“My husband was the same way with our first,” the woman continues, oblivious to my internal crisis. “Couldn’t get time off work, felt terrible about it. But you know what I told him? I told him, ‘Honey, this baby is coming whether you’re in the room or not. It doesn’t make too much of a difference, really.’ Men just don’t understand how it works, do they?”
I make a noncommittal sound that she must take as encouragement, because she keeps prattling on.
“He cried like a baby himself when our daughter was born, though. Big, tough guy, works construction, and there he was, blubbering into his hard hat.” She laughs at the memory. “They always come around eventually. The good ones, anyway.”
“Mm.”
“Is this your first ultrasound? Oh, wait, no—you look further along than that. Maybe sixteen weeks? Eighteen?”
“Almost twelve,” I correct.
“Oh, you’re carrying big! That’s a good sign. Healthy baby in there.” She giggles to herself. “Let me guess: You’re craving salt? I craved Cape Cod potato chips somethingfiercewith my first. Couldn’t get enough of them. My husband used to joke that I was going to turn into a potato chip myself.”
“No chips for me.” I manage a weak smile. “Mostly just ginger ale.”
“Ginger ale! That’s a classic. My mother swore by it, too. She said it was the only thing that got her through all four of us.” The woman sighs contentedly. “You know, I always say that pregnancy is like a marathon. You just have to take it one mile at a time. It’s the hardest race on planet Earth, but mamas run it every single day, all around the planet. You’re gonna be just fine.”
I nod, hoping she’ll run out of steam soon. Not because she isn’t kind—I’m pretty sure she is the nicest woman who has ever been born—but because her kindness is just compounding my guilt for icing Bastian out of this experience. My fingers drum against my thigh.
Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell.
“Elly Hawker?”
I nearly leap out of my seat at the sound of the fake name I chose for today out of an abundance of caution. “That’s me!”
“Right this way,” says a nurse.
I grab Excalibur and stand, offering the chatty woman a quick wave that I hope conveys bothnice to meet youandplease never speak to me again.
“How are we feeling today?” the nurse asks as we walk.
“Fine,” I say. “Tired, mostly.”
“That’s normal. Your body’s working overtime.” She leads me into an exam room. “Dr. Meredith will be with you shortly. Go ahead and change into the gown on the table, if you don’t mind.”
I change, sit, and wait. I’ve been dreading this for a while now. I couldn’t go to my old clinic, both because it was far south and also for fear that Aleksei might have found out about it and been watching for my return. Problem is, now, I’m going to have to go through the getting-to-know-you inquisition all over again with a new doctor.
At least Meredith is a nice-sounding name, right? VeryGrey’s Anatomycoded. She can’t possibly be anything less than a sweetie pie.
That turns out to be wrong.
For starters, “she” is not “she”; “she” is “he.” And “he” has the bedside manner of a tax auditor with a wicked hangover. Dr. David Meredith rips through my medical history like he’s checking boxes on a form—which, to be fair, is exactly what he’sdoing—but every question feels like it’s hiding a second, nastier question underneath.
“… And the father,” he says, pen poised. “Is he involved?”
I hesitate a beat too long. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“He wants to be involved,” I say lamely. “I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.”
Dr. Meredith doesn’t respond, just scribbles a note. The scrape of his pen against the clipboard sounds like scathing judgment rendered in chicken scratch.
“We’re not together,” I add, as if that clarifies anything. “But he’s… around. Sometimes. When I let him be.”
Yuck. I despise myself more and more with every passing second.
“How is your support system otherwise?” he drones. “Family? Friends?”
