by MV Ellis
Sitting there, I’m even more convinced that no matter how much she protests—and I’m sure she’ll continue to do so—I want London to switch to the best OB money can buy, not just the best one offered on her insurance. I don’t want to fight about it here in the waiting room, so I decide to say nothing for now and just do what we came here to do. Sure as shit I’ll be talking to her about it as soon as we get home, and there’s only one resolution I’ll accept.
By the time London’s name is finally called and we’re greeted by an apologetic Dr. Carty, I’m a tightly bound ball of rage. I don’t want London to know that, so I do my best chilled-out father-to-be act. As we walk into the doctor’s office, a wave of pure nerves washes over me. Shit’s getting real now. Of course, in actual fact, it’s been real for a long time; London’s gloriously rounded stomach is testament to that fact. It’s just that this feels kind of like my official initiation into the role of daddy.
I’m man enough to admit that I’m shitting my pants. The haunted look Jake often has in his eyes makes so much more sense now. He’s always worried about some terrifying shit relating to his kids. I guess I’m turning into one of those guys. The ones I thought I’d never be: spending their weekends at Little League games and ballet recitals and their evenings poring over algebra and geography homework. Whatever happens, there’s no way I’m moving to the ’burbs like Jake, though. I’d sooner blow a hole in my head.
I brush the thought aside as we walk into the exam room, determined to be present in the moment. I don’t want to miss a thing, especially not due to dreaming up ways in which my life will never be the same again.
London walks over to the exam table and hops on up, if you can be said to hop while twenty weeks pregnant. Once she’s settled, Dr. Carty talks through what will happen during the exam and the possible outcomes. I sit in the chair alongside the table and concentrate on trying not to look as haunted as I feel. When she’s done explaining the situation, the doctor asks the sixty-four-million-dollar question.
“So, would you like to know the sex of your baby today, if possible?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
We answer in unison.
She looks at us as though we’re dumb fucks. I guess she’s not too far wrong.
London explains.
“Daddy over here”—she nods toward me—“would like to find out, but I would rather wait until the birth. We were hoping you could maybe write it down for him and keep me in the dark?”
Daddy. The word sounds so good coming from her lips in reference to me. Dr. Carty smiles benignly, and I’m sure I can guess what she’s thinking.
“Yes, that’s fine, we can do that. Do you have any more questions before I start? If not, you can lie back on the table and we’ll get the show on the road.”
We both shake our heads. No more questions, so London lies back. Dr. Carty has her lift her top and lower the waistband of her skirt to allow access to Squirt. Before she covers the bump in gel, London suddenly reaches out for my hand, taking me by surprise, but in the best way. I squeeze hers gently.
The doctor moves the wand over the gel on London’s stomach, spreading it around. We all stare at the screen, waiting for the magic to happen. Moments later, the image crackles to life and we’re presented with a grainy black-and-white scene, which I know to be London’s womb. This is some freaky shit. The image London gave me is one thing, but seeing it in person is something else. I’m glad I didn’t agree to her catching the subway and attending alone. I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.
As she continues to move the wand around, the air is filled with strange swooshing noises, which before long settle to a steady and rhythmic beat that mirrors the pulsing movement on the screen. Our baby’s heartbeat. Holy shit. I’m hit with a powerful wave of emotion I can’t name; I just know it’s intense. I look across at London, and she’s beaming from ear to ear. Her thick black curls are fanned out above her like a halo, and she’s glowing and radiant. I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.
“There’s your baby.” The doctor motions to the screen with her pen. We both stare as though hypnotized.
“I’ll just take some measurements, and then I should be able to let you”—she turns to me—“know the sex.”
For the next few minutes, she moves the wand around, clicking it at various points on the screen and recording measurements. Out of the blue, she stops clicking and mutters, “Ugh,” to herself, frowning. Moving the wand around some more, the frown remains.
What the…?
I look toward London, and she’s looking at me, clearly worried. I shrug, my relaxed demeanor playing down my anxiety and fear. I don’t want London to worry unduly when there may not be a problem at all. We both look back at the monitor. The heartbeat still seems to be there, which I take as a good sign, but Dr. Carty continues tutting and fussing. She seems quite perturbed. Just as I’m about to ask her if there’s a problem, she turns from her screen to address us.
“Umm… there seems to be some kind of anomaly here. From what I can tell, Baby Llwellyn is fine”—thank Christ—“but I need to carry out a few more measurements. Please bear with me. I’ll be a moment.
Baby Llwellyn. That kills me.
While she speaks, Dr. Carty leafs through London’s medical notes again, flicking from paper to paper and examining the details entered on the front and back cover of the cardboard folio. She frowns a lot. How can she tell us that there’s nothing to worry about when clearly something is troubling her?
She turns her attention back to the monitor, having picked up the ultrasound wand again, moving it around London’s bump. She appears to be repeating the process she carried out minutes earlier, reentering the measurements and other figures into the computer. London hovers on the verge of tears. I know the feeling.
After what seems like an age, the doctor turns to us, smiling.
“Well, I have some exciting news.”
We stare at her in anticipation.
“Although it wasn’t obvious at the first scan, it would seem from what I’m seeing now that you’re expecting twins.”
What now?
London lets out a wail not unlike a seal’s. The tears that have been threatening to spill for some time flow down her cheeks. I jump up, as though standing is going to make any difference to the situation.
“What did you say? Because it sounded very much like you said we were having twins.” I realize how stupid I sound, but I’m incapable of more intelligent speech at this point. In fact, I’m surprised I’m capable of any kind of speech right now.
“That’s right. The—”
“Motherfucker!” I pace the floor agitatedly, aware that the two women are looking at me as though I’m an ax murderer.
London saves my ass.
“Sorry. It’s a shock for him. He’s an identical twin, and he and his brother… well, let’s just say they have their moments. I guess it’s a twin thing.”
I suppose that’s a fair enough description in polite company, and I’m glad she jumped in for me—that’s totally not what I would have said, polite company or not. Dr. Carty nods her understanding.
She then directs our attention to the screen, tapping it with the capped end of her pen.
“See here, you can see another, slightly fainter pulse on the screen? That’s twin two’s heartbeat.”
Wow. Now that she’s pointed it out, I don’t know why I didn’t notice before.
“Most of his or her body is obscured by their sibling, but if you look closely again, you can see some of their limbs as the two of them move. Here, see a hand?” She circles the screen in the relevant area, and I guess I can just make out a hand. Twins. This is nuts.
“Obviously it’s quite late to discover this in comparison to most multiple pregnancies—the majority of women are aware they are carrying twins in the first trimester. However, though concealed twin pregnancies are rare, they are not totally unheard of. I must confess that in my almost f
ifteen years in obstetric medicine, this is only the second case of late diagnosis I’ve seen personally. The first being about five years ago, and she wasn’t actually my patient. That poor lady didn’t find out until she was delivering her beautiful babies, so you have the jump on her! Congratulations to you both. Baby Llwellyn just became Babies Llwellyn. Now, would you perhaps like to know the sexes of your babies?”
“No!” London states too loudly through her sobs.
The doctor looks toward me, one eyebrow raised, clearly trying—and failing—to stifle a smirk. I shake my head. After the shock we’ve just had, I’m done fighting London on this. We have much bigger shit to worry about right now, like how the hell are we going to name two babies when we can’t even agree on simple fucking things, for one? We’re so screwed. So. Epically. Fucking. Screwed.
“Okay, well as I said before, everything does seem at this stage to be well with both babies, but I will need to run a few more tests before I can be 100 percent sure, especially for twin two.” I still can’t believe this is happening.
“In the meanwhile, I wanted to discuss a few things with you. Firstly, I note from your file that you’re no longer living locally? Even with earlier awareness of twins, there would be a need to reevaluate your care schedule in terms of an increased number of appointments as the pregnancy progresses. Even more so when one twin isn’t discovered until midterm.
“With that and the increased potential of the need for an emergency C-section, I strongly recommend that you seek out a doctor closer to home. It will make the more frequent visits easier, but more importantly, in the dash to the hospital, every minute counts. The further the hospital, the greater likelihood of you delivering your babies en route, or other possible complications. I’m happy to make some recommendations if you’d like?”
London looks toward me, and I mouth, “Not negotiable,” her way. She nods slowly, looking resigned. I guess I’m not the only one who’s done fighting today.
I reply to the doctor. “Sure. We’d be glad for the referral.”
I’m relieved that London accepted the change so readily. In light of this new development, I was even less inclined to roll over on this.
Chapter Twenty-Six
We return to the car in what can best be described as shell-shocked silence, and in London’s case, the silence is stony. I get it; this is a lot to take in. A whole fucking lot. More than I ever imagined, in fact. I’ve gone from never even having spent a full night with anyone, to in love and in limbo with London, to about to be the father of two babies. Shit just got realer than real.
When we get home, I text Jake.
Me: Fucking twins!!!!
Jake: Are you actually stupid or something? Why the fuck would you cheat on London after everything that’s gone down with you two? I’m done. I give up. No cure for stupid.
Me: No. Us.
Jake: You and Luke? This is not news. Are you high?
Me: Never been straighter in my life. I’m not talking about me and Douchey.
Jake: Your balls, then? Are they identical? Mine aren’t. The right one hangs just a little lower than the left. Apparently it’s quite a common occurrence. You can’t really see it unless you’re looking hard, which nobody ever is, but I know it’s there—one slightly saggy ball.
Christ. I should have just called the stupid bastard. Now I’ve got an image in my mind I’m never going to be able to erase.
Me: And now I know. Jesus Christ, pass me the fucking brain bleach. Are YOU high? Why are you telling me about your cockeyed fucking ballsack? Actually, don’t answer that. London and I are having TWINS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Jake: Holy. Mother. Of. Fucking. Crap. You’re shitting me, right?
Me: IKR? I kid you not. Wish I was. Super sperm. Now we have two for the price of one.
Jake: Jesus! How do you feel?
Me: Like someone sucker-punched me with a ten-ton truck. Also: proud.
Jake: This is possibly the best example of karma in action I’ve ever seen! Your life is literally never going to be the same again, and not necessarily in a good way—suckerrrrrrrrrrrr!
Me: You think? FFS, I wasn’t ready to be a father once over, let alone an insta-family of four. What the fuck am I gonna do?
Jake: Get on your knees and pray, then get a fucking vasectomy. Stat.
Me: Great advice. Thanks, douche bucket.
Jake: Nah, seriously, man, I’m here for you if you need anything, even just somewhere to hide when shit gets too real.
Me: Thanks, man, I appreciate it. Can you tell the others? I can’t face even speaking to anyone right now.
Jake: Sure. Have you told Luke?
Me: Nah, we’re still not straight. Haven’t really spoken since the secret gig. Will you do the honors?
Jake: K. Sure. Congrats, btw.
Me: Thanks, man. I think.
London’s way of dealing with this fresh shock is to pretend it’s not happening. She pushes me further away than ever, retreating into herself to the point where I’m worried about her. Before the news, we kind of coexisted at Rosemond House in a separate but interconnected way, often sharing meals in the main kitchen or watching TV in one of the living rooms. After the appointment, she keeps completely to herself, using only the rooms on her floor. I hardly see her, and when I do, she’s distant with a haunted look in her eyes. Like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming tank.
I try to give her as much space as possible while also being there for her, but I’m worried about her and the babies. Our babies. Hers and mine. Doing my best not to overstep and to honor my promise to let her have her own space, I try subtly to ensure she’s sleeping, taking her prenatal vitamins, and eating right. I don’t care if she never wants to acknowledge me again, but I’m not prepared to compromise on the health of our babies. Deep down I know she isn’t either, and from what I can tell from our weekly visits with our new OB, I know everything’s going well with the squirts, so I have nothing to worry about where they’re concerned. I wish the same could be said for their mama.
I decide to take action.
“Hello? Has something happened to London? Where is she?”
“Settle down, Marko. She’s at home, safe and sound.” He worries almost as much as I do.
“So to what do I owe the ‘pleasure’ of this call?”
“I need a favor.” It kills me to ask this bastard for anything, but he’s her best friend and she trusts him, which is more than can be said for me most of the time. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Silence on the other end of the phone. He’s going to make me work for it.
“I’m sure you know about our double trouble by now?” I query.
“Yeah, of course. London called us right after you guys found out.” Of course she did. “Either Nic or I have spoken to her every day since.”
“Thanks, man.” Kill. Me. Now.
“Don’t thank me. This isn’t about you, it’s about her and those babies.”
“Yeah, I get it. Don’t worry, I feel the same about you, but we have her in common, so I guess we’re stuck with each other.” I’m pacing the floor so much, I’m in real danger of wearing a hole clean through the polished concrete.
“Whatever. What do you want?”
Fuck this douche.
“She won’t have anything to do with me right now. Barely acknowledges me, in fact. I don’t mind that she’s freezing me out, although I don’t love it either, but the fact is, I’m worried about her. I’m not so sure she’s holding up as well as she could be, but as she won’t talk to me, it’s hard to be certain either way.”
“Man, I think she’s okay, but she’s in shock, you know? Quite honestly, if I was in her position, I’d be the same. I mean, of all the people to get knocked up by, she ‘chooses’ you, and then to add insult to injury, she’s expecting two babies, not just one. This is a fuckup of epic proportions.”
The saddest part is that he’s not wrong. I still want to end him though.
&
nbsp; “Thanks.”
“Well what do you want me to do, blow smoke up your ass and tell you it’s all sunshine and lollipops? Because you get that it’s not, right?”
Five… four… three… two… one.
“I’m not an idiot. Of course I get it. Why do you think I’m calling? Trust me, if I didn’t love that girl the way I do, I wouldn’t want any-fucking-thing from you. Ever. Seriously, I’d rather do a deal with the devil.” Sometimes with Marko that’s exactly what it feels like.
“But she loves you, and even though you’re as much of a sack of shit as I am, she trusts you and listens to you. She has fucked-up taste in men.”
“That’s one thing we agree on. What do you need?”
“I’ve been doing some reading about prenatal depression. I don’t know her as well as you and Nic do, so I figured if the two of you came and hung out with her for a couple hours, you might get a better sense than me of whether she’s okay or not. What do you say?”
“I say it’s ironic that she’s carrying your babies, but of the two of us, I know her better. That aside, sure, I’ll come over. For her and the babies. Not you.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“I can drop by for a few hours this afternoon after rehearsal. I’ll call Nic and see if she can make it too.” Whatever else I think or feel about the guy, I can’t fault his friendship and loyalty to London. Like me, he’d do anything for her.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
I hang up and drive straight to the club. Apart from the fact that I have plenty of work to do, my office has become my retreat at times like this. I arrange a couple of meetings for later in the day, partly because I have shit to do, and partly to keep my mind off London and Marko. While I know their friendship is purely platonic and has been for years, I still can’t keep the pang of jealousy at bay at the mere mention of his name. I resent their easy and relaxed interactions. No tension, no recriminations, no second-guessing, just pure friendship and love.