Page 12 of Cashmere Cruelty

And then, one month later, the universe holds up both middle fingers to me…

In the form of two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

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 likeWar 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. Allandidn’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 mywatermelon-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.

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