by Marie Force
“I think you are,” he says gently.
“No.” I cannot hear this. I want out of there, but because I’m naked under that stupid paper gown, I need him to leave the room so I can get dressed.
“Roni.”
I can’t bear his gentle tone or the sympathy I hear in the way he says my name. I don’t want his kindness or his sympathy, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear any more about being pregnant. I’m not pregnant. My husband is dead. How would that even happen? Before that thought has two seconds to register, I’m sobbing the way I did when I first heard that Patrick was killed.
I completely lose my shit. I’m not sure if I’m there a minute, an hour or a week, but Dr. Gordon never leaves my side. He even ignores whoever knocks on the door.
“Do you want me to call Penelope?” he asks sometime later.
“No. God, no.” I don’t want anyone else to know about this. Ever. “How do I find out for sure?”
“Urine test, but that doesn’t have to happen today.”
“I don’t want to have to come back.”
“Will you be okay for a minute while I get a nurse to assist with the urine test?”
Accepting the third—or is it the fourth?—tissue he offers me, I nod.
“I’ll be right back.”
3
Roni
This cannot be happening.
The same chant that went through my mind over and over and over again during the first week after Patrick died is back and louder than ever. This. Cannot. Be. Happening. My heart yearns for him more than it has since I lost him. I can’t do this without him. We were supposed to start a family together. This was the year. I went off birth control in June, and we were going to see what happened.
Now he’s dead, and I… I’m…
Pregnant.
“No.” I break down again as I shiver from shock and the chill of the exam room. My brain races, reviewing recent weeks—relentless nausea I chalked up to grief, sore boobs and missing periods that I attributed to heartbreak. I was so certain that those things were related to my loss. How could they not be?
Tears roll unchecked down my face and onto the thin paper gown. I can’t be bothered to mop them up because I know there’ll be more right behind them. I’m beginning to realize they’re never going to stop. Just when I start to get my legs back under me, I’m kneecapped again by news I never saw coming.
That’s further proof of how my sudden widowhood has completely changed me. Nothing got by me before I lost Patrick. He used to joke that he could never cheat on me because I’d know it before he did it—not that he ever would. One of his many nicknames for me was “Bloodhound.” How could I have missed this?
Dr. Gordon returns with a nurse he introduces to me.
I forget her name one second after I hear it.
She gives me an empathetic smile, the kind you’d give to a new widow who’s finding out she might be pregnant, and oversees the urine test with a minimum of fuss that makes me grateful.
“When will we know?” I ask the doctor.
“Within thirty minutes. Get dressed and come to my office across the hall. Do you need help?”
“It hasn’t come to that,” I say with a grim smile. “Yet, anyway.”
“I know it seems impossible to believe right now, but you’re going to get through this, Roni. Penelope says you’re the strongest person she knows.”
I shake my head. “I’m not.”
“I believe Penelope,” he says.
Why does kindness from strangers make me cry?
He leaves the room so I can get dressed, which takes most of the energy I have. I grab my coat, stuff my feet into my running shoes and cross the hall to his office, where he’s seated behind the desk.
“It’s safe to leave me alone if you have other patients.”
“We’re on our lunch break.”
Cripes, how long have I been here?
“You care if I eat really quick while we wait?”
I gesture for him to go ahead.
As he offers me some of the cut-up fruit he has in a container, I notice the platinum band on his left hand.
“No, thank you.” I look down at the floor so he won’t feel like I’m watching him eat. “How long have you been married?”
“Just over a year.”
“What’s her name?”
“Monica.”
“How did you meet?”
“Her sister is married to one of my good friends.”
“That must be fun.” Their life sounds perfect compared to mine. Then again, just about anyone’s life looks great next to my new reality.
“Yeah, it is. How did you meet your husband?”
I’m surprised he asks. Most people, including those closest to me, tend to shy away from asking about Patrick, which is upsetting. He’s my favorite person to talk about. “We met in college during my junior year. He came to my room with my roommate’s boyfriend.”
“So you were together a long time.”
Nodding, I say, “Almost ten years. We lived together for seven before we got married.”
“We lived together for four before we got married. I often wonder why people don’t do that. Gets the bugs out before you make it official.”
“Yeah, it does.” I’m surprised to be talking to him this way. “Patrick and I weren’t going to get married. We were perfectly happy the way we were, but our parents wanted it.” I shrug. “We did it more for them than for us, but then… The wedding was… It was pretty spectacular, and being married made everything feel different. Did that happen for you guys, too?”
“Totally. We were surprised by that.”
“We were, too.”
“Were you trying for a baby?” he asks in the gentle tone that makes him so good at his job.
“I was due for a birth control shot in June. We decided to skip it and see what happened. We thought it would take a while.” I dab at my eyes with a damp tissue. “How will I do this by myself?”
“You won’t be alone. Penelope has told me about your wonderful family, and I’m sure Patrick’s family will help, too. You have people who love you, Roni. They’ll want to be there for you both.”
“I can’t do it without Patrick,” I whisper. The thought is so huge, so overwhelming, that it wants to drag me under the most relentless wave of grief I’ve experienced yet.
“You have options,” he says softly.
His words settle on my chest like a dead weight of dread. “No, I don’t.” Not having Patrick’s child isn’t an option.
The chime of his phone or computer grabs his attention.
“Your test came back positive for pregnancy,” he says, confirming what we already knew.
I need to get up, leave his office and take this earth-shattering news with me into the stark reality that is my new life, but I can’t bring myself to move.
“What can I do for you, Roni?” he asks with sweetness that endears him to me forever.
“There’s nothing anyone can do. My husband is dead, and I’m going to have his baby.” I’d laugh at how preposterous that sentence was if I didn’t hurt so damn much. Every part of me is on fire with the pain of missing Patrick.
“Let me call someone for you,” Dr. Gordon says. “You shouldn’t be alone with this.”
“For whatever reason, that’s what I need—to be alone with it. I can’t share this with people until I come to terms with it myself.” I’m not sure how I know that with such certainty, but the overwhelming need to be completely alone is what finally propels me out of that chair.
He stands to walk me out. “You’ll be all right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise? I don’t feel good about letting you leave alone.”
“I appreciate your concern and your support over the last…” I check my phone. Jesus. “Two hours. You’ve been incredible, and I’ll never forget it. But I need some space to absorb this without everyone hanging all over me asking what I’m going to d
o.”
“I get that, but I’d like you to check in with me over the next few days. Will you do that?” He hands me a business card. “My cell number is on there. Just a quick text to let me know you’re coping will keep me from worrying.”
“That’s above and beyond the call of duty.”
“I’d like to think that maybe we’re friends now, and friends check on each other.”
I’m filled with gratitude for this kind, generous man. “I’ll text you.” Glancing up at him, I add, “You’ll see me through this, right?”
“You bet.”
“Your wife is lucky to have you.”
“Your husband was lucky to have you. I have no doubt in my mind that you’re going to be a wonderful mother and that you’ll make Patrick very proud of you.”
“I sure hope so.”
His admin sets me up with an ultrasound appointment in a month and a prescription for prenatal vitamins that he wants me to start taking right away.
Dr. Gordon walks me to the door. “If the nausea and vomiting continue, we’ll need to address that. For now, focus on eating as much as you can. Whatever appeals to you that you can keep down. Try eating several small meals rather than three big ones. Keeping your stomach full can help with the nausea.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m here if you need anything. Text me anytime you need me.”
“I’m sorry for falling apart and for probably screwing up your schedule.”
“Please don’t apologize. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Thank you again. I’ll never forget your kindness today.”
“Take care of yourself, Roni. Your baby needs you to be strong for him or her.”
Nodding, I exit through the door he holds for me and take the elevator to the lobby, where I place a call to Rebecca.
“Hey, how’d it go at the doctor?”
“Fine. Nothing to worry about, but that place in the mountains your friend offered… Would it be okay if I went, like, now?”
“What about Christmas?”
“I can’t think about that. Not this year.”
I ache when I realize my strong, sassy sister is crying. “I hate this so much for you, for Patrick, for everyone who loves you both. It’s so unfair.”
“Yes, it is, but since I can’t change it, I have to find a way to live with it.”
“I’ll call my friend. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I’m sure. You need to be home with Jeff and your babies. I’ll be okay. I promise.”
“You wouldn’t, you know, do anything that couldn’t be undone while you’re off by yourself, would you?”
“I swear to God on Patrick’s memory I won’t do that.” It’s the best assurance I can give to a question that would’ve been unthinkable two months ago. “Ever. As much as I hate the idea of living the rest of my life without him, losing him has reminded me that life is a gift to be treasured.”
“Thank you for that reassurance. I’d give anything to spare you from this awful pain.”
“And I love you for that. I love you all for propping me up, but I have to find a way to do this myself, and I can’t do that sitting in our apartment with his records and his clothes and the things we bought together.”
“I texted my friend while we were talking, and she said the place is yours for as long as you need it. They never go there in the winter.”
The relief at hearing that is immediate and profound. “Thanks, Bec.”
“Anything for you. I’ll send you the address and directions. When will you go?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I could drive down with you. Jeff would come get me.”
“I’m fine. I promise.”
“Will you text me when you get there and check in every day?”
“I will. I promise.” I’ll have to set up a group text for all the people who’ll need to hear from me daily.
As I emerge into the December chill, forever changed by the information I obtained in that medical building, I’m thankful to have a plan to get away. I’ve never needed anything more than I need this time to rebuild my life.
* * *
That afternoon, after I fill the prescription for prenatal vitamins, I walk for miles. I have no idea where I am when I finally look up and realize it’s getting dark, and I should head home. I’m heading toward my building on E Street when I see Not-Patrick get out of a dark SUV that’s parked at the curb. As he heads toward the gate to a brick-fronted townhome, a child lets out a cry of “Daddy” that has him stopping in his tracks to greet her as she runs into his arms from the other end of the sidewalk.
She’s adorable, with blonde curls that escape from the confines of a purple knitted hat. Her cheeks are red from being out in the cold, and she’s clearly delighted to see him.
When he swings her into the air, I catch a glimpse of his face for the first time. I’m devastated to discover he’s most definitely Not-Patrick. I stop walking to watch him as he chats with a pretty blonde woman who’s probably his wife. Whoever he is, I’m glad he has a nice family to come home to. When he spins the little girl in a playful circle, he catches me watching him. His friendly, handsome face hardens in an instant.
I move along before he can ask me why the hell I’m staring at him and his kid like the freak-show voyeur I’ve become lately.
Shaken by the news about the pregnancy as well as the strange encounter with Not-Patrick, I’m filled with weird energy that has me up way too late packing, or, as Patrick would say, overpacking. He used to accuse me of taking everything, including the kitchen sink, no matter how long we were going to be away. For Christmas last year, he bought me the biggest suitcase I’ve ever seen. We named her Big Bertha, which is why even the perfectly routine job of packing is painful.
I expect to sleep in, but I’m up earlier than ever. Adrenaline propels me out of the house at six thirty for a walk. Since I’m not on a schedule, I’ve decided to wait out DC’s notorious rush hour before I leave to head to the cabin. It’s also possible that I’m procrastinating a bit because “leaving” will require me to get Patrick’s prized silver Audi out of the garage for the first time since he died.
As city dwellers, we have only one car, so it’s that or nothing, but I already know that being in his “baby,” as he called the car, for the first time without him is going to hurt like hell. So I walk and walk and walk until I find myself back in my neighborhood and standing in front of the coffee shop at a quarter to seven. I pretend I’m not looking for Not-Patrick when I walk in, but I immediately scan the line and see him three people ahead of me, wearing the black wool coat that’s become familiar since I began seeing him.
Seeing him seems like a better way of putting it than stalking him…
With a few people between us in line, I’ve got nowhere to hide when he turns to leave, and his gaze crashes into mine. I’m shocked when he takes me by the arm and walks me out of the coffee shop.
His golden-brown eyes are wary as he stares me down. He’s very handsome, but in a totally different way than Patrick was. Whereas Patrick was all sunshine and happiness, this guy has a dark, broody look to him that’s every bit as attractive. For someone else, of course. Not me. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
Unnerved by his intensity, I pull my arm free. “I don’t want anything.”
“Then why are you following me and staring at me?”
I’m about to deny I’m doing that, but I find myself saying something else instead. “I thought you were someone I used to know. I’m sorry.”
That seems to pacify him somewhat. “Quit following me.”
“I’m not. I live nearby, and we’re on a similar schedule.”
I can tell he’s not sure he believes me. “I don’t have time for nonsense. Whoever you are, just leave me alone, okay?”
I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry.”
He seems a bit contrite once he realizes I pose no threat to him. “My daugh
ter and I have been through a lot. I’m protective. I didn’t mean to get weird.”
“Neither did I.”
“Okay, so I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
After he walks off, I’m more intrigued than I was before. He and his daughter have been through a lot. What happened to them? Why didn’t he mention his wife? He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean anything these days. Lots of guys choose not to wear them.
With the daily nausea making its presence known, I’ve lost interest in the hot chocolate I planned to get at the coffee shop. I walk home with my hands in my pockets and my head down, avoiding the bush that served as the receptacle for my puke yesterday.
I don’t need another neighbor thinking I’m weird.
Pre-widow Roni wouldn’t have done any of the stuff that makes up my days now. I wouldn’t have had the time. I was too busy working and being blissfully happy with my beautiful husband to care about whether a guy who bears a passing resemblance to Patrick is married or what he and his little girl have been through.
I’ve become someone entirely new since Patrick died, someone I barely recognize. I’ve been so caught up in my encounter with Not-Patrick that I’ve forgotten, for a few minutes, that I’m pregnant with my dead husband’s child. The reality of that comes rushing back in a whoosh of awareness that has me gasping for breath at the top of the stairs. I give myself a full minute to breathe before I use the key in my door.
This grief shit isn’t for the faint of heart, I tell you. It requires a daily commitment of time, energy, emotion and fortitude that run in short supply when you’re tapping into the well so regularly. I’m really tired, and now I know it’s not just because my husband died, but because he left me with a parting gift that’s going to overtake my life for the next twenty years.
The thought of raising this child alone is so huge as to be paralyzing, so I try not to think too far ahead of the next few minutes as I shower, dry my hair and finish packing. With nothing left to do before I leave, I can’t put off my reunion with Patrick’s car any longer.