by Emily Giffin
Twenty-Three
The next morning I called Mr. Moore, the doctor Meg and Charlotte had recommended. As it turned out, he had a cancellation in his morning schedule, so I took the Circle Line to Great Portland Street and followed my A to Zed to his office on Harley Street, a block of beautiful, old town houses, most of which appeared to have been converted to medical offices.
I opened the heavy red door to Mr. Moore’s practice and walked into a marble foyer, where a receptionist handed me a form to fill out and pointed to a waiting room with a fireplace. Moments later, a plump, grandmotherly woman who introduced herself as Beatrix, Mr. Moore’s midwife, collected me in the waiting room and led me up a winding, grand staircase to another room that looked as if it should have been roped off in a museum.
Beatrix introduced me to my doctor as he rose behind his mahogany desk, stepped around it, and gracefully extended his hand. I shook it and studied his face. With high cheekbones, wide-set brown eyes, and an interesting Roman nose, he was quite handsome. And he was elegantly dressed in a sharp navy suit and a green tie. He nodded toward a wing chair in front of his desk, inviting me to have a seat.
We both sat down, and for some reason I blurted out, “I expected a white coat.”
He gave me a hint of a smile and said, “White is not my color.” His refined accent seemed to transform the friendly quip into a line right out of a Shakespeare play.
Beatrix murmured that she’d be back shortly, and Mr. Moore asked me polite, getting-to-know-you questions: stuff about where I was from, when I had arrived in England, and when I was due. I answered his questions, telling him matter-of-factly that I had become pregnant unexpectedly, broken up with my boyfriend, and moved to London to start over. I also told him that I was due on May second, and that I had not been to the doctor in several weeks.
“Have you had an ultrasound?” he asked.
I was embarrassed to report no, remembering that I had blown off my ten-week ultrasound appointment in New York.
“Well, we’ll do an ultrasound today and check on everything,” Mr. Moore said, making a note on my chart.
“Will you be able to tell the gender?”
“I will…assuming your baby is cooperative.”
“Really? Today?”
“Hmmm,” he said, nodding.
My heart pounded with excitement and a dash of fear. I was about to see my daughter for the first time. I suddenly wished that Ethan were with me.
“Let’s get started then,” Mr. Moore said. “Shall we?”
I nodded.
“Just go right behind that screen, get undressed from the waist down, and pop onto the table. I’ll return with Beatrix in a moment.”
I nodded again and went to undress. As I slid off my skirt, I regretted not getting a bikini wax before my appointment. I was going to make a poor first impression on the impeccably groomed Mr. Moore. But as I got up on the table and tucked the paper cover neatly around me, I reassured myself that surely he had seen much worse. Minutes later, Mr. Moore returned with Beatrix, knocking on the partition that separated the examination room from his parlor.
“All set?” he asked.
“All set,” I said.
Mr. Moore smiled as he perched on a small stool beside me while Beatrix hovered primly in the background.
“All right then, Darcy,” Mr. Moore said. “Please slide down for me and place your feet in the stirrups. I am going to have a peek at your cervix. You’ll feel a little pressure.”
He put on latex gloves and checked my cervix with two fingers. I winced as he murmured, “Your cervix is closed and long. Wonderful.” Then he removed his gloves, deposited them into a small waste can, slid my paper covering down, and squeezed a blob of gel onto my stomach. “I apologize if this feels a bit cold.”
“No problem,” I said, grateful for his sensitivity.
He slid the ultrasound probe over my stomach as a murky black-and-white image appeared on the screen. At first it looked like nothing but an ink blot, the kind that a psychiatrist uses, but then I made out a head and a hand.
“Omigod!” I shouted. “She’s sucking her little thumb, isn’t she?”
“Hmmm,” Mr. Moore said, as Beatrix smiled.
I got all choked up as I told them that I had never seen anything so miraculous. “She’s perfect,” I said. “Isn’t she absolutely perfect?”
Mr. Moore agreed. “Beautiful. Beautiful,” he murmured. He then squinted at the screen and carefully inched the probe along my stomach. The image disappeared for a second, then reappeared.
“What?” I asked. “What do you see? She is a girl, right?”
“Just give me a moment…I need to have a closer look. Then I’ll take some measurements.”
“What do you need to measure?” I asked.
“The head, abdomen, and femur. Then we’ll look at the various structures. The brain, chambers of the heart, and so forth.”
It suddenly occurred to me that something could be wrong with my daughter. Why had I not considered this before? I regretted all of the wine I had sipped, the coffees that I wasn’t able to resist in the morning. What if I had done something to harm her? I anxiously watched the screen and Mr. Moore’s face for clues. He calmly examined different parts of my baby, reading out numbers as Beatrix took notes on my chart. “Is that normal?” I asked at every turn.
“Yes. Yes. It’s all terribly, beautifully normal.”
At that moment, normal was the most wonderful word in the English language. My daughter didn’t have to be a beauty like me. She didn’t have to be extraordinary in any way. I just wanted her to be healthy.
“So. Are you ready to hear the big news?” Mr. Moore asked me.
“Oh, I know it’s a girl,” I said. “I’ve never had a moment’s doubt, but I’m dying for confirmation so I can start buying pink things.”
Mr. Moore made a clucking sound, and said, “Ahhh. Well, now. I should warn you that pink might not be the best choice.”
“What?” I asked, straining to make out the image on the screen. “It’s not a girl?”
“No. You are not having a girl,” he said, turning to me with the proud smile of a man who assumes that a boy is always the preferred gender.
“It’s a boy? Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure. You’re having a boy…” he said, pointing to the screen with his right index finger, the other hand still holding the probe against my stomach. “And another boy.”
He turned away from the screen and beamed down at me, waiting for a reaction.
My mind churned wildly, landing on a once common word now infused with a crazy, new meaning: twin. I managed to spit out a question. “Two babies?”
“Yes, Darcy. You’re pregnant with twin boys.” Mr. Moore’s smile grew wider. “Congratulations!”
“There must be some mistake. Look again,” I said. He had to be wrong. Twins didn’t run in my family. I hadn’t taken any fertility drugs. I didn’t want twins. And certainly not twin boys!
Mr. Moore and Beatrix exchanged a knowing glance and then chuckled their restrained English chuckles. That’s when I thought maybe they were just pulling my chain. Playing some cruel little trick on me. Tell the unmarried Yank she’s having twins. Good one. Ethan had told me that the sense of humor is different in England.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, completely stunned.
“No,” Mr. Moore said. “I’m quite serious. You are having two boys. Congratulations, Darcy.”
I sat upright, my paper cover slipping off me and floating to the floor. “But I wanted a girl. One girl. Not two boys,” I said, not caring that I was completely exposed from the waist down.
“Well. These things can’t be ordered up like a mince pie,” Mr. Moore said wryly, as he stooped to retrieve my covering and handed it to me.
I glared at him. In no way did I appreciate his analogy or his apparent amusement.
“Are you ever wrong about these things?” I asked desperately. “I’ve h
eard of that happening. I mean, have you ever made a mistake?”
Mr. Moore said he was quite sure I was having twins. Then he explained that occasionally girls are mistaken for boys, but rarely does it happen the other way.
“So you’re positive?”
With the patience of Annie Sullivan teaching Helen Keller the alphabet, he pointed to the floating images on the screen. Two heartbeats. Two heads. And two penises.
I started to cry, as my visions of sugar and spice and all things pink and nice evaporated, replaced by horrid remembrances of my little brother, Jeremy. His lips vibrating together as he made endless, monotonous bulldozer sounds. I was about to have that times two. It was inconceivable.
Sensing my mounting despair, Mr. Moore switched into sympathetic mode, explaining that the news of twins is often met with something less than enthusiasm.
I fought back tears. “That is a gross understatement.”
“It will just take some getting used to,” he said.
“Two boys?” I asked again.
“Two boys,” he said. “Identical twins.”
“How in the world did this happen?”
Mr. Moore took the question literally because he gave me a quick biology lesson, pointing to the screen and explaining that my babies appeared to be sharing one placenta, but two sacs. “Or diamnionic monochorionic twins,” he said. “Which means your fertilized egg divided between four and seven days postconception.”
“Shhhit,” I whispered.
He pushed a button, explaining that he was taking an ultrasound picture for me. He then moved the probe, snapped again. He handed me the two photographs, one labeled Baby A and the other Baby B. I reluctantly took them from him. Mr. Moore asked if I would like to get dressed and share a soothing cup of mint tea with Beatrix, who inched her way toward the table and smiled down at me.
“No. No, thank you. I have to go,” I said, standing and dressing as quickly as I could.
Mr. Moore tried to coax me back on the table for further discussion, but I had to get out of there, irrationally believing that his office and its imposing Victorian formality had transformed my girl baby into a boy baby and then multiplied her by two. If I escaped, maybe it would all fix itself. I would go seek a second opinion. Surely there was a good American physician in London. One who had the title doctor, for heaven’s sake.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moore,” I stammered. “But I have to go.”
Mr. Moore and Beatrix watched as I finished dressing, collected my purse, and said, as I headed out the door, that he should bill me for the visit, and thank you very much. Then I made my way back to Harley Street, where I felt numbed by Mr. Moore’s news and the biting London drizzle.
I walked all over town in a daze, the word twins drumming in my skull. I walked down to Bond Street, then over to Marble Arch, then across to Knightsbridge. I walked until my lower back ached and my hands and toes grew numb. I did not stop in a single store, no matter how tempting the window display. I didn’t stop at all except for a few minutes at a Starbucks during the worst of the rain. I thought the familiar burnt-orange-and-purple décor would offer me some sort of solace. It didn’t. Nor did the hot chocolate and bagel I hungrily swallowed. The thought of having one baby was intimidating. Now I was full-on scared. How would I be able to take care of twins—or even tell them apart? It felt surreal.
Around three o’clock, just as it was getting dark, I arrived home, frozen and exhausted.
“Darcy? Is that you?” I heard Ethan call from his bedroom.
“Yeah,” I yelled back as I took off my jacket and kicked off my boots.
“Come on back!”
I walked down the hall and opened Ethan’s door. He was stretched out on his bed with an open book resting on his chest. The lamp next to his bed cast a warm, soft glow on his blond hair, creating a halo effect.
“Can I sit down? I’m kind of wet,” I said.
“Of course you can.”
I sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, rubbed the soles of my feet, and shivered.
“Did you get caught in the rain?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sort of. I’ve been walking in it all day,” I said pitifully. “I left my umbrella at home.”
“Not a good thing to leave behind in London.”
“So. You’ll never believe what happened to me today…”
“Were you mugged?” he asked, drumming his fingers on the spine of his book.
“No. Worse.”
Ethan snickered. “Worse than someone stealing your Gucci bag?”
“This isn’t funny, Ethan.” My voice trembled.
His smile disappeared as he closed his book and tossed it on the bed next to him. “What happened?”
“I went to the doctor this morning…”
He sat up, a concerned look on his face. “Is everything okay with the baby?”
I uncrossed my legs and brought them up to my chest, resting my chin on my knees. “Everything is fine…with the babies.”
Ethan’s eyes widened. “Babies?”
I nodded.
“Twins?”
“Yes. Twins. Identical twin boys.”
Ethan stared at me for a few seconds. “Are you kidding?”
“Do I look amused?”
The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh.
“It’s not funny, Ethan…. And please don’t tell me that I deserve this either. Because, believe me, I’ve already considered that I’m being punished. Maybe I was engaging in some frivolous behavior in Manhattan. Maybe shopping too much,” I said. “Or railing on someone’s appearance. Or having sex with Marcus behind Dexter’s back…. And God frowned down upon me and whazzam split my embryo…giving me identical twin boys.” I started to cry. It was really sinking in. Twins. Twins. Twins.
“Darcy. Chill, hon. I wasn’t going to say anything like that.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
“I’m smiling because…I’m happy.”
“Happy that I’m getting screwed?”
“No, Darce. I’m happy for you. If one baby is a blessing, then you have twice the good fortune. Two babies! It’s a small miracle. Not a punishment.” His words were convincing, his tone and expression even more so.
“Do you think?”
“I know.…It’s wonderful.”
“But how will I do it?”
“You just will.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Of course you can…Now. Why don’t you go take a hot shower, put on warm pajamas, and I’ll make you some dinner.”
“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, feeling soothed even before I got out of my damp clothes. Ethan’s nurturing quality was one of the things I liked most about him. He had this in common with Rachel. I thought of how Rachel used to bring pistachios over to my house whenever I needed some good cheering up. She knew pistachios were my favorite treat, but the best part was how she always assumed the role of the nut cracker, handing me filet after filet. I remember thinking they were that much tastier without the interruption and aggravation of peeling. Ethan’s offer to make me dinner reminded me of those pistachio days.
“Just get in the shower and start thinking of boy names. Wayne and Dwayne might be just the ticket. What do you say?”
I giggled. “Wayne and Dwayne Rhone…I like it.”
Later that night, after Ethan and I had eaten his homemade beef stew for dinner and spent much time admiring my boys’ sweet, matching profiles in their ultrasound photos, we went to bed.
“How come you never spend the night with Sondrine?” I asked as I slid under the covers.
Ethan switched off the light, got in bed next to me, and said, “It’s not that serious yet.”
The yet gave me a small pang, but I just said, “Oh,” and dropped the subject.
After a long silence, Ethan whispered, “Congratulations again, Darce. Twin boys. Awesome.”
“Thank you, Ethan,” I said, as I felt a kick from one of my little g
uys.
“Are you feeling a bit better about it?”
“A tiny bit maybe,” I said. I wasn’t yet thrilled with the news, but at least I no longer viewed it as a curse or a punishment. “Thank you for acting happy about it.”
“I am happy about it.”
I smiled to myself and slid my leg across the cool sheets, finding Ethan’s chilly foot. “Love you, Ethan.” I held my breath, worried that despite dropping the I in I love you (which always makes the sentiment seem safe and platonic), I had still said too much. I didn’t want to give him the impression that I wanted more than his friendship.
“Love you too, Darce,” Ethan said, wiggling his toes against mine.
I smiled in the dark, letting go of my worries, and falling into a very deep and peaceful sleep.
Twenty-Four
The next morning I awoke in a fresh panic. How in the world was I ever going to manage twins? Would Ethan let us live with him? Would two cribs even fit in my tiny room? What if I couldn’t find a job? I had less than two thousand dollars left in my account—barely enough to cover my hospital bills, let alone baby supplies, food, rent. I told myself to calm down, stay focused on my list, and take things one day at a time.
So for the rest of the week, I was all about the job hunt. I kept an open mind, diligently seeking any kind of work: high-minded jobs, jobs in PR, even menial jobs. I checked the papers, made phone calls, hit the pavement. Nothing turned up—except some disappointing findings regarding the difficulty of securing a work permit. Even worse, I learned that all female employees in England are entitled to twenty-six weeks’ maternity leave. Not exactly promising news. Who would hire me so far along in my pregnancy, knowing they’d have to let me go for six months? I began to worry that I was going to have to return to New York. To my old job and my old life. It was the last thing I wanted to do.
By Saturday evening, I was totally drained and disheartened and ready to let my hair down at Meg’s party, stop worrying for one night. I took my time getting ready, trying on several maternity outfits that I had purchased at H&M (which didn’t count as frivolous shopping as my regular wardrobe no longer fit) before settling on a simple black dress. I stood in front of the mirror, admiring the way it hugged my stomach and hips, showcasing my bump. I added a touch of mascara and gloss, deciding not to hide my glow of pregnancy behind a veil of heavy makeup. Then I slid on a pair of simple black heels and my diamond studs from Dex. The result, if I do say so myself, was understated elegance.