She put a hand on her stomach, not knowing what exactly she expected to feel there. Some magic that had transcended the ages of its existence and landed on her, in a too-small apartment in the middle of a too-violent city? Some kinship with the millions of women who had felt the same thing, many more than once, many in worse situations than she was in now? Some explanation for the ever-present chill of the tile on her thighs, even as her world began to distort around her into something unknown and terrifyingly beautiful?
She did not feel this. She did not feel anything but skin and muscle, the same skin and muscle that had always been there – through middle school, covered in baggy tee shirts, high school, exposed in the short tops her mother hated, through her work and her engagement and her marriage. It didn't feel different. But it was different. Everything was different.
The harsh sound of bone hitting the wood of the bathroom door infiltrated her cocoon of introspective contemplation.
"Lovato?" The word was slurred with sleep. Her throat tightened, remembering the same voice – sharp, staccato, then, fully aware of what it was doing – telling her he wasn't ready for this. She remembered him walking away, leaving her in the dark interrogation room, more alone than she had ever felt before in her life.
She clears her throat as quietly as she can. "Yeah?"
"What're you doing? I need to get in there."
She manages to lift herself up off the ground, gripping the corner of the vanity with one hand and a small, white plastic stick in the other. She pulls open the bathroom door, revealing her sleepy husband in sweatpants and that stupid NYPD shirt he always wore to bed. As if she needed to be reminded how dangerous their everyday lives were.
"Don," she says, her voice cracking slightly. "I'm pregnant."
She was braced for the worst – a fight loud enough to wake the neighbors, or a silence so deep it could drown her and their child in it. Instead, his eyes lit up, pulling his body out of its sleep-deprived stupor, and he hugged her so hard she couldn't breathe.
"Really?" he says, pulling back.
She nods, dazed.
"I – we – I love you," he stumbles, and pulls the pregnancy test out of her hands. As if she might lie.
"I thought," she begins, and stops. "I love you, too."
He leads her into the living room. She regards the dingy sofa, which had been cuddling with Don before she had even known him, and the coffee table, with edges sharp enough to take a child's eyes out.
"You're sure?"
"Yes. I took, like, four tests."
Don kept talking, but she wasn't listening. From his face, he seemed over the moon.
"Stop," she said suddenly. It came out harsher than she had intended. His mouth stopped moving, hanging open, mid-word, for a moment, before closing. The excitement never left his eyes.
"Don, we can't do this. We live in a tiny apartment in the middle of New York City, and we're both police officers, and I have no idea how to be a mom, and we could die any day-" Her voice cut off, overwhelmed by the tornado of emotions threatening to rip a hole through her ribcage. Her husband was shaking his head.
"Jamie, I know. I've thought it over a thousand times, and, to be honest, I'm terrified. But there is nothing in the whole world I would rather do than raise children with you. And New York cops raise kids all the time – Jo did it, Lindsay and Danny do it. We'll be fine."
She felt her lips begin to tremble. Don pulled her head to his chest just as the tears began to fall. He ran his fingers over her back gently.
"Mac called while you were in the bathroom. The office is closed today because of the weather. Let's go back to sleep."
She allows him to pull her back to their bedroom, willing herself not to consider the last time she had lied in their bed with a baby in her stomach. She turned her thoughts away from the blood, the pain, the screaming, the rush to the hospital, the somber-eyed doctor apologizing…
She had begun to shake with sobs. Don covered them both up with the thick down blanket, despite the heat, and twisted so he was facing her.
"We'll be fine."
"I know," she chokes before pressing a hand firmly on her stomach again. We have to be.
Two sleepless hours later, she sat next to her husband on the couch, watching some stupid TV show neither of them was paying attention to. The remains of an elaborate breakfast, cooked by Don while he hummed nursery rhymes, sat on the murderous coffee table. Rain pelted the window with such force that she was thankful, for once, not to have to go to work.
"We shouldn't tell anyone yet," Don said.
"What?"
"Isn't that what they say? You don't tell anyone, besides family, of course, until – what is it?"
"10 to 12 weeks. Until the risk of miscarriage goes down."
He looks at her. "I didn't mean-"
"I know. And that's fine, if you want to do that. I don't even know how far along I am. We have to call the doctor."
"We will. But no one's open today."
"You brought it up."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." She realized she was being too clipped, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just – I didn't expect for it to happen now."
"Neither did I." He pushed the hair out of her face. "But I'm so excited."
"I guess I am, too."
The solemnity of the sentence made them both laugh. He kissed her cheek.
They would be fine.