Busted (Stacked Deck Book 11)

by Emilia Finn

  Her nails dig into the top of my hand, but I hold on, I squeeze back as my eyes go directly to the screen attached to the machine, then across the room to the massive screen on the wall, where the grainy black and white image fades in and out.

  “Here we go,” Kelly actually grins and works to spread the gel around. “Oh baby, he’s big already.” He frowns for a moment, clicks something on the machine, and keeps going. “I think perhaps your timing may be a little out, Miss Rissata.”

  “My timing?” Nervously, Grace clears her throat and pushes up a little to catch sight of the screen. “How do you mean?”

  “Baby looks to be closer to sixteen weeks, perhaps seventeen, but I’ll do a few measurements before we confirm.” He works two-handed. One on the probe, one on the machine as he takes screenshots and measurements. “There’s a hand,” he murmurs with a grin. “You see that?” He looks up to me, like maybe I need help identifying a limb. “Right arm,” he continues. “And over here…” He moves the probe an inch or so across her stomach. “Left arm.” Then he moves a little more. “Leg, thigh, foot. Two feet,” he chuckles. It’s almost like he takes pleasure in ticking off the list of limbs we’re aiming for. “There’s his stomach. Nice and round, exactly how we like.”

  “You keep saying ‘he’,” Grace murmurs. “Can you tell?”

  “No, I can’t tell. I haven’t even looked down there yet, but even if I did, it’s doubtful I could tell today.”

  He moves the probe, and shows off a profile view of the baby’s head. Its nose. Its chin and forehead. It’s already so formed in there that the hair on my arms and legs stand on end.

  It’s not just an idea anymore, but a real human being. A real person who is half me.

  “If you come back in a month or so,” Kelly continues, completely unaware of my existential crisis, “I bet I could pull some images that say one way or the other.”

  “Um… okay.” Grace lays down again, but she twists so she can freely see the screen. “Thanks. I think I’d like to know.”

  “Do you see the skull?” Kelly zooms in a little and brings us into more detail. The pert little nose. A jutting chin. “I’ll take a few measurements today to see—”

  But then he stops speaking and zooms in on a light.

  “What’s that?” Grace pushes up onto her elbows and narrows her eyes to see the screen better. “Why’d you just freak out?”

  “I’m not freaking out,” Kelly chuckles. He continues to work, to take measurements and screenshots. “My job is literally to be the only one in the room not freaking out.”

  “So what’s that dot?” Grace’s voice turns louder, meaner. “Why’d you stop like that?”

  “This is what I might call an echogenic intracardiac focus…” He stops and glances into Grace’s eyes. “An EIF for short, which is a bright spot on your baby’s heart.”

  “On its heart!”

  “Hey.” I hold Grace’s hand tighter and pull her closer to me when she wants to bounce off the bed and trample the room and everyone in it. “Cool it and let him do what he has to do.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Grace screeches. She shoots a filthy glare at the doctor. “What the eff is an EIP?”

  “EIF,” he corrects. “And honestly, it’s not uncommon, nor is it a problem just yet. Echogenic intracardiac focus is considered normal in many pregnancies, often resolves itself, and rarely becomes a problem.”

  “But for those rare cases?” I ask. My heart runs faster in my chest. On the outside, I’m cool, calm, collected for Grace’s sake. But that doesn’t mean my brain isn’t tripping over the doctor’s big words. Echo, heart, and rare cases where this could be a problem. “What does that mean?”

  “It means…” The doctor sighs and glances back down to his work. “It could be a marker for birth defects. It could be nothing,” he presses, and zooms further in on the bright spot on the baby’s heart. He takes shot after shot, measures, tries to rotate around to catch a new angle of the dot, then when he’s done there, he goes back to the baby’s skull and starts measuring. “It could be as simple as a calcium buildup, which will present absolutely no problem later.”

  “And if it’s not just calcium?” Grace demands through gritted teeth. “If it’s bad, what could it be?”

  “Well…” The guy swallows and focuses only on the screen. “It could mean a chromosomal abnormality.”

  “Which is what, in regular-people speak?” Grace growls.

  “Down’s Syndrome?” I say the words, and think of a paper Alyssa did at school not so long ago. She happily told me of the little girl in her class who has Down’s, and how, to celebrate the girl’s birthday, they learned more about the condition and what makes her so special. But there were other details in Lyss’ report – of course, because it’s Lyss, and she’s always going further. “Trisomy something…” I recall. “There are numbers after trisomy, and each number represents a different kind of abnormality?”

  “Right.” Kelly makes it so measurements show up on his screen. The baby inside Grace’s stomach can’t be more than a few inches long, but the machine makes him look fully grown. Full-sized. “That’s a decent recap in a nutshell,” he murmurs. “There are non-invasive ways for us to check… Things like measuring the fluid in the spine, the skull, eyes and ear placement. Those sorts of things can help us rule a lot of stuff out.”

  “Which is what you’re doing now?” Grace whimpers. “And if the measurements turn up right?”

  “If there are no other indicators of an issue beyond the EIF, then it’s quite likely that nothing is wrong at all. If we find something else as well, then we might have reason to run extra tests – though those tests are entirely up to you. You don’t have to have them, and if you’re on the fence, then you have time to decide.”

  “What will the tests show?” I ask.

  “They will give you absolute answers on whether we have problems, and if so, what they are. Parents then have the chance to decide their next step.”

  “The next step…” I consider. “As in, termination?”

  “Well…” Kelly shrugs and refocuses on his machine. “Again, that is the parents’ choice, a very personal choice, and not one I will try to sway. Some abnormalities are so minimal, you will scarcely notice. Others might mean the baby isn’t compatible with life and will pass in utero, or soon after birth.”

  “My baby will die?” Grace panics. “You said it’s not serious!”

  “I’m not…” Kelly shakes his head and pauses what he’s doing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean this is applicable to you or your baby, Miss Rissata. I was simply answering your husband’s questions. I just meant, if we find reason to be concerned, there are tests that could be done to rule things out one way or the other. Once you have more information, you can make better choices.”

  “And the testing?” Grace asks. “What kind of tests are there?”

  “Well, first of all, we’ll start with our measurements. Like I said, they can rule a lot out on their own. After that, if we’re still concerned, there is what’s called an amniocentesis. It’s where we remove a little amniotic fluid for testing.”

  “Fluid? How the hell do you get the fluid from inside my stomach out for testing?”

  “A needle,” I answer. “In your stomach.”

  “Oh my god,” Grace drops flat against the bed and breathes heavily. “I have to get a needle in my stomach to test if my baby is retarded or not.”

  “Hey!” I tear my hand from hers and jump back a foot or so. “You don’t have to speak like that, Grace! Fuck.”

  “What?” She shoves the doctor’s hand away from her stomach, pushes up to sit, and turns so that we’re almost front on – toe-to-toe. “You’re not the one who is pregnant. You’re not the one who is gonna get a fucking needle in her gut. And if it all works out and the kid is normal, you’re not the one who will be torn up so the baby can get out!”

  “You know what?” I reply. “I know all that. I know this is
scary for you, I know you’re terrified and vulnerable. But you don’t get to say that word and think it’s okay. That could be our reality, Grace. Our child could have Down’s. Do you intend for him or her to start their life already feeling shitty about themself? If Mommy and Daddy aren’t that child’s biggest supporters and strongest shields, then who the fuck do they have?”

  Snarling, Grace turns back to the OBGYN. “What do your measurements say?”

  “Uh…” He looks from her to me. Unsure. A little bit terrified. “I didn’t get to finish, so I can’t say for sure just yet.”

  “Preliminary thoughts?” she hisses.

  He shakes his head. “I just don’t know yet, Miss Rissata. I need more time.”

  “When can we have the amnio test thingy?”

  “Wait.” I drop a hand onto Grace’s shoulder. “A needle in the stomach can’t be good for you or the baby. What are the risks of that test?” I look to the doctor. “We have to weigh all of the risks before we jump.”

  “There are potential risks,” Kelly acknowledges. He started today’s session speaking mostly to Grace – as he should, it’s her body – but now he defers to me, speaks to me, since I’m the only one not being a total fucking bitch. “One in one thousand pregnancies are at risk of infection, early labor, or…” He pauses. “Potential miscarriage.”

  “I want the test,” Grace demands and shakes my hand off her shoulder. “Then we let the universe decide. If I miscarry, then that’s what was supposed to happen. If we get the results back and don’t like what they say, then we take the next steps to get rid of it.”

  “Get rid of—” I choke on my words, and my eyes bulge, I’m certain of it. “You’re going to terminate, just like that?”

  “If I have to,” she says quickly, “yep. I don’t want a ‘special needs’ child.” She actually does the air quotes with her fingers, and curls her lip like the words taste disgusting on her tongue. “I don’t want that.”

  “And what about what I want?” I step closer and fold my back to get onto her level. “You don’t give a shit about what I want?”

  “Of course I do.” She softens for a moment. Smiles and sets my heart at ease for a single second. “But I’m not going to ruin my life so that you can get this child, when it’s so easy to just do it again next month and hopefully get a better one.”

  “Get a better one?” I growl.

  I look down at her stomach and feel an overwhelming sense of possession. It’s like I want to tear her entire torso away, hug it to my chest, and take care of it the way it deserves. The baby deserves better, and even if there are no chromosomal abnormalities, making the baby ‘normal’, it still deserves better than who it got for a mother.

  She is a fucking bitch, and I doubt she possesses a single maternal bone in her body.

  “Grace…” I draw a deep breath and attempt to get my anger under control. I close my eyes, like that might help, then I exhale and meet her uncaring gaze. “Can we just talk about it for a minute? I’m not telling you what to do with your body. I swear I’m not. I’m just asking for a second to speak, to be heard, to be considered in this decision.”

  “You want to force me to have a baby I don’t want?”

  “No! You wanted this child twenty minutes ago, Grace. You’re just scared of the unknown.”

  “Which. Is. Why. I’m. Ordering. Tests.” She looks back to Kelly with a shake of her head. “I would like the tests done, please. After that, it won’t be unknown anymore. Then we can make informed choices.”

  We spend another hour in Kelly’s office while he takes measurements of every single limb attached to my baby’s body. Feet, legs, hips, stomach, arms, hands, chest, shoulders, and skull. He measures where on my baby’s face its eyes are, and where, in comparison, the ears are. He measures how large the forehead is, and something to do with the spine – how long it is, or some such thing.

  Grace remains mostly silent, she stares at the screen, or at the ceiling. And except for when I ask direct questions and practically demand she look me in the eye when she answers, she acts like I’m invisible.

  It’s not that I want to force her to do anything she doesn’t want to. Nor do I want to shame her for decisions she will make with her body – and by extension, my baby. I just want her to not be so cold when making those choices. I want her to slow down and think of all of the variables.

  When Dr. Kelly is done, and Grace climbs off the examination table to fix her jeans, I grab her shoes and try a new approach. Kindness, rather than demands. Understanding, rather than what about me?

  Placing the shoes by her feet, I kneel down and help her into one, then the next, and looking up, I have to swallow and consciously look away from the small bump that pokes out of her shirt. “Um… I was thinking about the lemonade thing you said. About dating you, romancing you and such, and making lemonade out of lemons.”

  Grace smiles for me, and when I finish with her shoes, she spins out of our space and over to her handbag. “Sure.” She snags her phone and goes to texting fast, snappy replies to whoever wanted her attention in the last hour and a half. “I’m craving Italian. What about you?”

  “Uh… sure. Italian. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  I take her hand and tuck it around my arm as we approach the office door, then stepping out, we head over to the front desk to pay the gap on whatever Grace’s insurance doesn’t cover. I tap my credit card, sign the slip Lana passes over, and when I hand it back, Lana gives us a business card with a date and time written on the back for Grace’s next scan.

  Dr. Kelly has decided his measurements seem normal.

  Normal.

  Not concerning.

  Not worth panicking about.

  And so, I’m trying not to panic. I’m trying to tuck it away for a minute and accept that everything is probably okay. Because though I’m not in love with the mother of my child, I’m very much head over heels obsessed with that black and white blob I saw on a screen. No matter how many chromosomes he or she may or may not have, no matter if it’s a boy or a girl, and even knowing that I’m going to be connected to Grace Rissata for the rest of my life, I can’t stop the way my heart pounds for my baby.

  My heart. My Hart. Has a spot on his or her heart.

  Sounds about right.

  “Let’s hit up the baby store after lunch,” I gently suggest and lead Grace outside. “I know things are still up in the air, and we have more appointments to go, but I think it would be cool if we go anyway, right? Let’s go buy something to commemorate seeing our baby for the first time.”

  “I don’t get paid until the first of the month,” Grace says easily, carelessly. “I can’t afford to go shopping.”

  “My treat,” of course. “Anything you want.”

  Emma

  Ouch

  It’s been weeks since I last spoke to Rob. The longest stretch of time in my entire life, preceded only by that one time I went to camp in seventh grade, and we weren’t allowed cellphones, and our walkie-talkies just couldn’t stretch that far.

  That camp may have been the tipping point that ended with me throwing a tantrum in Mrs. Crab’s classroom at the end of the year, which landed me a repeat of seventh grade, and bam! Right beside my best friend for every other camp I would ever attend.

  Sadly, I don’t think that kind of tantrum is going to fix our newest separation. And it’s all so much harder, so much more awkward, because our families seem oblivious to my pain. I keep it locked away, muted and covered, and considering Rob and I are never in the same room anymore, it makes it easy to pretend everything is as it should be.

  The problem of never seeing him – apart from the obvious – is that I never know how he’s handling this time in our lives. Is he hurting, like I am? Is he a robot, doing his job, but never smiling? Is he still in love with me, even if it’s just a little bit?

  And because I never get to see, I make assumptions. And my hurt feelings assume he’s doing just fine. Smiling and goin
g about his life with his slutty girlfriend who may be able to satisfy him in bed in a way I was never taught.

  I mean, I’m no expert in all things fellatio, and he’s been with Grace-Been-Around-The-Block-Risotto since his first time in bed. It would be like asking him to quit watching NASCAR, and instead watch me push a go-kart around our backyard.

  The two just don’t compare. Which sucks for me, because I’m the off-version of Jeff Gordon in this scenario.

  My last client of today is pulling his pants on – don’t ask – and tying his shoes, and while he does that, I begin packing away my equipment. My gun, needles, wipes, and spray. My ink, and two pairs of used latex gloves. There are three cans of Coke – two were his, one was mine – and a packet of unopened cigarettes – definitely not mine.

  I place the things I need to sterilize in a tray and set it aside, and tearing the cling wrap from my now empty chair, I ball it all together and toss the lump into the trash can in the corner.

  “You know the drill by now,” I tell my client when he snatches up his packet of cigarettes. I think they’re a statement now, rather than a consumable. An omen, perhaps, or a good luck charm. A reminder that he’s not going to die of lung cancer. Hell knows why he carts them around, but it’s something fun to puzzle out in my spare time when I don’t want to think about my best friend’s absence from my life. “Don’t scratch it. Keep it clean. No sunburn, no harsh soaps, try not to fuck with it.”

  “Your bedside manner has always been so sweet,” he teases, and tucks the cigarettes into his breast pocket.

  “Yeah, well…” I grab my coke and chug the last few drops before tossing it into the trash. “I have zero tolerance for stupid right now, so I’m telling it like it is. If you scratch brand new ink, you’re gonna fuck it up. And if you fuck it up, I’ll charge you twice as much to fix it.”

  “Harsh.”

  “I’ll also make sure it hurts. So don’t test me.” I reach out and shake his hand when he offers – I’m one of the bros around here – and stepping back when it’s over, I finally crack a small grin when he grabs a stick of gum and tosses it into his mouth.