by M. E. Carter
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Caleb. Just give me a bit to get settled, and then I’m all yours.”
He turns back to his scanners, and I turn back to the stairs. Who knew one flight could be so tiring? At this point, the only thing motivating me to keep going is the thought of the gingersnaps in my bag. Denise was right. They are much tastier than saltines and do a better job of holding my nausea at bay. I really, really want to eat a cookie.
Finally, after what feels like hours, I plop my ass down in my chair, dropping all my belongings at my feet.
Steve chuckles and smiles at me. “Pregnancy is still going well, I see.”
“I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus.”
“Close,” he retorts. “Just having the life sucked out of you by an alien life force.”
He’s not wrong. Grabbing my bag from the floor, I dig around to find my treats. “Anything exciting happening here? It’s just regular games tonight, right?”
“Yep. No specials stories or anything.” He clears his throat. Odd. I’m getting the vibe that something else is going on. “But, uh, there is something exciting happening.”
Intrigued and just a little nervous, I stop my digging. “Wha-what is it?”
“I got the job.”
My jaw drops, and my bag falls to the floor as I stare at Steve. He’s smirking, but I can tell he’s enjoying my reaction and is trying very hard to contain his own excitement.
“You got the job,” I say quietly.
He nods. “I got the job.”
“You’re going to New York?” That’s the only job I know about, but I still want to clarify.
“I’m going to New York.”
Pushing out of my chair, I stand. “Steve, you got a job in NEW YORK CITY!” I shout, barely able to contain my excitement.
“Nailed it!” he yells, but I’m too overcome with excitement to call him out on the weird catch phrase.
As he stands too, a sudden burst of energy launches me into his arms, hugging him tightly. I’m so proud of him. He’s been a great boss, but he’s also a damn good producer and deserves this.
Releasing him, I collapse back in my chair, barely noticing the exhaustion anymore.
“When are you going? How is this working?” Adrenaline still runs through me, but there is also a lot to plan with this change.
“Well, I’m going to head northeast early to get started working and begin house-hunting. Meg is going to stay here with the girls until the house sells.”
“Makes sense. How soon until you leave?”
“I turned in my two-week notice yesterday.”
Another jaw drop. “Before telling me?”
I’m not sure if I’m hurt or completely understand why he didn’t want to wait. Either way, he shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“It was your day off. I figured you were taking a nap.”
Oddly enough, I believe that it’s exactly what he thought. I wish he was right. I’m still regretting my decision to spend hours in the car with my in-laws. Admittedly, though, the food was a nice consolation.
“The job opening has already been posted,” he continues. “But I gave them a heads-up that you will be putting in your résumé, and I want you to be the front-runner. Unsurprisingly, they acted like I was ridiculous for even suggesting you wouldn’t be.”
“Or they acted like you were ridiculous for thinking your opinion matters.”
He waves me off dismissively. “Regardless, it’s already been discussed, and until they give you the official title, you my dear are the interim sports producer.”
The magnitude hits me like a shock wave. Interim Sports Producer in the Houston news market at the ripe old age of twenty-four. It’s unheard of for anyone, especially a woman. Pride sweeps through me. Even if they don’t choose me, even if I’m only the interim for a short while, I’m going to take this opportunity to kick some serious ass. Assuming this baby doesn’t kick my ass first.
Steve isn’t done, though. “In the meantime, that means we need to train someone for your job.”
This presents more of a problem. We could use Manny temporarily. He’s the sports anchor, so he’s used to writing his own copy. But who would man the booth two days a week when I’m off? Or would I even get time off for a while? I’m running on empty as it is.
A quick rap on the door has me looking up and discovering Steve is one step ahead of me.
Gesturing to the person standing in the entrance, he says, “Meet your interim associate producer.”
“Caleb?”
Caleb digs his hands in his pockets, steps through the threshold, and flashes a sheepish grin. “Told ya I needed to talk to you.”
I’m sure they both can tell I’m stunned from the expression I assume I’m sporting. “How did I not know you wanted to move into the sports department?”
He shrugs shyly, which is weird. Caleb isn’t shy. Assertive. Commanding. Maybe a touch demanding. But not shy. This is a new side to him. “I don’t really talk about it. It’s always been a pipe dream, but I only have a two-year degree and not in journalism. You know how infrequently these jobs come along. Last time, it was your turn for it to drop in your lap. This time, it’s mine.”
He’s right. The only reason I got this job when I graduated from college was because they were impressed with my internship and were scrambling to fill a sudden opening. It was a case of “right place, right time.” I’ve always been grateful for it because it meant I skipped years’ worth of clawing my way to the top. So I understand why he seems unsure. I’m sure it feels surreal to be this close to the beginning of his dream.
Swiveling my chair to look at Steve, I say, “Maybe I’m more surprised that you did know.”
“What? I talk to people.”
“You don’t talk to any people except the ones in this office.”
“Or maybe I just don’t talk to anyone when you’re around.”
“Clearly.” I swivel my chair back around to face Caleb again. Now that the excitement is wearing off, I need that gingersnap. Grabbing my bag, the search is on again. “I guess this means I have two weeks to get you trained, huh?”
A genuine smile crosses Caleb’s face, and I know he’s already starting to feel comfortable. “Where do we start?”
“Let’s start pulling b-roll from last night’s games,” I instruct, finally finding my cookies and pulling them out of my bag victoriously. “Then we’ll work on some copy.”
Caleb pulls up a chair to watch how I find our clips and catches on quickly. Pretty soon, we’re working in tandem to get everything done.
More than once, I look up to catch Steve watching us, smiling. It feels good to know he’s confident he’s leaving this office in capable hands, so he can leave to reach his lifelong dream. I won’t let him down.
Practice was a bitch today. We’re finally starting to gel again after Santos’s sudden departure, but it hasn’t been without growing pains. Our record has dropped into the shitter, but hopefully, we can pull it together for play-offs. The season is long enough, so we have time.
Kicking the door shut behind me, I drop my bags on the floor and head straight for the kitchen. Tiffany drank most of the broth to my mom’s chicken noodle soup—it’s the only thing she can really hold down, and even then, not always—but that leaves all the hearty stuff for me to eat. With as hungry as I am after practice, none of it is going to waste.
Popping the Tupperware of leftovers in the microwave, I thank my lucky stars my parents are moving here. Yeah, we have separate lives, but if I know one thing, they’ll implement family dinners once a week. That means home cooking for this growing boy.
Grabbing my bag, I head into the bedroom while I wait for my food to heat up. I need to get some laundry done so I might as well throw a load in the washer now.
A groan from the master bath stops my train of thought. Instinctively I know something’s not right.
Sure enough, as soon as the room comes into view so does my worst nightmare.<
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“Tiffany!” I yell and race toward her limp form, lying on the floor next to the toilet. “Babe. Baby, are you okay?” I gently shake her, not knowing if she’s injured or sick. The last time we texted was just a few hours ago. I thought she was at work.
She grabs onto me, fisting my shirt in her hand. “I don’t feel good, Rowen.” I take that as a decent sign. At least she’s coherent. Until suddenly her eyes fly open and she sits straight up. “Move, move move…” she demands, pushing me out of the way and sticking her head in the toilet to throw up. Nothing happens, though. She coughs and gags and cries, but her stomach is officially empty of anything. Not even bile. That’s not good.
Making an executive decision, I race into the bedroom and dump out my practice bag, tossing a couple T-shirts, sweats, and yoga pants in it. Then I grab the bag of toiletries I always keep packed for road trips and throw it in with everything else, just in case we need it.
Satisfied I’ve got the basics packed, I head back to my wife. “Babe.” I gently push her hair out of her face. “Babe, we’re going to the hospital.”
“No.” Her voice sounds weak and small, which cements my decision, whether she wants to or not. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“Too bad. You are way too sick. This isn’t good for you, and it isn’t good for the baby.”
I think she’s going to resist again, but she surprises me when she nods and tries to push off the floor. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I’m careful not to put too much pressure on her stomach. My hand, of course, drifts down to the small bump below, and I say a silent prayer for his protection. I’m terrified for him. For both of them.
“Let me grab some stuff,” Tiffany says and tries to pull away.
“Already done. Hold on, babe. You can’t walk.” Shuffling us over to the where the bag is, I pick it up. Once it’s securely dangling from my arm, I wrap my arm under her knees and pick her up.
She smiles weakly. “I can walk, you know.”
“Not quickly and not without stopping to throw up,” I banter back. “If you’re not at work, that tells me you’ve been sick for at least a few hours. I’m not waiting for you to prove your independence.”
She snuggles into my chest and doesn’t fight me on it. She knows I respect her, but she also knows I’m right about how sick she is. Once again, I’m reminded of how urgent the situation really is when she doesn’t continue to argue.
It takes a few minutes to get the door locked and get settled in the car. A couple of our neighbors looked at us quizzically as I carried her by, but fortunately no one said anything. I don’t have the time or patience to talk to anyone right now. My entire body feels wired from the adrenaline racing through me.
The twenty-minute drive to the hospital feels like it takes hours, and I don’t think my hand ever moves from her thigh. Like touching her will somehow keep her from getting worse. Or maybe it just keeps me grounded. Either way, I’ve never been more thankful for valet parking in my life.
“Do you need us to get a wheelchair, sir?” The valet must see the frantic look on my face because he doesn’t even greet me before offering.
“No. I’m going to carry her. Thanks.”
Tossing my keys to him, I quickly walk around the car. The passenger side door has already been opened. That’s the benefit of having a women’s hospital in Houston. Valet is not surprised to see frantic dads and moms in labor. They all work together to get us inside as quickly as possible.
“Come on, baby,” I say quietly, hooking my arms under her and pulling her close to me.
The automatic doors open, and I barely notice a rush of cool air that would normally make me shiver. Apparently, the triage nurse has already been tipped off that we’re on our way because she gestures for me to follow her straight to the back.
The small room only has a curtain for a door, but I don’t care. It has a bed and monitors. That’s all I care about.
“How far along are you?”
“Twenty weeks, two days,” I answer before Tiffany can even open her mouth.
“Over the halfway mark. That’s great! Let’s get your blood pressure, okay?” the nurse says gently, placing the cuff around Tiffany’s arm.
After determining Tiffany’s blood pressure is within normal ranges and there’s no fever, she rubs the doppler all over her stomach. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I let it go in relief when I hear the familiar thrumb thrumb of his heartbeat. This is good. This is very good.
“I know this is a bedpan,” the nurse jokes, handing the plastic bowl to me. “But around here we use them for morning sickness. Keep it handy just in case you need it. The doctor will be here in just a couple of minutes. My name is Karen, if you need me.”
Karen leaves and I collapse into the chair next to the bed, pulling it forward where I can hold hands with my wife.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.”
I chuckle, glad she hasn’t totally lost her feisty nature. Stroking back her hair, I can’t help but feel relief that we’re here and she’s going to be taken care of. “I probably should have asked this before, but did you call in sick? Do I need to call Caleb?”
She shakes her head gently. “I already called. There’s no way I’m getting this promotion Rowen. Not now.”
“Hey. You don’t know that. Your interview went great.”
“Yeah, until the end of it when I finally told them I’m pregnant.” She rolls onto her back and rests her hand on her forehead. “Steve left almost a month ago. I’m sure they’ve offered it to someone else by now.”
“Or something more pressing came up, and they know you have everything under control.”
She sighs and rolls back toward me, placing her hand on her stomach and rubbing absentmindedly. “Maybe.”
“Is he moving?” I ask, gesturing toward her mid-section.
She looks up at me and smiles. “A little. Pretty soon, you’ll be able to feel him too.”
Before I can respond, the doctor walks through the curtain. She’s a petite woman with a short brown bob. I can already tell she’s mild-mannered. Probably comes in handy when working with dads like me.
“Hi Tiffany. I’m Dr. Braden, but you can call me Felicity.” Turning to me, she puts out her hand. “I assume you’re Dad?”
“Yeah. Yes. Rowen.” I stand and shake her hand quickly, ready for her to hurry up and examine my wife.
“It’s nice to meet both of you. Looks like you’re not feeling well,” she states, as she looks through information Karen put into Tiffany’s medical records.
“I haven’t stopped throwing up in about, oh, thirteen weeks or so,” Tiffany complains. “So yeah. I think your assessment is accurate.”
“Pregnancy will do that sometimes,” Felicity responds, typing in Tiffany’s responses. “Sounds like you’re one of the unlucky ones.” Swiveling her chair, she pushes the cart with the computer out of the way and rolls an ultrasound machine in its place. “I can tell just by looking at you that you are definitely dehydrated. That’s not good for you or the baby. I’m going to have Karen come back in and set you up with some IV fluids—oh!” she startles as the curtain opens again and the nurse walks in. “Looks like Karen read my mind. Let’s give her a one-liter bolus of LR and run it at two hundred cc’s per hour after that.”
“Got it right here,” Karen responds and gets to work setting up the IV. Dr. Braden, on the other hand, has Tiffany shift on the table and lift her shirt so she can squirt warm gel on her stomach. The two of them work in tandem and it’s clear they do this enough it’s become almost like a dance to them.
In what seems like just seconds, the IV is set up, the lights are dimmed, and our baby is getting his picture taken again.
“Oh! He’s big now!” Tiffany exclaims. Already she seems to be perking up and the IV has been in for only a minute. This is good.
“Yes, it’s amazing how our babies can look like a tiny little jelly bean one day and sudd
enly, they look like a real human.” Dr. Braden responds quietly, then gets back to her concentration. She takes several measurements and moves the wand to look around at different angles. My eyes never leave the screen, knowing I won’t be seeing my boy again like this for at least a few more weeks.
Finally, she shuts off the machine and turns the lights on. Turning to wash her hands, she remarks, “The baby looks just fine. Measures where he should. No sign of a placental abruption. I’d like to do a quick pelvic though, just to make sure you aren’t dilating. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“It’s up to you if we get you a gown or if you just shimmy out of your pants.”
Tiffany begins to sit up, hooking her fingers in her waistband, but she struggles with the movement. She may be feeling a little better, but her energy is still almost non-existent.
“Hang on, babe.” I stop her and encourage her to lie back down, then hook my own fingers in her pants and whisk them down faster than she can.
“Ohmygod, I’m so embarrassed,” Tiffany mumbles from behind her hands. Dr. Braden, on the other hand, is laughing lightly.
“Don’t be embarrassed on my account. I know how the birds and bees work. You’re here for a reason.”
I sit down beside her again, holding Tiffany’s hand while the doctor snaps on some gloves and makes quick work of her exam. “Nope. No dilation. No effacing. This is all good news.”
Snapping the gloves back off she tosses them in the trash and washes her hands for a second time in as many minutes. I admit, I’m impressed with how quickly this is all happening.
“Here’s what I think we have.”
Squeezing my wife’s hand, I brace myself for whatever Dr. Braden’s about to tell us.
She crosses her arms and leans against the counter. That’s a good sign, right? Not hovering?
“My best guess is you have a pretty bad case of hyperemesis gravidarum. In a nutshell, you are one of the unlucky few that has morning sickness long after your first trimester is over.”
“Okay,” I say quickly, because this isn’t news to us. We’ve been dealing with it for weeks. “How do we fix it?”