“You look radiant.”
Her mouth curved softly, the smile not quite reaching her cheeks. “Thanks. We should get going.”
It killed me to see her consciously guarding her heart with me. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her everything would be okay, that she didn’t have to be afraid anymore. I wasn’t going to hurt her. But now was not the time to discuss our marriage and future. We had a very important appointment to keep.
I opened the door for her and resisted the urge to touch her as she climbed inside. Rounding the front of the truck, I smiled when I saw her pull down the visor to look in the mirror. The visor was up by the time I slid into the driver’s seat.
“Is Dr. Eastman still in the office on May Street?” I asked as I lowered the heat a little bit, but Laurel didn’t answer as she stared at the dashboard. “Laurel? Are you okay?”
She blinked a few times as she seemed to snap out of a trance. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. What did you say?”
“I asked if you’re okay.”
She put on another fake smile. “Yeah, of course.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re doing a bad job of pretending right now.”
She let out a huge sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m just really nervous about the ultrasound. What if something’s wrong with the baby?”
I shook my head as I pulled away from the curb. “Don’t think like that.”
I didn’t say it aloud, but if there was something wrong with the baby, then I would be convinced that God was conspiring against us. There would be no other reason for putting us through that kind of torture.
“Is Dr. Eastman still on May Street?” I asked again.
“Yes.”
I glanced at her when I came to a stoplight. Her breasts had definitely grown, but she wasn’t far enough along to have a baby bump yet. That didn’t stop me from wanting to reach out and lay my hand on her belly.
“How have you been feeling?” I asked as the light turned green and I pulled into the intersection.
She shrugged. “All right, I guess. I have to pee so bad right now. And just like before, the only thing that seems to work for the morning sickness is eating everything in sight. So I’ll probably be a blimp soon.”
“A radiant blimp,” I replied with no regrets when I finally saw a real smile spread across her face.
“Yeah, well, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,” she replied, doing her best impression of Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski. And her best impression was still as awful as it ever was.
“You still suck at that,” I replied, shaking my head as I turned onto May Street.
“Yeah, well—”
“No, not again. Please stop.”
She laughed heartily and the sound lifted the hairs on my head and arms, like music to my ears. “You’re so easy to annoy,” she teased me as she sat back, and I got the impression she was finally relaxed now, which made me happy.
We got lucky when we arrived at the doctor’s office and found an available parking spot in the underground lot, which only had about a dozen spaces.
“I’ll get that,” I said as Laurel reached for the door handle.
She didn’t object as I opened the door for her and held her hand as she stepped out. It was December 20th and there wasn’t any ice or snow on the ground in the Hood River Valley yet, but you could never be too careful. Besides, I wasn’t being any fussier than I’d been with Laurel during her first pregnancy.
We sat in the waiting room for about twenty minutes before we were called. A medical assistant with cranberry-red hair and overstretched earlobes showed us to the ultrasound room, which happened to be the same one we were in for Junior’s first sonogram.
“Arlene is your tech today. She’ll be here shortly,” she said, pulling open a drawer and taking out a gown. “Undress, except for your bra, and put this on with the opening in the front.”
Without hesitation, Laurel undressed and handed me her purse, jacket, scarf, and shirt. I folded them neatly and placed them on a chair behind me. Turning around, Laurel had already pulled the gown on.
I didn’t attempt to hide the fact that I was staring at her breasts as I helped her onto the examination table. “I think that’s the biggest they’ve ever been.”
She smiled as she lay back. “How would you know? You haven’t even felt them.”
My gaze snapped up to her face, and I shook my head at the challenge in her brown eyes. Thankfully, the door swung open, saving me from my desire to touch her.
“Hello,” the woman with short gray hair said as she entered. “I’m Arlene. Are you Mr. and Mrs. Stratton?”
“Yes, we are,” I answered immediately, saving Laurel the trouble of pondering the question.
“Great!” Arlene replied cheerfully, glancing at the stack of clothing on the chair. “You can sit here,” she said to me as she grabbed the clothes and put them on the counter.
“I don’t need to sit.”
Her penciled eyebrows shot up. “Every father sits when I do an ultrasound. I’ve had too many of you strapping young lads faint on me.”
I chuckled as I dragged the chair next to the exam table. “Thanks.”
Arlene put on a fresh set of nitrile gloves and sat on the swivel stool on the other side of the examination table. Pulling a bottle of ultrasound gel out of a warmer, she squirted some onto Laurel’s bare belly, which made Laurel flinch.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” Arlene said, reaching for the transducer. “The gel’s supposed to be warm, but sometimes they forget to turn the machines on when they come in in the morning. You’re my first ultrasound of the day. How are you feeling? Is your bladder full?”
“Ready to burst,” Laurel replied.
Arlene smiled. “Good. I’ll try and make this as quick as possible,” she said, pressing the transducer into the pile of gel and spreading it around.
The sound of the baby’s heartbeat made my sinuses sting, but I managed to hold myself together as I squeezed Laurel’s hand. She was not as successful in staving off the overwhelming emotion. Tears ran freely down her temples as she lay her head back and closed her eyes, listening to the rhythmic heartbeat.
Arlene smiled as she continued moving the transducer. “You’re six and a half weeks?” she asked Laurel, who nodded in reply. “Lucky you. You’re right on the cusp. Heartbeat can be heard on ultrasound around six or seven weeks. You’ll be able to find out the sex of the baby at your next ultrasound.”
“Why is she having the ultrasound this early?” I asked.
Arlene answered without hesitation. “Due to the history of placenta previa. Which is why we’re doing a pelvic ultrasound and I’ll be switching to transvaginal in just a moment. We want to make sure all measurements are accurate. The doctor will likely order at least another three ultrasounds — at least one more transvaginal and two more pelvic — over the course of the pregnancy. But there doesn’t appear to be any abnormalities with the placenta right now, though it is still quite early to tell. Nonetheless, at the moment, there’s no need to worry. If the placenta moves out of the normal range, you’ll likely see that in the next ultrasound. Until then, you have to keep watch for any spotting.”
Laurel opened her eyes to focus her attention on the squiggly white shadows on the screen. “Is the baby okay?” she asked.
“That’s what we’re checking for now,” Arlene said as she continued to type on the keyboard with her right hand as her left hand moved the transducer. “Just need to get a few more measurements. If you want to find out the sex earlier, you can ask for a blood test at around eight weeks. Will you be wanting to know the sex or will this one be a surprise?”
My heart sunk and my limbs grew heavy as I realized this woman had Laurel’s medical history in the file, but there was probably nothing in there about Junior’s fate. She didn’t know her words were like knives. It was a good thing I was sitting down.
To my surprise, Laurel turned to me, a soft smile curving her lips as s
he continued to wipe tears from her cheeks with her free hand. “I want to know the sex. Do you want to know?”
I smiled, wondering to myself if Arlene thought it weird that we hadn’t discussed this before we came in. “I want to know if you want to know,” I replied, giving her hand another squeeze.
“Okay, well, I’m happy to report that your baby is absolutely perfect,” Arlene said. “I’ll just take a few more pictures and we’ll do the transvaginal ultrasound quick, so you can be on your way to the bathroom.”
Laurel laughed. “Okay.”
Arlene moved the transducer around, stopping to take pictures a few times before she finished up. Laurel quickly got dressed so she could scramble to the restroom while I headed to the front office to pay the copayment.
Dr. Eastman came into the reception area to hand the receptionist a chart, smiling as he recognized me. “Jack Stratton. Good to see you,” he said, offering his hand for a shake.
I took his hand and shook it firmly. “You too, Doc. How’ve you been?”
“Hanging in there,” he replied, his smile dimming as he realized he didn’t want to ask how I was doing. “I saw your wife for her first appointment last month. You must be very excited.”
I couldn’t tell if he was implying he knew that Laurel and I were separated. “We are. Thank you,” I replied, relieved when he nodded and walked away into the back office.
Laurel arrived at my side looking equally relieved. “I feel so much better,” she said, flashing me that smile I adored. “Are you ready?”
I held up the USB drive Arlene had given me, which contained the sonogram pictures. “All set.”
As I helped Laurel into the truck, my heart was full. By some crazy miracle, Laurel and I were still here and I was going to be a father again.
I walked her to the door at Barry’s house, but I didn’t want to let her go. I placed my hand over hers on the door handle. Her body froze for a moment before she turned around.
“Come home with me,” I said as she looked up at me with those round eyes.
“Come home with you? What does that mean?”
I swallowed hard. “It means I love you and I don’t want to be without you. It means I know we’ve both made mistakes. We’ve hurt each other. But I don’t want to keep living in the wake of those mistakes. I want to move forward.” I took her face in my hands. “Without you, I’m not myself. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I feel like I’m drifting, just trying to get from one day to the next.”
“But you said I felt like a stranger to you,” she replied. “You don’t feel that way anymore?”
I shook my head. “I was hurt. But you apologized, and I don’t want to hurt you. It kills me to know I’m hurting you.”
“I never wanted to hurt you,” she said, reaching up to grab my forearms. “I don’t want to be without you, either. But… I have to admit that I lied to you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What do you mean?”
She grabbed my hands fiercely as I lowered them from her face. “I lied when I said that the only thing that makes my morning sickness go away is eating.” She paused for a moment. “The only thing that makes it go away is looking at pictures of you and Junior.”
My head fell back with relief. “You scared the fuck out of me,” I replied, shaking my head.
She let go of my forearms and took a step back. “I don’t think you’re ready to trust me yet.”
I gazed into her eyes and the pain I saw made my gut twist. I wanted to contradict her, but as usual, she was right. She tested my faith in her and I failed.
She reached up and laid her soft hand on my cheek. “I love you so much. But I want you to—No, I need you to trust me. I need you to believe me when I say I will never, ever do anything to deliberately hurt you. Ever.” She lowered her hand and stared at my chest for a moment. “The next appointment isn’t until after the New Year. I’ll email you the information.”
“Nope,” I responded, shaking my head.
“What?”
“No, I’m not giving up that easily,” I said, taking her face in my hands again. “You’re my wife. We promised to love each other for better or worse. And we’ve been through the absolute fucking worst. And yeah, I’m still a little shaken up, but I’m not giving up on us. You’re my everything, pixie. My whole fucking world. You’ll always be mine.”
She drew in a sharp breath as I leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on her temple. Moving down, my lips grazed her cheek before landing on her ear.
“I love you more than you can imagine,” I whispered.
A soft whimper tumbled from her lips as I pulled my head back to look her in the eye. “I can’t imagine loving anyone more.”
I nodded my head. “Get your stuff. I’m taking you home.”
She didn’t say anything as I kissed her forehead and took a step back. “I can’t. I promised Drea I would housesit for her while they’re in London.”
I let out a sigh as I began to feel that familiar feeling of the universe conspiring against us. “Okay, go ahead. Just get some rest. I’ll call Barry to see if they can get someone else to housesit.”
She smiled. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
Her wily grin widened as she shrugged. “I just told you I have the house to myself.”
Now I was grinning. I tilted my head as I looked her up and down, admiring her new curves. “Wanna throw down?”
Chapter 12
Laurel
The nondescript brick building in the Pearl District of downtown Portland looked exactly the same as it had the last time we were here. Our last appointment with Bonita “Bonnie” Hawthorne, Licensed Professional Counselor, had gone surprisingly well. But the fact that we never returned was not because we were magically cured, and it certainly wasn’t Bonnie’s fault. Jack and I were just too stubborn to believe that our marriage couldn’t be fixed with a stiff drink and a hard fuck.
The receptionist, who’d flirted with Jack on our first appointment with Bonnie, made no attempt at coquettish advances this time around. I liked to think that this time, Jack and I didn’t appear as broken as we did that day. Today, we arrived at Bonnie’s office with confidence in our strides, smiles on our faces, love in our hearts, and a five-month-old fetus growing in my belly.
We took a seat on one of the two gray couches facing each other in Bonnie’s office.
Jack grabbed a throw pillow from his corner of the sofa and placed it behind my back. “Is that okay?”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
A beaming smile spread across Bonnie’s round face as she watched us from the other couch with her yellow legal pad and ballpoint pen in hand. “You two look much healthier,” she remarked. “Especially you, Laurel. I take it you’re eating again?”
I laughed. “Oh, yeah. Anything I can get my sausage fingers on.”
Bonnie giggled. “That’s so great to hear. I’m really happy to see you two. It’s not every day you see a couple come in after they’ve sorted things out. That’s a great portent for what I assume will be a long, happy marriage.” She wrote something down on her notepad. “So I guess we’ll start out with the usual questions.”
Number of years we’d been together: Nine.
Our current living situation: Happily married and on the verge of moving into a new home in Sherwood.
Did we have any physical or mental health issues? I told her how my primary care physician believed my general anxiety disorder was getting better every day with a healthier diet and exercise regimen, as well as daily meditation. Jack informed her we were both still struggling with the grief, but his therapist and my group counseling had helped some. We planned to continue those after we moved to Sherwood. And, of course, I was very obviously pregnant, which we admitted was not planned, but we could not be happier.
I pressed a finger to the bridge of my nose as I began to feel tears coming. “Sometimes, I feel guilty for being so happy without Junior,” I ad
mitted.
Bonnie sighed. “Survivor’s guilt is a powerful emotion. It can keep us from enjoying life’s simple pleasures and great victories. And it can also serve as a reminder that you are a survivor. And if we want to honor the memory of those we’ve lost, the best way to do that is to appreciate every joyous moment to the fullest. It’s important to continue to practice compassionate self-talk. What do you tell yourself in these moments of guilt?”
I shrugged. “Probably exactly what you’d expect. ‘You’re a bad person… How can you be happy when he’s gone?… You don’t deserve to be happy.’” I paused for a moment before I repeated the worst thought that crossed my mind with overwhelming frequency. “‘You’ll never be a good mother.’”
“It’s natural to have these thoughts, right?” Jack asked as he squeezed my hand.
Bonnie nodded. “I want to share with you both one of my favorite quotes on grief. I love it so much, I’ve committed it to memory.” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath before she continued. “Grief instills, to varying degrees, an identity crisis, as our existing commitments are brought into sharp relief by the death of someone on whose continued existence we had depended… Michael Cholbi wrote that. He’s a professor of philosophy whom I greatly admire. Philosophy isn’t always the most accessible path to understanding emotions, but I believe he’s distilled this phenomenon into something easily understandable for grieving parents such as yourselves. The point is, you don’t have to be a philosopher to understand the meaning of his words.” She paused for a moment then looked Jack in the eye. “You both experienced a horrific trauma. In fact, studies show that the most traumatic event a human can experience is the death of a loved one. Believe it or not, the PTSD from finding your son the way you did is secondary to the identity crisis that followed the loss of your child. And in your case, Laurel, your mother and child. Your identity as a mother and daughter, and your identity as a father, were swiftly and brutally stripped away.
“Suddenly, you no longer had to wake up for three a.m. feedings and diaper changes. You no longer had to worry about whether there were harmful carcinogens in your food that could be passed on to your baby through your breastmilk. You no longer had to separate the laundry and use baby detergent. You no longer had to call or visit your mother on a regular basis, or remember to get a Mother’s Day gift. You no longer had to call to ask Laurel if she needed you to stop and get diapers on your way home from work. You no longer had to set money aside for Junior’s college education. All these tasks and concerns, especially the ones that sometimes kept you up at night worrying, had become part of your identity. You welcomed these responsibilities because they came with the privilege of knowing and loving your mother and child. This is why grief is so difficult for humans to process, because grief is an identity crisis. Your identities depended on Jack Jr. and Beth’s existence. Stripped of those identities, the commitments that survived — maintaining your health and the health of your marriage — suddenly felt insignificant and, at times, downright impossible.”