Page 68

Now, I draw a deep breath and try to center myself. I look at the face of the woman on the front of the parenting magazine. She has one of those knowing mother-smiles that I can't imagine ever wearing myself.

The truth rears its ugly head for the umpteenth time: I'm terrified. Not just of the pregnancy or the birth or the lifetime of responsibility that follows, but of the growing suspicion that Charlie and I are not in the same headspace around this. That we might never be.

A woman and her partner emerge from the hallway, their hands intertwined, matching grins lighting their faces. The woman holds a strip of black and white images against her chest like a winning lottery ticket. Her partner—husband, boyfriend, whatever—has his hand on her back, protective and present.

I swallow hard and look away.

My phone buzzes and I snatch it up, heart leaping. But it's just Jane, checking in.

How's it going? Charlie make it?

I type back quickly:He’s still in Bolivia. I'm fine. I’ll call later.

"Tess Whitlock?"

I look up to see a nurse in pale blue scrubs holding a clipboard, her eyebrows raised expectantly. My stomach clenches.

"Yes," I say, standing up too quickly. The magazine slides from my lap and lands with a soft thwack on the floor. I scramble to pick it up, my hands trembling slightly as I place it back on the end table.

"This way, please," the nurse says, her smile kind but professionally distant. As I follow her through the door and down a corridor lined with exam rooms, I wipe my clammy palms on my jeans and try to regulate my breathing.

The nurse takes my weight, blood pressure, and temperature, making small talk about the unusually sunny Seattle weather. I respond on autopilot, my mind still circling around Charlie's absence, around what it might mean for our future.

After the nurse leaves, I sit alone in the exam room, perched on the edge of the paper-covered table. My reflection in the small mirror across the room shows a woman I barely recognize—dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, worry lines etched between my brows. I look away, focusing instead on the female reproductive anatomy chart on the wall.

Dr. Thompson enters after knocking softly. It’s comforting to see a familiar face. I’ve been seeing her once a year since moving back to the area.

"Tess," she says warmly, "good to see you again. How are you feeling today?" She pulls up a rolling stool and sits, giving me her full attention.

"Nervous," I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can catch it. "And alone. My—Charlie couldn't make it. His flight from Bolivia was delayed."

Dr. Thompson's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes softens. "That happens. First baby jitters are normal, with or without your partner present."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Dr. Thompson continues reviewing my chart, asking about symptoms, diet, and sleep patterns. Her voice has a soothing quality that makes it easy to answer, to focus just on this moment rather than the fact that Charlie’s not here.

"Any questions before we do the ultrasound?" she asks.

A thousand questions swirl in my mind: Will I be a good mother? Will Charlie be there for midnight feedings? Will our child have his blue eyes or my hazel ones? Will I end up doing this alone?

"Just one," I manage. "Is it normal to be this scared?"

Dr. Thompson's smile is gentle but genuine. "Absolutely. I'd be concerned if you weren't at least a little terrified. Bringing a new life into the world is no small thing."

She pats my knee with a warm hand, then stands. "Let's get a look at this baby of yours, shall we? The sonographer will be in shortly. You'll need to unbutton your jeans and pull your shirt up a bit."

After she leaves, I unbutton my jeans and hitch up my blouse, exposing my belly. I place my hand over it, and try to just lay there calmly and breathe.

"It's just you and me today, little one," I murmur.

There’s another soft knock on the door and the sonographer enters the room.

The paper sheet crinkles beneath me as I lie back on the exam table. The sonographer—a woman with nimble fingers and a name badge that reads "Marissa"—says hello before humming softly as she arranges her equipment.

I stare at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny perforations in one square to distract myself from the reality that Charlie should be standing beside me right now, holding my hand, witnessing this milestone that we can never get back.

"This gel will feel a bit cold," Marissa warns. She squeezes a dollop of translucent blue gel onto my lower abdomen. It's colder than I expected, and I suck in a sharp breath.

"Sorry about that," she says, though her tone suggests this happens with every patient. She dims the lights with a remote control, and the black-and-white monitor beside the bed glows in the darkened room.