A/N: Thanks for still being with me in spite of the criminally slow updates.
Monday, June 23rd
The dull, even ticking of the alarm clock should have hypnotized me to sleep. I counted every tick and every tock, every strike moving in circle like jumping sheep, until eventually I lost count when the clock marked 3:12 a.m. I was supposed to sleep and set the mind at rest for a few hours, to let the baby perform its nighttime dancing show, quiet and undisturbed. But the adrenaline for the upcoming doc appointment - less than seven hours away, according to the irrefutable math - was flowing wild through my veins, keeping my eyes wide open in the obscurity. My stare alighted on Will, lying next to me, it lingered on his moonlit back, glided on the shadows of his muscles rising and falling evenly. Where did he even find the peace of mind to sleep?
The bedspread fell at the foot of the bed, guiltless victim of the unusual heat and of my fidgety mind, as I yielded to the insomnia and sat up straight. I heard Will groan lazily at my jerk and turned to make sure at least one of us was still doing what nights were meant for.
He turned and rolled on his back, then settled back on the pillow, one eye peering through the darkness, inquisitively. "Are you okay?" he worried.
"Just sleepless," I reassured him with a veil of apology in my voice.
"Baby?" he inquired, as he fought against gravity and the crushing sleep to lift his head, just enough to peep at my stomach.
"We're both fine, go back to sleep," I bade him, softly, then smiled.
But when with great effort he propped up on his elbow, and his fingers started a laid-back promenade in my direction, it was evident that the Land of Nod was the farthest place from this room. A fugitive, yet sober chuckle escaped my mouth as his hand reached my belly, skimming it, then moved to my side. I didn't say anything, I simply watched him lean closer and rest quietly his lips on my smiling ones, then shift down to reward the baby with the same delightful treat. If this was what we were getting for waking him up in the middle of the night, who was I to stop him?
"You should sleep, and let mommy sleep," he spoke quietly to the baby, "because if you don't, daddy will start singing a lullaby and trust me that you don't want to hear daddy sing."
The twitch of a stifled laughter travelled my body, from my throat down to the stomach, capturing Will's attention who looked up at me, his lips not hiding the amusement. "Is this how you plan to get the child to sleep?" I confronted him, failing rather miserably in seriousness.
"I'm quite sure that to sing 'Sweet Child of Mine' wouldn't work," he justified himself, then shrugged. "At least it never did with my niece."
"You are insane," I laughed heartily and tossed him a pillow, then rolled over and prudently left the bed.
/ / /
"Alicia, nice to see you again," the doctor welcomes me and Will on the doorstep with her subtle, professional smile, beckoning us to walk further into her office. This place, although grown somewhat familiar over the past few months, never stops to intimidate me with its white sterility and revolting smell of disinfectant; little can do the wooden-framed newborns' photo shoot hanging in good sight on the left wall – likely a career long memento from her patients that I'm about to enrich? – to instill warmth in the room and some comfort in me. Until Will's hesitant hand reaches out for mine, diverting my attention from the minimal furniture to the real reason why we are here.
As I ease myself on the chair in front of her, she eyes me roughly from above her purple glasses and I know she's scanning me from head to toes for a first inkling of my present state. I roll my inner eyes as she pouts and lightly turns up her nose, though less blatantly than the other times. Yeah, I know, I agree telepathically with the baby, as a weak kick of solidarity reaches me from my belly. I mentally tick myself off for the sleepless night which turned me into a zombie patient, something that might not work in favor of my bed rest release, if I even have the chance to get one.
When the doctor snaps off the cap from her fountain pen, marking the beginning of the long list of routine questions, I clear my throat and straighten up. My fingers, resting on my thighs, interlace tightly with Will's ones. I take a moment to ponder every word I utter before it becomes the black scribble of her notes, making sure to sound positive, searching in Will's eyes for optimism when I lack in my own. Only when she asks me about the cramps and the bleeding, do I truly realize that, with last night's exception, it's been a couple of weeks without them, or at least with them being feeble and much more tolerable. I don't know how to really handle this realization. Part of me thinks it's good, part of me is prepared for the ultrasound to crush my hopes proving it means nothing. And when she carefully caps the pen back and lays it on the desk, my gaze has already shifted to the monitor across the room with trepidation.
I let go of Will and rub my sweaty hands, nervously, repeatedly, against my dress. When I turn towards Will, searching for his gaze, he's unloading the same anxiety on his tie, tugging it but failing to adjust it. We've both been anticipating this moment, we've been longing to see our baby again like a sunbeam, and yet we are here, dreading the idea of failing this visit more than any test or finals we might have given in life. I take his hand and pull it away from the knot, eliciting a tense smile from him, and the moment our eyes meet it's hard to say who's heartening who.
/ / /
I knew this was a gigantic mistake the very moment my bare feet met the soil of the kitchen floor. I should have known better than to stand less than 10 feet away from the fridge, alone, in the dead of night, so I tried to shush the cravings and to move my attention somewhere else. My gaze was caught by my phone, lying on the counter. I realized I'd forgotten to turn it off when I accidentally pressed a button and the dazzling blue-gray light of the background blinded me for a few seconds. About to turn it off, an insane idea popped in my head. I knew it was the middle of the night, Grace was at Peter's – far from me the idea of waking them both - but maybe… could Zach be awake? I remembered my college student's days and how sleep was overrated. Not that I was a real party girl back then, well, actually I've never been, but I remembered spending most of my nights on a couch, buried under tons-weighing books. 'Are you awake?' My fingers acted faster than my nighttime mind could counter and before I had the chance to decide whether it was a good idea or not, I was already pressing the send button.
I stared at the phone, hopefully, for a good couple of minutes, but when the device remained inanimate and dead in my hand, I yielded to my gurgling stomach and started to search for something to eat. "Your mom will get fat and ugly," I whispered to the baby, Being sleepless definitely didn't help my cause.
From behind the cabinet door, I peeped at the phone, lying still silent. No vibrations. Nothing. Regardless of my pride as a mother, I hated that Zach had gotten that summer job at the college. I missed him so much, even his don't-hug-me-I'm-a-teenager-now bashful attitude. 'Okay, you are obviously not awake.' I texted again when the minutes count reached four.
Five minutes. Yielding with resignation to the lack of company, I decided to take refuge in a glass of that soft fruits fresh-squeezed juice that mom had brought yesterday, then force myself into bed again. The intense vibration of the phone on the island made me flinch and nearly drop the jug on my way back to the chair.
'Now I am. What's up?' the message read.
I sat down and smiled, imagining his sleepy face as he typed those few words and cursed me for interrupting his sleep. 'Sleepless.' I replied. The smell of strawberries was mouth-watering even at that unsound hour. I poured myself a glass, while waiting for Zach to text back. Anything was welcome, even an insult, given the perfect 90° angle formed by the minute and hour hands of the wall clock.
'Why?' The telegraphic answer came fast and a tad snappy.
I wetted my lips with the red juice, pondering the long list of reasons and picking the most generic one. 'Visit in a few hours. Nervous.' I admitted.
'You're freaking out.' He responded at lightning speed.
I stared at the screen, smiling a bit incredulously, as I contemplated how my kids knew me, often more than I wished they did. Yes, I was freaking out. And still, I denied it. 'I'm not.' My fingers typed with determination to reinforce those few letters.
'Go back to sleep mom.' He summoned me.
With a stifled chuckle I pocketed his imperative, turned the phone off and stood up.
And then it happened.
It was a blink.
A faint but ill-timed cramp, by instinct – or fear - I caught hold of the counter for support and nearly tossed the phone. I saw it slip and slide on the counter, in slow motion, and in a clumsy, desperate attempt to grab it before it could fall, I hit the jug of juice which crashed on the floor in a ringing myriad of fragments.
/ / /
My legs waltz itchy as I lay on the doctor's bed, waiting for the ultrasound. Unlike the previous times, Will is sitting, his chair next to me. He holds my hand with both his, his lips delicately mouth my fingers and instinctively I move them to caress his skin. There's a veil of understandable apprehension in his gaze, but a lot more of excitement. And I feel the same way.
When the gel perfidiously freezes my skin, making me wince in unpleasantness, my eyes turn on the screen. The black and white moving image tells me that I'm already staring at the baby but I still can't single it out.
The doctor doesn't say anything for a long while. Her focus on the screen, she keeps pressing and torturing my belly, freezing the image, typing on her keyboard. I tense up and squeeze Will's hand, it's definitely not the most pleasurable treatment and the baby doesn't seem to appreciate the attention either. I can feel the protests, both inside and amplified in loud thuds by the ultrasound. The picture, entertaining regardless of the discomfort, makes me chuckle.
"Yeah, I know, they always hate the part where I squash them," she acknowledges with a pinch of amused sarcasm. One would wonder why. "So, 17 weeks and 4 days," she finally speaks. It's a math I don't need since I perfectly know how pregnant I am - there's no way I'm ever going to forget the events of that night – but I nod and open my eyes wide, giving her full attention.
"5.1 inches… and 5.6 ounces," she states. Shifting her eyes from the monitor to the keyboard, back and forth, she barely glances in our direction.
Is it good or bad? I have no idea, all I can think of is that it's so tiny. I lock my eyes on the screen, not batting a lid as I focus to recognize our baby in that ever-changing pattern of blacks and whites. It takes me a moment but eventually I seem to recognize the hinted shape of the profile, and when I do, it comes natural to turn towards Will. Is he seeing it too? Given the hypnotized beam on his face, it's probably a yes.
"It's a bit below the average, but nothing to worry about," she adds.
With her guidance, it's a child's play to finally distinguish hands, legs, a little round bottom and those feet which maybe are responsible for some of my night awakenings. To finally see the baby again is exciting, makes the waiting until birth much more bearable, but at the same time fuels the heart's desire to hold it, to be a real family. Soon, I tell myself. Soon.
"Now that we made sure this little pixie is healthy, we should discuss your condition instead."
Bed rest again, I can see it coming from a mile. It's etched on her sorry-but-the-fun-is-over grimace. My smile drops before she even starts to speak. She rambles about how my pathology is hardly predictable, how it sometimes worsens with the months, sometimes fixes itself. Her gaze shifts between me and Will, her words articulated, agonizingly slow, while I wish she would simply get to the point. But then she calls me lucky and for a moment I wonder if I heard it right. She points at one of the ultrasound pictures and that's when I see it; the damn stain that's haunting me since the beginning it's not in the same place anymore. It's higher, covering one of the baby's legs from sight. Does that mean what I think it means?
"Don't even think about going back to a stressful job, and cross out driving unless you have no other choice, but you are allowed some moderate activity."
I'm sure our dictionaries quote two different definitions of moderate activity. But I'll take her moderate over any nothing at all. Long walks, random visits at the office - just to see if it's still there, - baby shopping, maybe I could go and visit Zach? Nope, I'm quite sure that doesn't fall in the moderate category. I'm still on the doctor's bed and freedom already smells so good. When the doctor invites me to stand up and redress, Will helps me sit up but for an instant I don't move. His gaze, the shimmer is his eyes, his deepest feelings are all there and I don't need to say anything. My smile is the tacit invitation for him to hold me tight and let the tension drain away. We both need it.
/ / /
Before I could figure out the real extent of the damage, Will's thundering steps were already rushing towards the kitchen.
"Are you okay?" he quivered.
I watched him halt, a few steps from me, then turn to stone. Even in the dim light I could see him pale in something that looked like dread. His gaze nailed down to the ground, it took me a moment to understand his reaction. Until I looked down myself. Between us, in addition to the shattered glass, there was a wide, intense red puddle. It looked like…
"No no no, it's juice!" I hastened to reassure him. "I dropped the jug.. I didn't mean to wake you up." Or to cause you a stroke in the middle of the night, I silently added, trying to figure out how to clean that mess.
Will heaved a deep sigh, a relieved one, then covered his face, rubbing it with both hands. For a while he couldn't speak, probably slowly reeling from the shock and trying to pull himself back together.
I kept staring at the floor, guessing how terrible the scene must have appeared, witnessed by his eyes.
"Aren't you supposed to stay in bed and whine that you want me to get you juice?" he said when he was finally able to speak again. There was definitely some humor in that question, despite his tone being still shaky.
"Maybe I should have," I agreed. " It was either the juice or the phone."
He stepped over the crime scene, careful not to tread on the glass, then leaned in to hold me. "Next time drop the phone, please."
His request, more than justified, managed to get a smile and a soft chuckle out of me.
/ / /
It's good to have dinner out for a change, just the two of us. With Grace spending a few days in Springfield together with Peter before her summer course starts next week, we can get to spend more time alone. And the outcome of today's visit is a good occasion to celebrate.
Tonight, for some odd reason, Will's offer from a few months ago to move in, back after the miscarriage scare happened, keeps dawning on me. Last night's little accident unconsciously brought back a moment of our life we seem unable to leave behind. Sometimes I wish I could simply forget it. Sometimes I have to recall Grace's voice telling me that everything happens for a reason.
"You are pensive," Will observes, pulling me back down from my brooding planet.
"I'm sorry for last night," I toss off, on the house tiramisu we are sharing. Out of thin air, do I realize, when Will stares at me, a tad confused.
Then he nods, faintly. "You scared the hell out of me," he externalizes what he still hadn't openly admitted. His tone is grave, but I can see that he's smiling.
"I know," I laugh. "No more self-service cravings, I swear solemnly I'll wake you up, every single night."
"I guess I asked for it," he winces. "So, back home, now?"
"Are you kidding?" I complain, with fake outrage. "The Pier, a short walk," I suggest. To me, it sounds like the perfect way to end the day.
"Remember that little clause called moderate?" he hints.
Pointlessly. Because roughly half an hour later we are enjoying the view of the lake from the pier. It's a quiet night and the light breeze coming from the lake makes me hunch my shoulders, as I wrap myself tightly in my jacket but refuse to leave. It's much warmer in the city but the panorama is not remotely comparable. The quivering reflection of the moon in the water, the wavelets of the resting boats, the lights on the coast. It's so relaxing.
When Will's phone starts ringing, I wince in disappointment. Only someone from Lockhart & Gardner could think of calling this late, and usually it doesn't mean anything good. But when he stares at his screen, slightly baffled, it's clear this is not about work.
His eyes don't blink once as he picks up, looks at me, then answers very calmly. "Hi mom."