4. April

4

APRIL

"Well," the doctor says, taking off the stethoscope, "everything seems to be in order. Baby's still oblique, but close enough to cephalic that we can expect it to turn. No signs of fetal distress, either."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Everything's fine, then?" I ask, feeling stupid for not speaking Doctorese. Are there such things as stupid questions when you're pregnant?

Luckily, Dr. Allan doesn't seem to think so. "Yes," she replies, a small smile on her face. "Almost too fine, to be honest." For the first time, her smile falters into an equally small frown.

And just like that, my anxiety rushes back tenfold. "And, uhh… why's that?"

"You're in your thirty-ninth week," she says, like it explains everything.

I nod along, pretending I'm not about to have a panic attack while half-naked with my bits out in my OBGYN's studio. Dr. Cecilia Allan has many great qualities, but tact is definitely not one of them.

"In normal circumstances," she continues, "your baby would have kicked its way out already."

What a reassuring mental image. "Well, a due date's just a guess, right?" I ask with a nervous chuckle.

"That certainly seems to be the case with your family history," the doctor muses, pulling out a file. I can tell it's mine by how thick it is. Ever since my baby decided to sleep through its own birth, we've been meeting weekly for ultrasounds and check-ups. One more week, and it's gonna start looking like War and Peace . "You mentioned your mother's pregnancy with you ran forty-three weeks?"

"Forty-four," I correct. "And forty-six with my little brother."

"She didn't consider an induction?"

"With Charlie, yes. But it was…" I struggle to find the right words. I have a feeling "bloodbath" isn't a term to be throwing out inside a doctor's office. "Difficult," I settle on. "If possible, I'd like to avoid that."

"Yes, you've said," Dr. Allan muses, turning a page. "Well, for now, the baby's health looks good. The heartbeat's strong. No signs of fetal macrosomia, either." Then, snapping the folder shut, she turns to me. "But I really can't recommend letting this go on too long. As your physician, it's my job to look after your baby's health. And yours, too," she adds, squeezing my shoulder warmly.

"I know." It gives me a pang of guilt—the implication that I'm not thinking of what's best for my baby. But I know Dr. Allan didn't mean it like that. For better or worse, she's been my rock these past nine months. "Thank you, Dr. Allan. I promise I'll consider it."

She smiles. "I know you will. Oh, and by the way," she adds, rotating in her revolving chair, "here's your test results."

I take the envelope with trembling hands. "Thank you."

"Sure you don't want to know the sex?" Dr. Allan jokes, typing something on her computer. That's usually my cue to get my clothes back on.

"Nah," I tell her as I pop up and get dressed. "I want it to be a surprise."

It's more than that, really. But I don't see a point in burdening Dr. Allan with my existential musings, so I don't bother elaborating.

"Alright. I blacked it out in there, like you asked. But feel free to call anytime if you change your mind."

"Will do," I promise, rising to my feet. "Thank you again."

"See you in a week!" Dr. Allan calls after me, her eyes already on the next patient's file, and I give her a quick nod.

On my way out, I pass by couples holding hands in the waiting room. Partners supporting partners, come what may.

I squeeze the envelope between my hands, walking out alone.

Once outside, I take a deep breath. "Looks like you're pretty comfortable in there, huh, Nugget?" I run my hand over my watermelon-sized belly. One wrong wardrobe choice, and I'd have people knocking on it at the grocery store to check for ripeness.

Nugget doesn't reply. It rarely ever does. Even then, it's mostly in Morse code.

"Don't worry. I won't force you to come out here. Not until you're ready."

Guilt pricks at me again. I know why I'm doing this, but it doesn't help one bit. When the second-guessing marathons start, I'm the undefeated champion.

To distract myself, I rip the envelope open. I'm pretty much trading guilt with guilt, but who's keeping score?

I take the papers out. The amniocentesis sheet's got all kinds of data on it—numbers Dr. Allen already explained to me over the phone. No chromosomal anomalies, no illnesses. In short, nothing to worry about.

The second sheet, however, is different. I asked to see these results on my own; I wanted to be prepared. Of course, I'm realizing now that no number of pep talks in the mirror is going to make this easier.

Paternity tests aren't supposed to be taken behind the father's back, after all.

In my defense, I didn't have much of a choice. It was either "swipe the guy's hair from the jacket he tried on once and forge his signature on the consent form" or "call him and tell him you're pregnant," and I sure as hell wasn't going to pick the option behind Door #2. Not unless someone held me at gunpoint.

Because if the Internet rumors are true, Matvey Groza is not the kind of man you'd want for a baby daddy.

"Alright, Nugget," I say out loud, trying to calm my hands from shaking. "Moment of truth."

I unfold the sheet. The words DNA Paternity Report stare judgmentally up at me. I glance over the columns in the first page—more numbers. I don't care about these ones. The only number I care about is at the end of the second page.

The number that will spell out my doom.

Based on the analysis of the STR loci listed above, the probability of paternity is…

"Ninety-nine percent," I mutter to myself. "Of course. Figures."

I can't say I'm surprised. Honestly, it was either him or Jesus. But I guess a part of me was hoping for a miracle.

"Well," I sigh, giving Nugget a small pat over my belly, "you might not be the Second Coming, but you're still my special little guy. Or girl."

I start making my way back to my car. Well, mine and June's. People argue there's little point owning a car in New York City, but they clearly haven't tried taking the subway while a bazillion months pregnant. If the elbows and mariachi bands don't get you, the rats will.

I reach the parking lot. My little Honda Civic is still where I left it—never something to take for granted—but significantly snugger, I note.

Courtesy of the big black van parked right next to it.

"You've got to be kidding me." I squeeze myself into the narrow passage, trying to suck in my belly and failing. Because—newsflash—you can't suck in your uterus.

I've got half a mind to key the fucker. I'm debating whether I should actually go through with it when, all of a sudden, the van door slides open.

"Oh, thank God," I sigh, turning in the newly-freed pocket of space. "Look, I've gotta get out of here. Would you mind?—"

They say hindsight is 20/20. For example, I know now that I shouldn't have squeezed myself between my car and an unknown van.

I know now I shouldn't have forgotten Girl Safety 101: never be alone in a parking lot.

But knowing now is pretty fucking useless.

Because, as soon as the guy grabs me, I'm already done for.