In the next few minutes I learn that Molly’s blood pressure is perfect, that she’s avoided morning sickness for the most part but she feels a little queasy if she gets hungry, and that she’s feeling utterly exhausted all the time. When she says that last bit, I frown at her because although I’ve noticed her tiredness, I had no idea how bad it has been. She avoids my gaze. Later, we go through for the ultrasound. It takes some shuffling to fit the wheelchair in beside the bed, but soon I’m holding Molly’s hand while the sonographer starts waving the wand on her belly to locate my child.
My child. I keep saying the words to myself, trying to get used to them and trying to drown out my odd uncertainty about the whole idea. It’s a human-shaped blob, really – but there’s a steady heartbeat, and as the wand moves, four limbs come into focus. The baby does a sudden somersault away from the wand and we all laugh quietly.
‘Is it just me, or is that a particularly athletic baby?’ I say. ‘Definitely gets that from me.’
I see the shape of the baby on the screen again and I suddenly picture my parents’ faces when we tell them. I smile at Molly and ask, ‘Can we get prints?’
She gives a surprised laugh. ‘Settle down, Leo,’ she says, ‘Let’s get the important stuff out of the way first.’
‘You can have images, Mr Stephens,’ the sonographer confirms. ‘But your wife is right, we do have some actual work to do here first.’
My wife. My child. ‘Absolutely,’ I say, and I squeeze Molly’s hand and look back at the screen. We watch as the measurements are taken and we share grins when the sonographer confirms that everything looks good. I see tiny little fingers that will wrap around mine one day and a tiny heartbeat that I want mine to beat in rhythm with. I’m so terrified and in love with that baby by the time the sonographer leaves to print off some images for us that I’m almost overwhelmed by the storm of it all. Molly seems so much calmer than I do. She’s been watching the screen just as I have, but she hasn’t shown much in the way of a reaction. As soon as we’re alone, I kiss the back of her hand.
‘That’s one awfully amazing kid you’ve got hidden in there.’
‘Leo,’ she sighs. ‘It’s the size of a plum! You can’t know if it’s amazing yet.’
‘Oh yes I can,’ I assure her. ‘I’ve met its mother. It’s doomed for greatness.’
‘Stop it,’ she sighs, but she’s smiling a little bit now. I kiss her hand again.
‘Blood tests now and then if you’re up for it, do you think you could spare me a few more hours?’
‘Oh?’
‘I know it’s a big ask, but I’d really like to go tell Mum and Dad in person.’
Molly nods. ‘Of course, Leo.’
‘And when are you going to tell Laith and Danielle?’
She shrugs and sits up, then starts to button her shirt. ‘I’ll figure that out. I guess I’ll go see them and thank them for letting me use the jet when you were sick… I’ll go soon, anyway.’
‘Do I ever see them?’
‘No,’ she says flatly. There is nothing subtle about her body language now; she’s even leaning at an angle away from me as she fixes her clothing. Can we not even discuss her parents?
‘It’s never gotten any better?’
‘No.’
Molly slides off the bed. She pulls her skirt up to her waist and smooths a hand over her hair.
‘Is that Laith’s fault, or is it mine?’
‘I’ve never even tried to get you in the same room. Neither one of you would want that anyway.’
‘What about when the baby comes?’
She glances back at me and shakes her head. ‘I still see them occasionally, especially Mum. We’ll figure it out.’
‘And at his first birthday party? Will we just not invite them? What about his graduation, or his eighteenth?’
‘His?’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘That’s all you took from that sentence?’
Molly sighs. ‘These are all things we have to figure out. It’s going to be okay, one way or another. Lots of families have to have two parties for a child’s special events.’
‘I really don’t like the idea of that,’ I frown.
‘Really,’ she scoffs, and now she’s glaring at me and I have absolutely no idea why.
‘What?’
‘You really don’t like the idea of two happy birthday parties for a kid instead of one tense birthday party? That’s pretty rich coming from the man who asked me for a divorce not so long ago.’
‘Do you really think it’s fair for you to throw that in my face when I don’t actually remember doing it?’ I say, as gently as I can. Molly’s face turns beetroot and I can’t tell if she’s angry or embarrassed, until her gaze narrows. Definitely angry, but I’m not going to apologise – surely she sees my point?
‘You and Dad haven’t spoken a word to each other since that god-awful awards dinner, and I think it’s better that we leave it that way,’ she says flatly. She bends to pull her shoes on, and while she’s crouched, I suddenly know that she’s wrong.
‘I spoke to him on our wedding day,’ I say. Molly stands and shakes her head.
‘No, you didn’t.’