by Beth K. Vogt
She was quiet for a few seconds, her hand moving in a slow, deliberate search pattern.
“What do you see?” Maybe I wasn’t pregnant. Maybe I had miscarried.
“I see the placenta, and it’s near your cervix, so that’s something we may have to watch.”
The next moment, Dr. Gray pushed a button on the ultrasound monitor and a rhythmic swooshing sound filled the room.
“That’s my heartbeat, right?”
“No, that’s about twice as fast as your heartbeat. That’s your baby’s heartbeat.” She pointed to a small white flicker. “See this? That’s your baby’s heart pumping.”
Undeniable proof positive that yes, I was right. I was pregnant.
For once, I would have been fine with being wrong.
“Let me take some measurements to confirm dates.” One of Dr. Gray’s hands rested on the ultrasound machine keyboard, while her right hand twisted the handpiece on my lower abdomen. “There’s the leg . . . and the baby’s foot. . . . We can get a good image of the baby’s face at this far along if you’re interested—”
“No.” I closed my eyes, turning my face away from the screen to stare at the aspens surrounding the old wooden mill perched on an outcrop above the Crystal River. “I’m not interested.”
Dr. Gray’s words, the vague black-and-white images she was determined to measure on the screen, were puzzle pieces slipping closer together so that the idea of my pregnancy was being framed into reality.
An unwanted reality.
Would the baby have my nose or Beckett’s? Whose fingers? Whose eyes?
It didn’t matter.
Couldn’t matter.
“We’re done here.” Dr. Gray took a soft towel and wiped the gel off my skin, then switched off the machine, the silence in the room welcome. “We’ll go store the machine, give you time to further clean up, and be back in just a moment, Ms. Thatcher. Then we’ll finish up here.”
“Fine.”
At last I could get what I came for. I reclined on the exam table until they left the room, my stomach still lightly covered with gel, my fingers clutching the tissues the medical assistant had handed to me.
When Dr. Gray returned five minutes later, I was seated again, my feet on the ground.
“The dates on your ultrasound are consistent with your last menstrual period, which makes you fourteen weeks pregnant. That also means you’ll start showing soon. Your due date is August 30.”
Not that a due date mattered. “So when can I schedule the abortion?”
Dr. Gray swiveled to face me, hands clasped in her lap again. “I don’t perform abortions.”
I must have misheard her. “You don’t . . .”
“. . . perform abortions.”
I blinked. Swallowed. “But that’s the only reason I made this appointment.”
“And as I said earlier, based on your phone call, my receptionist assumed you were coming in for a routine exam.”
“I thought all obstetricians did—”
“No. Not all. Performing abortions is against my beliefs.”
The conversation had taken a turn to the ridiculous. “Your . . . beliefs.”
“Yes.”
I resisted the urge to stand up. “This is my choice. You’re a woman. You know about choice, right?”
“I understand that—and I respect your . . . choice.” The woman sitting across from me offered a slight nod. “Not performing abortions is also my choice.”
“You could have told me this sooner, Dr. Gray.”
“Even if you decide to go through with the abortion, it’s wise to do an ultrasound and determine dates.”
“Fine. Then perhaps you could recommend another doctor who does perform abortions.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
“What?” I gripped the edges of my chair. Our conversation was nothing but a series of roadblocks. “Why not?”
“I choose not to perform abortions because they could be harmful to mothers-to-be, like you, and they are most definitely harmful to unborn children. Why, then, would I help you get one?”
“This is absurd. I should report you to the medical board—if you are even licensed to practice medicine in the state of Colorado.”
“I assure you that I am.” A glint of steel darkened Dr. Gray’s eyes. “I also assure you there’s no state law prohibiting me from practicing in a way that supports my moral, ethical, and personal beliefs. My choices, as it were. And you are not prohibited from your choices, either.”
“Except by you.”
“Not prohibited. I’m just not the physician for you.”
“Dr. Gray, you’ve done nothing but waste my time.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
I stood, knocking the chair against the wall with a thud. This was some sort of lecture disguised as a doctor’s appointment, complete with a black-and-white slide presentation.
I shook my head, dismissing the images of a tiny leg. A tiny foot. The rasp and whoosh of a heartbeat.
This morning was merely a detour—not a dead end.
Dropping by each other’s homes wasn’t something the Thatcher sisters did. Ever. Payton wasn’t even sure Johanna was home. And if she was, Payton had no idea what Johanna would do when she opened her front door and saw her youngest sister. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to Johanna’s house by herself.
Payton could only hope Johanna was home and wouldn’t leave her standing outside in the frigid March night air. Johanna was such a workaholic, it was possible she was still at the hospital.
And there was no way her sister could know the question Payton needed to ask her. The fear she battled . . .
She might as well knock and find out.
It took so long for Johanna to answer the door, Payton had given up, turning away to walk back to her car.
“Payton?” Johanna eased the door open, leaning against the doorjamb, head tilted to one side. Her feet were bare, and she wore leggings, a flowing black sweater, her platinum-blonde hair pulled back from her face in a halfhearted attempt at her usual sleek ponytail.
“Were you sleeping?”
“It’s only seven thirty. No, I wasn’t sleeping.”
Payton took a step forward. Paused. “Do you mind if I come in?”
“What? Oh, sure. Come in.” Johanna didn’t back her welcome up with a smile. “So what are you doing here?”
Payton would ignore how abrupt that sounded. She hadn’t expected a hug and an “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I, um, wanted to check on you.”
“Check on me? Why?”
“You seemed . . . off when we got together for the book club meeting on Saturday.” Not that Johanna ever enjoyed the monthly get-togethers when the two of them met with their middle sister, Jillian, and did very little discussing of books. Her older sister came, drank her French press, and complained.
Typical Johanna.
Except she also hadn’t been herself in January or February. She wasn’t drinking her coffee. She wasn’t eating much of anything at all—to the point that she’d gone from fashionably slender to gaunt.
She’d shut down. Withdrawn. It wasn’t like Johanna not to voice her many opinions—even about a book she hadn’t read.
Johanna trailed behind Payton into the living room. “I was fine then. I’m fine now.”
That was a typical Johanna statement, designed to tell Payton that if anything was going on, it was none of her business.
She’d expected this. Trying to talk to Johanna over the phone—to get her to confirm or deny the dark suspicion Payton struggled to ignore—would have been more difficult. That’s why she’d shown up in person, hoping Johanna would tell her straight to her face that nothing was wrong, instead of avoiding her.
Johanna collapsed on the couch. Pulled a blanket over her legs as she curled them underneath her. A bottle of water sat on the coffee table. Water. Not coffee. When—and why—had her sister become so fond
of water?
Maybe she would drop the “Everything is fine” front if Payton kept pushing.
“Would you mind if I made some coffee for us? A jolt of caffeine would help me about now.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any fresh coffee beans in the house.” Johanna’s pale skin had turned even more white, and she seemed to have to force herself to even say the word coffee.
“What is going on with you, Johanna?” Payton launched the question, not sure she wanted to know. To have her fear confirmed.
“I haven’t gotten to the store—”
“You didn’t drink coffee at the book club the other day—”
Johanna gave a feeble laugh. “You know how I prefer my French press.”
“Exactly. And you didn’t bring your travel mug of your preferred coffee, either. Do you mean to tell me you’ve been out of beans for what? A week?”
“I’m busy, Payton.” Johanna’s words were a whisper of a protest.
“You’ve lost weight, too. I said the word coffee and thought you were going to throw up.” Payton forced a short laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were pregnant.”
Johanna pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, fisting it against her chest.
Payton fought to breathe. Whatever Johanna was hiding, the family would get through it. They’d gotten through so much in the past months.
“I am.”
She waited for Johanna to finish her sentence. Nothing. “You are . . . what?”
“I am pregnant.”
“Oh, thank God!” Payton stepped forward, rounding the coffee table and kneeling in front of Johanna.
Johanna clutched the blanket closer, pulling away. “What did you just say?”
“I said, ‘Thank God!’” Payton fought the urge to laugh. To cry. To hug her sister. “I’ve been so worried about you, Jo. I thought . . . I thought you had breast cancer like Jillian.”
Johanna stared at her. No smile. Her eyes clouded. “Well, I’m not thanking anyone, least of all an imaginary god, that I’m pregnant. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t either.”
“I’m sorry.” Payton reached for her sister’s hand and ended up with a fistful of cotton material. “I’m just so relieved it’s not something more serious like cancer.”
“You don’t think my being pregnant is serious?”
“Being pregnant isn’t going to kill you.”
“It certainly screws up my life.”
“How far along are you? Are you dealing with morning sickness? I would imagine it will stop soon.”
The ice in Johanna’s blue eyes was worse than the lethargy that had been there moments before. This was the all-too-familiar big-sister glare that could turn Payton into an insignificant speck in mere seconds. The air around them seemed frosted. What was she thinking, imagining she could come here and force a relationship with Johanna? Get her to talk about what she was dealing with? That she could somehow help her?
“I’m not going through with this pregnancy, Payton.”
Payton rocked on her heels, her back colliding with the coffee table, tipping over the bottle of water. Liquid spread across the surface.
“Payton! Look what you’ve done!”
“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.” Payton grabbed a couple of napkins and sopped up the water, tossing them into a trash can positioned near the couch. This pregnancy must be harder on Johanna than she admitted. “Johanna, let’s talk about this for a minute . . .”
“I have no intention of being a single mother just because I made a mistake with a man who couldn’t be trusted.”
“Fine.” Payton scrambled for arguments. Options. “You don’t want to keep the baby. What about adoption?”
“I’m also not giving up nine months of my life for some altruistic endeavor that benefits another couple who wants a baby. I don’t care to have my life interrupted for that long.”
“Johanna—”
“You can either support me or you can be quiet.”
This . . . this was the kind of support her sister wanted from her.
“Is Jillian supporting you, too?” Payton moved to the far end of the couch.
“Jillian doesn’t know.”
“You’re going to keep your pregnancy a secret from Jillian?” Payton clasped her hands together to stop herself from reaching out to Johanna. Her sister might slap her hands away. “If we’ve learned nothing else in the past months, haven’t we learned secrets hurt our family?”
“She doesn’t need to know.” Johanna’s words were edged with frost. “No one else needs to know.”
Johanna wasn’t the only one who could dig her heels in and stand her ground. “I’m not going to be part of this.”
“You became part of this when you showed up here tonight and started asking questions.”
“I thought you had cancer.”
“Well, you were wrong. And this pregnancy is only a temporary issue. I don’t want to have to hash this out with Jillian—or Mom and Dad. I don’t welcome other people’s opinions about what I should do or not do right now. And I didn’t ask for yours, either.”
“I was concerned about you.” Payton gripped the side of the couch to stop from leaning forward, her voice trembling.
“Thank you for that, I guess. I’m fine. I’ll handle this.”
“I am not going to be a part of keeping this secret—”
“It’s not your secret to tell, Payton.”
With every word, Johanna twisted Payton’s attempted act of compassion into something unwelcome. Invasive. Turned her into an accomplice. Johanna was forcing her to side against not just Jillian, but their parents, too.
Payton fought to regain her footing. “Are you going to tell Beckett?”
“No.” Johanna’s eyes darkened as she pulled even farther away. “Why should I tell him?”
“He’s the baby’s father.”
“He’s no longer a part of my life. I make my own decisions. I always have.”
Payton shouldn’t have been surprised by anything Johanna said or did, but this . . . this was deliberate, unrepentant deceit.
“Nothing to say?”
“What am I supposed to say, Johanna?”
“You wanted to know what was wrong. If I had cancer.”
“I wasn’t just on a fact-gathering mission. I wanted to help you—”
“You can help me by doing what I asked. Don’t tell anyone. Everything else is up to me, and I’m dealing with it.”
“You really think you’ll be happier this way?”
“I’m always happier when things go my way, so yes.”
“And you don’t think Jillian—or Mom and Dad—will find out about this at some point? The baby is my niece or nephew. Mom and Dad’s grandchild . . .”
“Stop. It.” Johanna jerked up from the couch, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. “Don’t try to manipulate me by employing sentiment. You want to talk about Mom and Dad’s grandchildren, get pregnant yourself.”
Once again, Johanna was in charge, brushing past Payton as she paced to the front door, pulling it open. The wintry air filling the room was empty of her sister’s signature Coco perfume.
Payton struggled for words. For a way to reach her sister. “Johanna, can’t we—?”
“I’m sure no one will find out what we talked about, so long as you don’t say anything.” Johanna stepped back from the door, tilting her head toward the darkness outside. “Thank you for stopping by.”
The impromptu visit, and their conversation, was over. There was no sense in arguing with Johanna. As far as her older sister was concerned, she’d won before the discussion even started.
2
THE DINING ROOM TABLE was a mess, but it was a mess with a purpose. Geoff’s laptop sat near Jillian’s, and several yellow legal pads were scattered around, along with an assortment of multicolored highlighters and pens. At the far end, the remnants of dinner waited to be cleaned up—slices of the two pizzas lingered i
n the boxes delivered a couple of hours ago and eaten while they worked. Mostly by Geoff, with a few bites slipped to their puppy, Winston, despite her protests.
“Your talk is coming together so well.” Jillian leaned back in her chair. “How are you feeling about it?”
“To be honest, the closer we get to the conference, the less nervous I am.” Geoff finished scrawling a note on one of the legal pads. “I expected to be anxious, but instead, I’m excited. Ready to do this. Of course, the opening slide should have both our names on it.”
“What? No.” Jillian shook her head, dodging the compliment. “I’m not the cybersecurity specialist. That’s your area of expertise.”
“But you helped me get the PowerPoint presentation together. Researched fonts and graphics . . . I would have just slapped some slides together, put some notes in a Word document, and called it good.”
“We couldn’t have settled for that. Not for such an excellent presentation.”
“It’s an excellent presentation now—thanks to you, Jill.”
The clutter that had covered the top of the dining room table for weeks was worth it. Most of Geoff’s spare time was spent preparing for the conference. Their date nights were sporadic, but he still walked Winston with her in the evenings. He didn’t know she made meticulous notes on how to do a professional presentation. That she cross-filed everything in Word and Evernote and Dropbox so she didn’t lose track of anything. She repeated the same routine whenever she was done working on the presentation for any length of time. He also didn’t know she did some of her best research in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep.
Post-chemo insomnia continued to have its benefits.
Geoff had always supported her during the months she faced breast cancer. Now she was determined to do the same thing for him, even if it meant she slept less and less. She could nap during the day—and she did. Winston stayed with her during the naps. Even now, their dog snuggled against her bare feet while she and Geoff worked.
They were a family of three.
For now.
“I was looking at the schedule of events again.” Geoff draped his arm across her shoulder, a welcome moment of closeness. “Our hotel reservation is made. We can drive up Thursday afternoon and register for the conference after five o’clock. I’ll be busy quite a bit Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”