a tribe of psychos, released into the wild to go forth and multiply, aren’t you?”
Nate see-saws his head. “Yeah, pretty much. But still, it’s a girl, so you’d better settle on a name.”
“Me?” I question as Nate exits the car. I wait until he opens my door before I continue. “Me? What about you? I’ve given you a thousand choices, and you never like any of them!”
Nate gently takes my hand, placing his other up near my armpit, and he helps me from the car. I’m anemic, they think because of micro bleeds associated with my growing tumor, and it further saps my energy despite the iron supplements I’ve been taking.
“I’m not worried. The perfect name will come to us. We’ve got time.”
I feel Nate’s pause as soon as the words leave his lips and drift through the air. We’ve got time. The one thing we both know that we don’t have is time.
The words and the bleakness of our future settle around us like a cool, damp blanket. Sometimes it’s so heavy, the future, that it makes even something as simple as walking a much more difficult task for me than it should be. But, as always, I put on a smile, aim it at my husband, and trudge on as if nothing is amiss.
I suspect that Nate is never fooled, but we’re both content to pretend, to keep the wolf of depression and harsh reality at bay for a few more hours, days, hopefully weeks.
My enthusiasm returns, somewhat at least, by the time I’m stretched out on the table in the dimly-lit ultrasound room. Whether because of our relationship or because of my extremely high-risk status I don’t know, but Dr. Stephens always performs the ultrasound herself. She always excuses the tech who performs them for everyone else. The special care makes me feel more comfortable, but it also makes me feel more fragile, like everyone around me is holding their breath, waiting for the moment when things will go sideways.
I try to put thoughts like that out of my head, but I can’t stop them from creeping in. And when they do, they do their damage, no matter how quickly I can get them out. They’ve been steadily chipping away at my morale until sometimes I feel like all I do is worry, especially when it’s quiet or I’m alone.
Nate, however…ever perceptive Nate, seems to know that I’m no longer fond of quiet or solitude. He makes a concerted effort to keep me entertained at all times these days, God bless him. Thankfully, he has invested wisely over the years and we’re doing well financially, allowing for Nate to be with me twenty-four seven if need be. I don’t necessarily need help that consistently, but I love having him around. And I think he just wants to be around, too.
This time is all we have left. Every second is precious.
Gratefully, I turn to find him in the dark room, reaching for his hand and entwining my fingers with his. “I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you more,” he answers. His smile is casual, but I can see the underlying tension. Although he never says as much, I think Nate is always concerned on ultrasound days. I suspect he worries that they’ll find some sort of abnormality or not be able to find the heartbeat or something. He would deny that, of course, and he tries to hide it, but I watch him too closely. I’m too attuned to him to miss the slight change that occurs at this point every time we sit in this room, waiting for the doctor.
Today is no exception.
I flinch when the door suddenly swings open and a cheerful Dr. Stephens explodes through it. “Sorry for the delay, folks. Sometimes babies just don’t want to wait to be delivered.”
She is still in her green hospital scrubs rather than her normal dress clothes and long, white lab coat. Her shoulder-length brown hair is up in a ponytail with short tendrils curling damply around her face. She looks a bit…frazzled.
“Had to earn your keep today, eh?” Nate asks congenially.
“And then some! Phew!” she exclaims tiredly. But then she smiles, slaps her palms together, and rubs her hands vigorously. “How about we find out the sex of this baby today?”
I smile. Nate smiles. I squeeze his fingers. He squeezes mine back. I feel the slight tremor in his grip. He watches the screen and refuses to look into my eyes. And so we dance the dance of denial, the delicate ballet of pretense, until I, too, turn to watch the small monitor, waiting to see what our baby carries—or doesn’t carry—between its legs.