Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  I am at a loss to explain this discrepancy but fear it may signal that the baby is not developing normally. “How could that be…? Is there something…?”

  “There is a little room for variation,” she tells me, a calming tone now saturating her voice. “Let’s go with August 15th and keep an eye on things. We’ll get a new measurement next time.”

  Another question nips at me. “What about the bleeding? I told Marci… There was a spot the size of a silver dollar yesterday.”

  She mops my belly clean with a soft rag and helps me sit up. “Did you have spotting with your first pregnancy?”

  Before I can answer, Tim blurts, “No, we didn’t.”

  “What color was the blood?”

  “Sort of reddish-brown.”

  “Any pain?”

  I shake my head.

  “What about clots? Or tissue?”

  “No,” I say. “Nothing.”

  “From what I’ve seen, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” she assures me. “It’s probably idiopathic and transient. All of the structures look good; the embryo has implanted in the proper place. I’d say you’re in the clear.” She offers a smile that suggests we may be neurotic. “But if the bleeding continues, or stops then recurs, you should contact us immediately.”

  I sense a ticking clock that has just zinged past our allotted appointment time. “Okay,” I agree with a complicit glance at Tim. “We’ll do that.”

  * * *

  There is a ghoulish picture of a naked woman on Eric Blair’s cell phone, spread-eagle and wanton. At least five men in the office have seen it and say it’s the most titillating pornography upon which they have ever laid eyes. Through the grapevine, I know they believe it’s me.

  I glimpse Eric through my office window and decide to settle the matter, once and for all. As swiftly as my middle-aged, five-months pregnant body can move, I pop out of my chair and give chase, my prey nearly vanishing into the elevator. “Eric!” I call, breathless from the exertion.

  He turns in slow motion, as if he expects the sight of me to hurt. But he smiles. “Claire-bear.”

  I summon all the self-control I possess, which may be minimal given my erratic hormones of late. “I need to talk to you.”

  He takes a couple of lurid, hip-swinging steps in my direction and purrs, “Anything you say.”

  His hypersexual affect would be sickening, even if I weren’t pregnant. “In my office.”

  I march back down the hall and he follows, his gaze burrowing into me. Already, I regret this contact.

  I close the door after us and assume the power position behind the giant slab of mahogany that is my desk, but Eric refuses to play along. Instead of sitting, he loiters, fondles things that do not belong to him. “So what’s up?”

  I clear my throat. “I’ve become aware of an image that’s circulating,” I begin, “of a woman.”

  He shoots me a Cheshire grin and props his foot on the arm of an empty chair, his crotch pointing at me in the same way I imagine this mysterious photograph to be. “Sorry about that,” he claims, “but it was too good not to share.”

  “This type of behavior is strictly prohibited in the workplace,” I inform him. “Get rid of it, or I’ll have to tell Bob.”

  “You look great,” he says. “Some of my best work. I didn’t even have to touch it up.”

  A chill rolls through me. “Cut the shit, Eric,” I say. “Stop screwing around.”

  He lifts an industrial-sized bottle of prenatal vitamins from the corner of my desk and spins it around, studying the label. “Do these cause breast enlargement?” he asks, planting his gaze on my chest. “Because from where I stand…”

  I feel like a rat in a sadistic experiment. “Just get rid of the picture,” I reiterate. “I don’t want to have to—”

  He steps on my words. “You were good, you know. I don’t think I told you. We can do it again, once this situation resolves,” he says, gesturing at my swollen belly as if it’s a disease he’s loath to catch.

  I have crossed the threshold from lab rat to Twilight Zone. “You need help,” I say. “Serious help.”

  He lowers his leg and moves closer. “Don’t be like that, Claire-bear.”

  It hits me that I’ve made an error in judgment. “Get rid of it or don’t,” I backtrack. “It’s not my concern.”

  His hand slips into his trousers and comes out with the phone in question, which he sets to display the photograph I have yet to see. “Go ahead,” he says as I turn away. “Take a look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  As much as I don’t want to, I must. I may not get another chance to know for sure. I take the phone into my palm and draw it toward my face, aghast.

  The rumors are well-founded. Although I know it’s not me, even Tim might disagree. I look closer, mine for details to bolster my case, sicken at the thought of dissecting this poor woman—whoever she is—for my own gain.

  Yet the proof I seek eludes me. I want to believe Eric has Photoshopped my head on some porn star’s body, but this is not the case. Too many rounded features and imperfections. Flaws I have seen in the mirror. Then comes the sucker punch: the wallpaper. It’s the stuff from Cincinnati, room two fourteen.

  Chapter 4

  By July, the only place I can get comfortable is my temperature-controlled office at work. If hot flashes were a symptom of pregnancy, I’d be first in line for the cure.

  There are other problems with this pregnancy too, troubles I didn’t have with Ally: edema, preeclampsia, a mild case of gestational diabetes. Even the specter of placental abruption looms, a complication Dr. Patel warns us could threaten the baby’s life and mine.

  But Ally is in heaven, her entire summer thus far devoted to a homespun infant wardrobe in shades of yellow and green. We knew the sex of the blastocysts when they were transferred: three females and one male. But the baby remains a mystery.

  “Look,” Ally says, proudly dangling her latest creation, a tiny pair of zigzag-patterned mittens, before me.

  The air conditioner blows squarely at my face as I lounge propped by numerous pillows, my feet elevated, reading the most recent edition of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I look normal, feel normal, am normal, I tell myself.

  I outstretch my arms for a hug. “I love ‘em!”

  Ally sinks into my lap, nuzzles her chin to my neck, splays her fingers over my belly. “Is it kicking?”

  I am so aware of this baby’s form that I don’t even have to think. I guide her hand to the right spot. “Here.”

  Ally has felt the petite nudges and jolting thrusts before, always responding with the raw fascination one might reserve for a brush with a tornado or a movie star. But today the baby plays possum. “I don’t feel anything,” she complains with an exaggerated frown, her lower lip outthrust.

  “I think it’s sleeping.”

  Ally seems as if she may drift off too, revert to infancy here in my arms. I am sticky enough that I wish to move her, but the tenderness of her touch gives me pause. Savor this, I remind myself. Soon it will be gone.

  I drag the back of my hand over her brow, clearing the droplets of perspiration I somehow feel are my fault. “What should we name the baby?” I ask. This has been a hot topic of conversation between Tim and me, but so far we have kept our daughter out of it.

  Ally springs off my lap, glowing with excitement. “I love Gypsy,” she proclaims, “or Blossom.” She clamps a thumbnail between her teeth and casts her eyes skyward. “Oh, or Miracle.”

  I am beginning to share Tim’s worry about Miss Abigail and the threat of Ally joining the circus. “What if it’s a boy?”

  It’s obvious she hasn’t given this idea a shred of thought. “A boy? I thought Daddy said…”

  “There’s a one in four chance,” I explain. “Three out of four it’s a girl.”

  She mulls this information. “Ricky?”

  I have told Ally the bare minimum about the uncle who died two dec
ades before she was born, but what she does know has stuck.

  “You think?” I say, sure now that I want a girl. Not because of Ricky, but because of Ally, the heartbreaking thoughtfulness of her.

  “It’s nice,” she tells me softly. “It would make you happy.”

  It occurs to me that Ally may know more than I think, may have borne silent witness to the breakdowns I’ve had at Christmas and on Ricky’s birthday.

  “I like Brayden,” I say, “or maybe Owen.” I smile. “We still have time to decide.”

  * * *

  Babies come when they want to, when they decide, due-date charts and ultrasounds be damned.

  I phone Tim from the office. “Okay, don’t panic.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “I think my water just broke,” I tell him, when in fact I know.

  As if it matters, he says, “But we haven’t even… Are you sure?”

  “Call Dr. Patel,” I insist coolly, “and meet me at the hospital.”

  “You can’t drive.”

  “Yes, I can; there are no contractions.”

  “But what if…?”

  I interrupt, “It’s only fifteen minutes. I love you.”

  Before he can object further, I hang up. Then I switch the phone off and bury it inside my purse. Now he has no choice but to cooperate.

  When I tell my assistant, Laurie, what’s happening, she stares at me as if I’ve sprouted another head. “I can call an ambulance,” she offers nervously. “It’s no problem.”

  I am not a cripple and bristle at being treated as such. “Not necessary,” I flatly state. “Just clear my calendar for the next six weeks and let the other VPs know.”

  “Okay.”

  Over my shoulder, I add, “And don’t forget to water my plants.”

  * * *

  Dr. Patel is on a mission to Timbuktu, news I struggle to accept when Tim delivers it. “The doctors on staff here are topnotch,” he says in hopes of allaying my concerns. “They handle over two-thousand births a year.”

  I had our daughter in this hospital. On this floor. Maybe even in this room and this bed. “I know,” I say, coming to terms. “I’m sure it will be fine. Where’s Ally?”

  “Mom’s picking her up from camp,” he tells me, the words ringing incestuous. His mother has been more pertinent than my own, but the thought that we share her throws me.

  It’s been a while since anyone has checked, but the most recent stats on my labor shake out like this: two centimeters dilated; one-hundred percent effaced; zero contractions.

  I wish to see the nurse, and miraculously she appears. “How’re we doin’ in here?” she asks in a bubbly, singsong tone. “Can I get you some ice chips?”

  I wonder if babies like the undulating way she speaks. “Sure,” I say. Ice is all they’ll give me.

  She turns to Tim. “I can man the fort here, if you want to sneak down to the cafeteria.”

  Tim is on a sympathetic hunger strike. “I’m good.”

  “What about the Pitocin?” I ask, distracting her from the bedside monitors. “Are they going to induce?”

  I didn’t have this problem with Ally either, the lack of contractions. But I’ve heard about it from friends and read the literature.

  “The doctors are discussing that right now,” she informs me with a placating smile. “They just tracked down your group B strep results.”

  Tim asks, “Her what?”

  My husband’s confusion strikes me as funny, but I manage to stifle a giggle. As obsessed as I’ve been with this pregnancy, Tim has been doubly so. I didn’t think there was a stone he’d failed to overturn.

  “It’s a strain of streptococcus bacteria,” the nurse explains, “that can be transmitted to the baby during delivery. It can lead to sepsis, pneumonia, meningitis.”

  Tim’s hand tightens around mine. To calm him, I say, “But it can be treated with antibiotics, right?”

  The nurse nods with enthusiasm. “Sure can.”

  “Prophylactically?” Tim asks.

  “That’s the idea.”

  I say what Tim is thinking. “Was my test positive?”

  “You know, I’m not sure. But I’ll have Dr. Mason come in and talk with you,” she promises. “Now let me get you those ice chips.”

  She ducks out, and I tell Tim, “You should get something to eat. We’ve been here for hours, and nothing has changed. It might be a while.”

  “Uh-uh.” He shakes his head. “I want to be here when the doctor comes.”

  Because of what happened with my father, how he deserted us and started a whole new family—a better, healthier one—in Mexico, Tim’s unwavering support clinches our bond. “I love you,” I declare for the umpteenth time, my eyes welling. There is no finer man on earth with whom to share a love. A life. Destiny.

  Tim leans in and pecks me on the forehead. Smoothes my hair. Says nothing and everything.

  * * *

  The doctor arrives before the ice chips do. “Hello, Mrs. Fowler,” he says, his eyes glued to his BlackBerry. He steals a glance at Tim. “Mr. Fowler.”

  For both of us, I say, “Hi.” This bed is so uncomfortable that it wears on my nerves, readies me to be done.

  “Dr. Mason?” Tim verifies, since we have failed to receive an introduction.

  Already snapping on a pair of latex gloves, the doctor confirms, “Uh-huh.” Some doctors are like this: They treat people like chattel. This one takes it a step further by pushing the drape over my knees and probing my vagina without as much as a syllable of explanation.

  He peels the gloves away and tosses them in the trash, then goes right back to his BlackBerry. “Has anyone talked to you about a Cesarean section?”

  I want to say no, but this would be a lie. “Dr. Patel said it might be necessary, if the preeclampsia worsened,” I admit.

  “That’s just one of your problems,” he tells me. “Your membranes have ruptured, and you tested positive for group B strep. We need to get the baby out of there, or there’s a serious risk of infection.”

  The nurse slips into the room, ice chips in hand, but waits, affords the doctor the respect to which he is entitled.

  “When?” asks Tim.

  I have purposely avoided the thought of a C-section, to spare myself undue stress. But now I wish I’d prepared.

  “Let’s get the antibiotics started and recheck you in an hour. If nothing has changed, we’ll proceed with the surgery.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I sense that Tim wishes to object but can’t find the appropriate grounds. Instead, he nods.

  It seems an irregular way to enter the world, to be sliced from the warm sling that cradles you. “So that’s it, I guess,” I say to Tim as the doctor hits the hallway. “Change of plans.”

  He offers me a comforting smile, and it works; I feel better. “Look at it this way,” he suggests. “It’ll be over before you know it, and then you can get some rest.”

  * * *

  As it turned out, the mention of a C-section was premature, because no sooner do the antibiotics hit my bloodstream than rolling waves of pain overspread my abdomen. And things only pick up from there; within the hour, I enter the pushing phase, the portion of labor that, with Ally, was the lengthiest and most arduous.

  But this baby has other plans.

  In the time it takes to chip the ice from my car on a winter morn, he arrives: Owen Richard Fowler. The son Tim has always wanted and the boy I need.

  The nurses bundle him and let me look, a sight that cracks my chest with joy. I love you, I tell him telepathically, as I have all these months, sweet baby boy.

  DURING

  Chapter 5

  Having escaped the threat of group B strep, Owen leaves the hospital two days later with Tim and Ally. But I am not so lucky, a postpartum bleed—hemorrhaging the medical staff were unable to stem, despite their extensive efforts and interventions—prompting an emergency hysterectomy that left me bedridden, groggy, and in pain for t
he next three days. Finally, the doctors believe I’m well enough to go.

  Ally coasts into my room first, in all her glory as a new big sister. Then comes Tim with Owen strapped to his chest. When I see the three of them, I must recalibrate my thinking. It has been me, Tim and Ally for so long; now this is what my family looks like.

  And it looks good.

  “Get over here!” I say to Ally, whose little pumpkin face I have missed as if it were my lifeblood.

  She knows I need a hug and delivers an embrace that would make a grizzly proud. I try not to wince, but fail. She notices and frowns. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ready to fly the coop?” Tim asks gleefully. I have five weeks of maternity leave left, and he’s anxious for every minute.

  I motion at Owen. “Take him out. I want to hold him.”

  Tim should argue with me, say, We’ll be home soon; you can hold him all night if you want. But he knows I can’t wait.

  He floats Owen into my arms, and I ask, “How has he been sleeping?”

  “Pretty good. Four hours straight last night.”

  I skim my fingers over Owen’s, noting his impossibly tiny nails and knuckles so closely spaced they seem as if they’ll fail to bend. Yet they do. When I lay my thumb in his palm, he curls his fingers around it and squeezes.

  I think of Ally and, for a moment, feel sad that my memories of her are not more indelibly etched, my recall not so sharp as to render time inconsequential.

  “Technically, they’ve already discharged me,” I tell Tim with a glance at my neatly packed luggage. “I just have to check out at the desk before we go.”

  Ally slings my bag—obviously oversized for her petite frame—onto her shoulder without anyone having to ask.

  I kiss Owen on the forehead and then rub the kiss away before passing him to Tim, who has already perfected the tricky task of marrying a newborn with a BabyBjorn. Just one more thing about him for me to love.