“How in the world would you know something like that?”
He shrugs. “Seems I remember my mum saying something like that when Emma was pregnant. Want to try a few crackers to see if it’ll help?”
“I guess you remember Margaret saying that was a remedy too?”
“No. Everyone knows it is.”
I scoot up in bed. “Yeah. I’ll try one or two.”
He returns a few minutes later with crackers and a fizzy drink. “Mrs. Porcelli sent ginger ale. She said it might help.”
“You told her I was pregnant?” I ask. He better say he didn’t or I’m going to be pissed off.
“No—only that you weren’t feeling well.”
“What are we going to do about telling people?”
“I would tell the world if it were up to me, so I guess it comes down to what you want.” I don’t think he’s kidding. I wouldn’t put it past him to run an ad in the paper.
But I’m not ready for anyone to know. “I don’t want to tell anyone yet.”
“Because you want to wait until the miscarriage risk has passed?”
“Yes.” No. That’s not the reason at all. “No. I don’t want to announce my pregnancy and then have it overshadowed by the announcement of you having a two-year-old son with another woman.” I know this hurts him but it’s how I feel. “Can we just agree to get through today, see what the results are next week, and then go from there?”
“I’ll do anything you want. You have all the say-so.”
I bite into the cracker and roll it around in my mouth. I don’t have a clue how eating can make my nausea better because the simple thought of swallowing my own saliva right now makes me want to yack. “I gotta spit this out.” I come up from the bed and run toward the bathroom when I realize there’ll be stomach contents following the cracker.
Jack Henry is instantly by my side helping to pull my hair away from my face and placing a cool washcloth on the back of my neck. “I’m so sorry you’re sick, love.”
“A normal part of it all, I’m afraid.”
“I’d take it from you if I could.”
“Yeah, I know you would.” I have no doubt about his sincerity because that’s how much he loves me.
We arrive ten minutes late for his appointment because of me. I had at least three more dry heaving episodes before we made it out the door. I told him to go ahead without me but he wouldn’t.
He’s scared shitless. I see it in his eyes. And I think I detect nervous trembling in his hands as he flips through a parenting magazine. “Do you feel better?”
“No. I’m still really nauseated. I think I could lie down on this floor and happily die right now.”
“Would you think less of me as a man if I did the same?” I’m actually amused for the first time in days. We’re a sight—two adults sitting in this pediatrician’s office more terrified than any of the kids surrounding us.
“Jack McLachlan.” He’s called back and we’re led into an exam room by a short, round nurse. “You’re here to submit a DNA sample for a paternity test regarding Ashton Rosenthal.”
“That’s correct.”
Holy shit. I’ve not heard his name until now. I think I’ve been pretending he didn’t have one, that he didn’t really exist, but hearing it makes it all too real. “I’m going to throw up.”
The nurse scrambles to grab an emesis basin from the cabinet and hands it off to me just in time. More dry heaving—of course it is. I have nothing in my stomach.
“Looks like you may need to see the doctor while you’re here.” She wets a paper towel and passes it to me.
“A pediatrician isn’t going to help what’s wrong with me.”
“My wife’s pregnant. It’s morning sickness.” He sounds so proud.
“Oh, well, congratulations.” An awkward silence ensues and I’m sure it’s because she’s remembering why we’re here in the first place. I feel the pounding heat of humiliation rising in my cheeks. I shield my face. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
I look at Jack Henry. “See. That’s why I don’t want to tell people yet.”
He sighs. “I get it, babe, but please try to understand my side. I’m excited about our baby. It felt good to tell someone my wife is pregnant. It makes me proud.”
“You can’t always do something because it feels good! That’s why we’re sitting here in a doctor’s office for a fucking paternity test.” I’m irritable, on edge, and I could burst into tears at any moment. I have no right to say these hurtful things to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being such a bitch. I don’t wanna be.”
“It’s the pregnancy, love, and this situation isn’t helping.” He puts his arms around me. “Just a few more days and hopefully this will be over for good so we can get back to being us.”
Being us. There’s nothing I want more, but it seems these bitches from his past won’t allow it.
The physician comes into the exam room with his nurse. He’s polite—not the best bedside manner in the world—but I assume he’s used to dealing with children. He collects a swab of the inside of Jack Henry’s cheek and places his patient label around it. He holds it up for Jack Henry to verify. “All of that looks correct to you?”
“Yes, sir. That’s me.”
“Good. The lab will send the results to us and we’ll notify you by letter.”
“I prefer to be called,” he requests. “Mail will take at least two days longer and I’m anxious to know the results.”
“Okay, but I’m sure you’ll want something in writing as well. I’ll have the office call so you can come by for the lab report.”
So, that’s it. Now, we wait.
We leave the exam room and wait at reception to check out. “Did you like the doctor?”
That’s sort of a weird question. “Not really. Why do you ask?”
“We’ll be needing a pediatrician.”
“Well, it won’t be him.” Not only was his bedside manner lacking, I wouldn’t want to be remembered as the wife who accompanied her husband for a paternity test. “I want a female doctor.”
“What if our baby is a boy?” he asks. “Don’t you think that would be awkward for him to let a female pediatrician look at his doodle?”