"Alright," Dr. Roberts, a short woman with long dark hair with a few gray strands and pastel pink scrubs said to me, looking down at a clipboard she held in her hands, "it looks like you're about eight weeks along now." She looked up and smiled. "Do you have any questions?"
I looked over at Owen, who was in a chair next to the padded table I was seated on. He shrugged and turned his attention back to his iPod. I shifted in the itchy open-backed dress they made me put on when we came to the doctor's office. I looked back at Dr. Roberts. "Um," I said as I made a fruitless attempt to stop the draft that was coming in from the back of my dress, "are there any special, uh, precautions I should be taking?"
"Well," she answered, it's very important to stay out of the sun for long periods of time, and try not to overwork yourself. And stay away from anything that might cause stress. And here is a book that will navigate you through your pregnancy week by week."
After telling me about watching my diet and scheduling my next appointment, Dr. Roberts dismissed us.
"Listen to this," I said to Owen, reading from the book Dr. Roberts gave me on the ride home, "'by your eighth week, the baby was formed webbed fingers and toes.'"
"Humph," Owen said as he switched lanes, "Interesting."
"You did not," stared at him with serious eyes, "just say 'interesting'. PLACEHOLDER. PLACEHOLDER. PLACEHOLDER. Take it back. Right now."
He sighed. "Fine," he looked annoyed, "Lovely. What you just told me was just….lovely."
I just looked at him, feeling anger bubble up inside of me. Things were about to get really hormonal up in this car. "What's your damage?" I asked loudly, the sound of my voice bouncing of the confined walls of the truck. "Except for those first few days after I told you I was pregnant, you act like nothing is going on. You never acknowledge it, let alone talk about it, and it's like you don't even care. Is that it? You don't care?" I felt tears come to my eyes, burning. My vision began to blur, and I blinked, letting them fall down my cheeks. I didn't want to cry, but I couldn't help it.
It got worse when he didn't say anything. He just kept on driving, like I hadn't said anything at all.
"Oh my God," my voice cracked as I said this. "You don't care, do you?"
"It's not that." That was all he said.
"Then what is it, Owen? Huh?"
He opened his mouth to say something, I cut him off. "You know what? I don't even want to hear it. Stop the car."
"What?"
"You heard me. Stop the car and let me out."
"No." He looked annoyed.
Now I was crying for real. I was sad and angry at the same time, so I started hitting him as hard as I could on his arm. "Let me out let me out let me out!" I wailed.
"No!" now he sounded angry. I didn't care.
"Fine then," I said, and turned away from him, "if you won't stop and let me out, then I'll jump out."
"Annabel, be serious."
I started to open the passenger door. "You don't believe me?" I knew was overreacting, but I didn't care. With a jerk, the car had come to a stop on the side of the road in front of a Wendy's. But before I could step onto the curb, I felt a hand on my arm.
"Annabel, how are going to get home?" Owen asked me.
I sniffed and turned to him, wiping the tears away with my sleeve. "I am very capable of walking, thank you, and who said I was going to go home anyway? Not that you would care."
"Of course I care."
"Well, you sure aren't acting like it!" I retorted.
"Calm down. You know I care."
An older couple strode past us, trying not to stare. "Like I said, you sure aren't acting like it!" I slammed the car door and crossed my arms over my chest.
He sighed. "Well, I'm sorry for that. It's just, well, I've been thinking some things through."
"Like what?"
"Just some stuff."
My mouth dropped open in fake astonishment. "Two placeholders in one day? Man, you are on a role." my voice still had an edge to it.
He shot me a death look. "Very funny."
"I'm sorry," I told him, looking down at my hands. "But why won't you tell me what's going on?"
"It's not that easy."
It was then that I realized something. This conversation seemed more than vaguely familiar. Not telling people what's happening, getting other people angry and worried, oh yeah, and the It's Not That Easy. This sounded like something I used to do. It was kind of funny. The only thing I could think of to do was to say what I thought Owen would say to me in this situation.
"Is saying nothing any easier? Come on, I know you. Saying nothing is just about killing you right now. So just go ahead and say it." I nudged him.
"I'm scared." He didn't look at me, instead focused on some distant spot ahead.
"Scared to tell me? Is it that bad?"
He sighed and began to drive again, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the console between us. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, then dropped his hand. "No. That's it. I'm scared."
At first I still didn't get it. But then I did. I'm scared. I waited for him to explain what he was scared of or why this was such a big deal.
But he didn't explain. Instead he just kept on driving. Everything was silent; but so loud at the same time. Where's the music? I thought to myself. It was sort of a shock to me, the silence was. I wondered why Owen had not turned up the stereo by now. After all these years, it seemed that music had become a part of me. There was always some sort of music playing whenever I was with Owen, whether it was coming from a stereo or and iPod. It was like an omnipresent power, invisible. After a while, I began to not notice it fully. It was just there. But now that it was gone, the silence hit me with such a force that something else occurred to me.
Scared. Owen was scared about this whole pregnancy thing. Just like the music being there, I had gotten used to Owen being my rock, a pillar of strength that I could lean on whenever I felt weak. And I began to take it for granted, automatically thinking that he would be okay with everything. That he would be strong. I never stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, he would get scared and shrink away. I forgot that it could happen to anyone; even the strongest person could have a weakness.
"It's alright," I said to him finally, "it'll be okay."
He reached forward and turned on the stereo, glancing at me once before shifting his gaze back to the road. "But what if it's not," he said after a few seconds. "What if everything goes wrong? Because it can, you know. Everything could go wrong―"
"―or not," I said, reaching over and sliding my hand over his hand, lacing my fingers with his. "Maybe everything will go just fine. Just maybe, though."
"I don't know," Owen replied as he pulled into the driveway. He pulled his keys from the ignition and looked at me. "It's just that I don't have much experience with kids. Close to none, actually. How the hell am I supposed to know what to do?"
"Well, you do have a lot of people you go to for advice, you know. Like me, for instance, or my mother or your mother."
"I'll just stick with you." he said. "It'd be mighty awkward, me asking your mom for advice. Heck, it'd be awkward asking my mom for advice about this type of thing."
I smiled at him. "Okay."
This was my morning routine:
Wake up around 10:00 (the time Owen is about to leave for work).
Feel nauseous and run to bathroom to throw up.
Complain to Owen about how bad I feel
Wait until Owen leaves to have a nervous breakdown.
Eat like it's my last meal
So the next day after that conversation in the car, I went through these steps just like any other day. Then I took a shower. It was when I went to get dressed that all hell broke loose.
I tried to pull my favorite jeans on, but they would not slide up past my hips. I tried to pull them up multiple times, but my attempts were fruitless. Finally I got frustrated, ripped them off and threw them across the room. I began pacing the floor in tight circles, mumbling to myself.
"I came back to get some CDs…" heard Owen say from the doorway. I jumped, startled. "only to find you here pacing the floor…" he paused, "…with no pants on. Is there a problem here?"
"This," I said, picking up the pants and shaking them in his face, "is the problem."
"I'm not following." He shook his head.
"I can't fit inside them! They won't go over my thunder thighs!" I practically yelled. I sank to the floor, pants still in hand. I buried my face in the denim, crying. "God, I'm such a pig. I'm a big, fat, gluttonous pig." And yet another emotional breakdown.
Owen crouched down next to me. "Calm down," he said to me in a gentle tone. "Isn't it, like, normal? You know, weight gain?"
I looked up at him. "Are you calling me fat?"
The look that came over his face told me the he knew the mistake he had just made. "No!" he kept repeating frantically. He looked around, trying to think of something to say. "I just figured―"
I cut him off. "Well, Mr. I-eat-anything-I-want-and-never-retain-an-ounce, I'm sorry of I'm too busy carrying your baby to watch my weight. And I'm sorry if this pig just can't keep herself away from the goddamn donuts, okay? I'M SORRY." I got up and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and locked it. Less than fifteen seconds later I heard a knock on the door.
"Come on, Annabel," Owen said. "I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it."
"Yes you did!" I moaned. "You meant it because it's true and I'm just being difficult."
"Why don't you come on out?"
I sighed, wiping my eyes. "I guess so." I reached for the doorknob, and then stopped, letting my hand drop to my side. "Before I come out, could you bring me some pants, maybe?"
"Sure."
After splashing my face with cold water and putting on some oversized sweatpants, I exited the bathroom where Owen was standing. I didn't say anything at first, only placed my head on his broad chest and closed my eyes, suddenly feeling fatigued from crying. Owen squeezed me around the shoulders.
"It's just that," I sniffed, "pregnant women are supposed to be glowing and all that, right? So why do I look and feel like crap?"
"Well, I heard that the whole glowing thing isn't supposed to start until week nine, so…"
I was about to reply to this joke when the phone rang.
"I'll get it," Owen said, reaching for the phone on the cradle on the nightstand beside the bed. "Hello? Oh, hey, Mallory. What's wrong? Wait, what?!?" his face began to twist sourly, and he started to stride out of the room, the phone still pressed to his ear.
"What's wrong?" I asked, but he ignored me and left me alone. A few minutes later I heard a bang, like he had smashed his fist against something.
I thought it best to leave him alone.
Soon, he came back up the stairs, his face red with fury. He paced the floor for a minute, counting to ten over and over under his breath.
Finally I mustered up the courage to ask the million-dollar question. "What happened?"
Owen looked at me, as if just noticing me sitting there on the bed. "Do you know who that was? Mallory." As if I did not know already. "She was crying. Do you know why?" he paused, breathing hard. I waited patiently. "My dad just called from the airport. He's here, in Lakeview. He's coming to see us."
Okay. I refuse to have anyone say that this chapter was even remotely sappy. It was not. Sort of emotional, maybe, (what pregnant woman is not emotional?) but sooooo not sappy. I think I did pretty good this time, even though the chapter was shorter than the others. But that's okay. I hope it was okay to you guys. Review or PM or whatever and tell me what you thought. *Sigh*
