When You Least Expect It

by Whitney Gaskell

  “You’re really going to go with that line of argument? That you’re doing this for the money?” I asked.

  India turned around to meet my gaze. Her expression was defiant. “So maybe I’m not. Maybe I want to celebrate our baby, our unconventional pregnancy. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You’re planning to photograph Lainey?”

  India nodded, her eyes brightening. “If she’ll let me. I’d love to take a series of photographs of her, documenting the changes in her body as she goes through the pregnancy,” she added.

  “Have you talked to Lainey about it?”

  “No, not yet. I just got the idea today. Why? Do you think she’ll mind?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. Who knows what Lainey thinks about anything? She isn’t exactly easy to read.”

  “I know what you mean. I think she’s just overwhelmed by everything. She’s had some pretty big changes to adjust to lately. Breaking up with her boyfriend, the unplanned pregnancy, moving in here. It’s a lot for one person to process.”

  I knew how she felt. It was a lot for me to process, too.

  “I talked to Peter today. He had some news,” I said carefully. India, still in the closet, had turned to sort the dirty clothes in the hamper. Her back visibly stiffened.

  “Stacey’s pregnant,” she guessed.

  “Yep,” I said.

  India turned around slowly. She didn’t look upset. Then again, I’d seen her impassive when faced with the troop of power walking, stroller-pushing mothers who lapped our block every morning, only to discover her quietly crying in the kitchen ten minutes later.

  “How far along is she?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Men don’t ask about things like that,” I said. “In fact, men don’t really talk about pregnancy at all, if we can help it.”

  “Why not?” India asked.

  “Fear. I once asked a co-worker at my old job who was hugely, enormously pregnant, if she was overdue. Apparently, she still had three months to go. She glared at me every time she saw me after that. I can’t tell you what a relief it was when she finally went on maternity break.”

  “Coward,” India said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am. Anyway, I think Peter said the baby is due sometime in the summer.”

  “Late summer or early summer?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Our baby is due in June,” India said.

  It felt weird to hear her calling the baby, the one still residing in Lainey’s womb, our baby. “It’s not a contest,” I said. “It’s not like the first one to have a baby wins.”

  “Of course it is,” India said. “Your mother will think it is. Have you told her about Lainey yet?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t talked to her. Besides, I make it a policy never to tell my mother anything. It’s a strategy that’s been working well for me ever since I hit puberty,” I said.

  “Does she know about Stacey?”

  I nodded, trying to ignore the dread currently spreading through my gut.

  “What did she say?”

  “Peter said she’s excited,” I said cautiously.

  “Then we should tell her our news, too. I’m sure she’ll be even more excited to hear she has two grandchildren on the way,” India said briskly. She scooped up an armful of dirty laundry and, stepping out of the closet, transferred it to the plastic laundry basket we used to ferry clothes downstairs to the laundry room off the kitchen.

  “You have met my mother,” I said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I think you should manage your expectations.”

  “You mean she’s not going to be as excited about our baby as she is about Stacey and Peter’s?” India asked.

  “Hey,” I said softly. “I’m not the enemy here. I’m not responsible for my mother. And I don’t know, maybe she will be excited. But …”

  “But don’t get my hopes up?” India asked. She sighed. “Don’t worry, they’re not.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, a fighter steeling herself. “You’re coming with us tomorrow, right?”

  This sudden non sequitur threw me.

  “Coming where with who?” I asked, trying—and failing—not to sound suspicious.

  “Seriously, do you ever listen to me?” India asked.

  “All the time. Just last night, you were going on and on about how hot and studly I am,” I said. “I heard that.”

  India rolled her eyes, but didn’t resist when I reached for her and pulled her toward me. Since I was sitting and she was still standing, this meant my head was nicely positioned between her breasts. She let her cheek rest on the top of my head, and I stroked her back. It was the closest contact we’d had in days, and I could feel the first stirrings of desire.

  “So tell me again—what’s tomorrow?”

  “Our first appointment with the OB/GYN.”

  Oh, no, I thought. Had I agreed to go? When? Why?

  “You will come, though, right?” India asked. She linked her fingers together behind my neck, and her touch made me shiver.

  The honest response to this would be No. Or even Do I have to? I was pretty sure neither would go over very well, so I instead said, “Is it important that I be there?”

  “Yes,” India said.

  “Then I guess I’ll go,” I said without enthusiasm. “Wait … I’m not going to have to be in the room when the doctor examines her, am I? Because that would be weird.”

  “You’re going to be in the room when the baby is born,” India said.

  “I am?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  She pulled away and looked down at me.

  “I really don’t think I’m comfortable seeing her … you know. Her business,” I said.

  “And what business is that?”

  “You know.” My face was flaming.

  “No. What?” India giggled.

  “Everything up inside,” I hissed. I considered myself a modern man. On occasion, I purchased tampons for India. But I was not—nor, hopefully, would I ever be—the sort of man who was comfortable accompanying a woman he barely knew to a pelvic exam.

  “You won’t be able to see that! Not unless you get down next to the doctor and peer up inside her with a flashlight!” India was now laughing so hard she was shaking.

  “Wait—do we know what the doctor’s office is going to charge?” I asked, trying to remember how much we had in our checking account and if it would be enough to cover it.

  “It’s not going to cost anything. Or, at least, it won’t cost us anything,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked. I knew Lainey didn’t have health insurance through her job. If she even still had a job. As far as I could tell, Lainey hadn’t gone to work since moving in to the guesthouse. India was thrilled—she worried that it wasn’t safe for the baby to be around the noxious nail salon fumes. I was less pleased. We’d already agreed to pay Lainey a monthly stipend, with Mike laying out the guidelines for what was allowed. Even so, I suspected that an unemployed Lainey would want more than we were already paying her, and kept expecting her to approach us—or, more likely, India—with a demand.

  “Don’t you remember? Mike found out that Lainey qualifies for Medicaid. He helped her get the paperwork filled out, and recommended a good obstetrician who accepts Medicaid patients.”

  “Was I in the room when this was being discussed?” I asked.

  India thought about it. “Actually, you might not have been,” she admitted. “But I definitely told you about it afterward.”

  “I don’t think so. I would have definitely remembered hearing that something related to this adoption is free,” I said. I eyed India, still hopeful that she’d step back into my arms, which would maybe lead to more interesting activities. But instead, she turned, heading for the door.

 
“Where are you going?”

  “I have to get dinner started,” India said. “Do you think Lainey would like a cheese and onion frittata? I think I could sneak some spinach into it without her noticing.”

  Before I could answer, she was gone.

  I could tell Lainey was nervous. As we waited to see her doctor—sitting all in a row, with India in the middle—Lainey had her arms and legs crossed, her right foot bouncing rhythmically in the air. I tried to figure out if she was bouncing along to a song playing in her head, and if so, which one—I’m partial to tapping along to EMF’s “Unbelievable” myself—but quickly gave up. She probably listened to music by Justin Timberlake, or whoever else is big with the kids these days. Nothing I would know.

  “It’ll be fine,” India said soothingly. “I think it’s basically like having a Pap smear.”

  “What’s that?” Lainey asked.

  “You’ve never had a Pap smear before?” India asked.

  Lainey shook her head, and shrugged. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It’s a test they do to see if you have cervical cancer,” India explained. “Have you ever had a pelvic exam?”

  This time Lainey nodded. “When I went to the clinic for the abortion.”

  India flinched involuntarily. I glanced around at the waiting room, which was decorated for the holidays. There was a fake tree with blinking multicolor lights set up in one corner, red and white paper bells hung from the reception desk, and cutouts of Santa were taped to the wall.

  There were five other women there, all obviously pregnant, although there was a lot of variation in stomach size. Some were so hugely round they looked like they’d swallowed a baby elephant. Others were just a bit bloated, as though they’d gone overboard on the Szechuan chicken and fried rice at the all-u-can-eat Chinese lunch buffet. One of the larger women—so big she had to sit with her feet splayed out to either side while her enormous protruding stomach rested on her thighs—looked as though she might be ready to pop at any minute. She caught me looking at her, and I quickly averted my eyes, pretending I had been looking at the clock over her head.

  “Lainey Walker,” a nurse called out.

  Lainey stood quickly. India stood, too, and glanced down at me. “Are you coming?”

  “Right,” I said, getting up.

  The nurse led us back to a small, rather utilitarian office—laminate desk, matching five-shelf bookcase, framed diplomas on the wall—and told us the doctor would be with us shortly. India and Lainey sat in the two available chairs; I stood off to one side. The doctor came in almost immediately.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Jones,” she said, smiling.

  Dr. Alice Jones looked to be in her mid-to late thirties. She was black, with closely cropped hair and silver-framed glasses, and wore no makeup or jewelry. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see the three of us there together, and shook each of our hands in turn. I wondered if this was common—the adoptive couple tagging along to the exam—or if she’d been informed ahead of time.

  “I’m sorry there’s not an extra chair,” Dr. Jones said to me. “I can try to find one for you.”

  “That’s okay. I’m good,” I said.

  She sat behind her desk and flipped open a manila file that contained the paperwork Lainey had filled out in the waiting room. “I see you didn’t put down the date of your last period,” Dr. Jones said.

  “I couldn’t remember,” Lainey said.

  “That’s fine. We’ll do a sonogram today and see if we can get an idea of how far along you are,” Dr. Jones said. “Have you been taking prenatal vitamins?”

  Lainey shook her head.

  “I’ll give you some samples before you leave. Let me know which you like the best, and I’ll write a prescription for you. So, do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Jones looked up. “Any of you?”

  Lainey and I both shook our heads this time, but India—sitting on the edge of the chair, her back poker-straight—had come prepared with a list of questions she’d gotten out of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. She’d actually taken to carrying the book around with her, and it was now worn and dog-eared from frequent use.

  “How long have you been in practice?” India asked.

  “I’ve been here for two years. Before that, I did my residency in obstetrics at Jackson Memorial in Miami,” Dr. Jones said.

  “How often will we see you, and how often will we see the other doctors in this office?” India asked.

  “There are five physicians here in this office, along with two midwife practitioners. I’ll be Lainey’s primary doctor, but she will have the opportunity to meet the other doctors and midwives. We like to do that so if, for some reason, I’m not available when she goes into labor, she’ll have already met the doctor on call.”

  “Is that likely?” India asked.

  “We all like to attend the deliveries of our own patients. I’ll make every effort to be there,” Dr. Jones replied.

  India went on to ask about prenatal testing, childbirth classes, developing a birth plan (whatever that was), the odds of a cesarean, what hospital Lainey would give birth in, and who would be available to answer phone calls, should we have any concerns while at home. Dr. Jones answered each question equably and competently. Lainey sat in absolute silence, and I did likewise, shifting from foot to foot, wishing India would hurry up and finish. I wasn’t sure what the point of this all was anyway—there were only so many obstetrical practices in the area that accepted Medicaid, and Mike had assured us that this was the very best of the lot.

  Finally, India ran out of steam. “That’s all we have for now,” she said.

  “Anyone else? Lainey? Jeremy?”

  Lainey and I shook our heads in unison.

  “All right. Lainey, you come with me. We’ll do the exam, and then when it’s time for the sonogram, India and Jeremy can join us,” Dr. Jones said.

  Cool relief trickled through me. I wouldn’t have to be present for the examination. Once Dr. Jones had ushered Lainey out of the office, and India and I were alone, I claimed Lainey’s vacated chair. India turned to me.

  “So?” she said.

  “So what?”

  “What did you think?”

  I shrugged. “I really didn’t want to be in there during the exam anyway.”

  “I meant what do you think of the doctor?”

  “She seems nice. And her glasses are really cool,” I said.

  “Her glasses?”

  “Yeah, didn’t you notice? They were rectangular. Very funky,” I said.

  “Oh, good. That’s right here on my list of what to look for in an obstetrician. Funky eyewear. Check.”

  “Really?”

  “No. That was sarcasm.”

  “That’s too bad. It should be on your list.”

  “Jeremy?” India said.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Why uh-oh?”

  “You only call me Jeremy when you’re mad at me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes it is,” I said. “Usually you call me honey or snookums.”

  “I have never, ever called you snookums,” India said.

  “Maybe not, but when you call me Jeremy, that usually means I’m in trouble,” I said. “So why are you mad at me?”

  “I’m not mad. I’m concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “The jokes, the obsession with Dr. Jones’s eyewear,” India began.

  “I’m not obsessed. I just liked her glasses. And I always joke around.”

  “I know. But there’s a time and a place for it. And when we’re interviewing our birth mother’s doctor, it really isn’t the best time or place. She’s the person who’s going to be responsible for the safe delivery of our future child. It feels like you’re checking out.”

  “Checking out on what?” I asked.

  “Everything.” India made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “The adoption. Getting to know Lainey. Interviewing the doctor.”
/>   “I’m here, aren’t I?” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but you’ve barely said anything. You didn’t ask Dr. Jones a single question,” India said.

  “That’s because you asked everything anyone could possibly want to know,” I said. “There was nothing left.”

  “It’s more than that,” India continued. “You just don’t seem present. It was one thing when you let me handle all of the paperwork leading up to the adoption.”

  “I wrote our adoptive-parent profile,” I said indignantly.

  India just looked at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You wrote it in the style of a movie trailer. ‘Meet India and Jeremy Halloway. They’re about to embark on the biggest adventure of their lives: parenthood,’” India said, reciting the profile by heart in a way that made me suspect she’d been harboring a grudge about it for some time.

  “I was trying to make us stand out from all the other prospective adoptive parents. I was trying to give it a good hook,” I said.

  “I had to rewrite the whole thing,” India said peevishly.

  So she had been holding a grudge.

  “But it worked. Lainey picked us,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “Then why are we fighting about it now?”

  “We’re not fighting. We’re talking. I just need you to be with me on this,” India said.

  “I am with you,” I said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Are you?” India asked.

  The door to Dr. Jones’s office swung open, and a nurse stuck her head in. “Dr. Jones said you can come in now if you’d like to be present for the sonogram.”

  India stood. “Yes, we definitely would,” she said quickly.

  We followed the nurse down the hall. She knocked briefly on a closed door, then opened it without waiting for a response. Lainey was inside, sitting up on an exam table. She was wearing a yellow cotton hospital gown and had a blue paper blanket spread over her lap. Dr. Jones was sitting on a wheeled stool, scribbling in the ever-present chart. She looked up at our entrance and smiled at us.

  “Come on in,” she said.