“We won’t worry,” he said. “We have faith.”
I wanted to agree. I hated the idea of the test causing a miscarriage, but I was terrified of everything we didn’t know. My faith wasn’t like his. He had conviction and certainty. I had doubts and questions. I wasn’t sure I could live without the answers.
When we got home, he got down on his knees and prayed, and I got down on my knees and prayed with him.
“We have faith,” he said. “We have faith in you. Please, bless this child. He’s in your hands. I have complete faith. You are everything. We give it all into your hands. We know you won’t allow this child to be harmed.”
We did this every day from that hour forward. His prayers were better than mine. I tried hard to be strong, but sometimes mine went off in the direction of, “Don’t you hurt this man who has this great faith in you. Don’t you take our baby away. We want this child. We prayed for this child. We’ll do anything. We’ll be good.”
Every night, I rubbed vitamin E oil on my belly, and he moved the heart monitor over it until we could hear the comforting sound of Amiir’s steady heartbeat. We still felt joy every time we heard it. We kept preparing for the baby’s arrival. Weeks went by, and everything seemed to be all right for the moment. I had terrible headaches, and I continued to swell bigger and bigger, but I was basically okay. I stayed quiet, reading and planning, working on video editing with a private instructor who was teaching me. Every night we prayed on our knees. Every day we listened to the baby’s heartbeat. He’d lean in, moving his lips against my belly.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
Whenever he came close, the baby would roll over inside me. We’d burst out laughing at every kick and hiccup. Sometimes my stomach would get elongated and taut. We loved when that happened.
“Look. It’s stretching its legs. See how strong it is?”
A few more weeks went by. My husband wasn’t going to LA much anymore, and frankly, I preferred to avoid the place as much as possible. Most of the girls he’d slept with—or who’d wanted to sleep with him or thought that sleeping with him would do something for their careers—ended up there. I didn’t want to be bumping into those girls, and LA itself had always intimidated me. He’d bought a house that wasn’t like the pleasant rental houses where I’d first visited him. Maybe because I was pregnant, I was even more sensitive to it.
“This is a single man’s house,” I said.
He nodded. “I’m gonna get rid of it.”
We talked about how our priorities would have to change now that we were parents. I told him I wanted to help support the family. It was important to me, and I was excited to be learning something that could be important to him.
Back in Minnesota, he made arrangements to unload the house and ultimately sold it to Raquel Welch, which made us both laugh, because he’d always worshiped her and even went through a phase of wearing the fur boots like the ones she wore in The Legend of Walks Far Woman. My Raquel moment—the fur bikini from One Million Years B.C.—seemed very far away now. I was swelling like a beached whale. By September, my back was killing me. I switched from kitten heels to sneakers and followed a strict diet, but my body kept bloating bigger and bigger.
The OB told us, “These ultrasound measurements are off. It’s possible that we’re seeing a form of dwarfism.”
My husband and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“And?” he said.
“I’m totally fine with that.” I laughed. “That’s the least scary thing you’ve said in months.”
Of all the possible outcomes that had been offered to us, this was the first one that didn’t terrify me. The OB urged us to reconsider the amnio. “There are other genetic abnormalities that can be life-threatening. We need to be prepared.”
“No,” my husband said. “We’re leaving it in God’s hands.”
The next day, I told Mama, “These cramps are kicking my butt. I feel like I’m getting my period.”
“Go to the doctor right now,” said Mama. “It sounds like you’re in labor.”
I grumbled and complained, but with a bit of persuasion, I went. As the OB prepared to examine me, I stopped and said jokingly, “I’m gonna stop wearing underwear when I come in. All you ever do is feel me up.”
She seemed grateful for the opportunity to laugh. I was dilated two centimeters, which wasn’t that alarming.
“Braxton-Hicks,” she figured. “No need to worry, but let’s stay in touch and start checking in more often.”
But suddenly my stomach went taut. I said, “Oh, look! He’s stretching his legs.”