There are few items in the universe that defy description like the emotions aroused by double lines appearing on a home pregnancy test. And for Amy Duncan, all of the swirling myriad of emotions could be summed up in one word.
"Crap."
Her husband stared at her. "I really hope that means you're disappointed because you were secretly hoping you were pregnant?" he said.
She buried her face in her hands.
Bob sighed.
After several moments of silence, Amy shook herself and leaned over to turn on the shower. After all, the day had to go on, no matter what. They both had to go to work and their three children still had to go to school.
"Honey—"
"Don't. I'm not ready to talk about it," she told him.
"But we need to talk," Bob protested. "You need to see a doctor. And won't they have to do all kinds of tests because of your age? I mean, you're almost ten years older than the last—"
"Mention my age again and I will kill you where you stand."
Wisely, he shut up. She was a tiny woman, barely up to his shoulder, but he had no doubt about her ability to follow through on her threat. Three previous pregnancies had taught him that his beautiful little wife's hair-trigger temper was magnified by pregnancy hormones.
He hurried downstairs to start the coffee.
It was a busy day for both of them, thankfully. Amy's position as an Emergency-Room nurse kept her moving all day long with barely a minute free to think. And as the owner of his own pest-control business, Bob was able to bury himself in paperwork and supply orders between jobs. And once the work day was over, there was dinner and homework and laundry and arguments between the kids—their oldest two, barely more than a year apart, were seemingly unable to function without fighting at least once every hour.
Finally, the kids were in bed and the two of them were alone. Amy brewed two cups of tea and sat down quietly on the couch beside her husband. "I called the O.B. today and scheduled an appointment," she said.
"How are you feeling?" Bob asked.
"Tired. Terrified. Nauseous."
"We…we have options, you know." Bob looked down at his hands, unable to look her in the eyes. "Back in college, you used to march in Pro-Choice rallies."
"Is that what you want me to do, Bob? Abort?"
He studied the hangnail on his right thumb.
"I still believe in a woman's right to choose," she said, after a moment. "I just don't think I could choose abortion. But what if there's something wrong with the baby? I mean, I am high-risk for that because of my age, and—"
"And you're at high-risk for yourself, Amy. You're not young, and let's face it, pregnancy is never easy for a woman your size-" he swallowed loudly and finally forced himself to look into her eyes. "Honey, I've never believed in abortion. But what if something goes wrong and I lose you?"
"Mo—om! Dad!" From upstairs, teenage son P.J. bellowed down at them. "Gabe's sick! He's puking everywhere!"
For a short, exhausted pregnant woman, Amy sure could move when she had to, Bob reflected. She passed him on the steps and reached their eight-year-old first. He was hunched over the toilet, retching while his big brother rubbed his back.
P.J. looked relieved to step back and let his mom take over. "He got it all over his bed," he reported. "And his pajamas. And the floor in the hallway."
"My poor baby," She soothed her youngest, wiping his clammy face with a cool washcloth. "You never do anything halfway, do you?"
Bob changed Gabe's sheets, mopped up the nasty puddle in the hallway, and headed downstairs to throw everything in the washer. His daughter Teddy was on her way up from her basement bedroom.
"Where are you going?" Bob asked.
She held up something green and yellow. "Gabe's favorite jammies," she said. "They were in the dryer, but I thought he might want to wear them now. He always likes to wear his monkey jammies when he's sick."
Bob kissed her forehead as she went by.
In relatively short order, the older two were back in bed and Amy was tucking their youngest back into his freshly-made bed – complete with handy bowl in case of any more illness. His eyelids were already drooping. "Sleep sweet, Little One," she whispered.
"Is he okay?" Bob asked her in the hallway.
"I think so. Just a little bit of a tummy bug." On impulse, she wrapped her arms around her husband's waist and rested her cheek against his chest. "Did you see the way we all worked together?" she asked.
"Like a well-oiled machine."
"Could you believe the way Teddy and P.J. stepped up to help?"
"We Duncans can handle anything life throws at us—"
"Or hurls."
"Ewwww. Or hurls," Bob agreed.
"Bob, we're going to be almost sixty by the time this little one graduates high school."
"So what." He pulled her even closer and squeezed her gently. "So what."
"So…we're having a baby."
"We're the luckiest people in the world."