Page 26 of Pregnant in Plaid
I file that information away. Bacon: approved. Internet pregnancy advice: questionable. Also note: stop thinking about the noises she makes while eating. That's a dangerous road.
"The internet also says pregnant women shouldn't eat sushi, soft cheese, deli meat, or basically anything enjoyable," I say, sitting down across from her with my coffee. "At a certain point, you have to weigh the risks versus the benefits of actually wanting to eat."
She points her fork at me. "See, this is the kind of practical thinking I can get behind. My pregnancy app sent me a notification last week warningme about the dangers of gardening. Gardening, Trace. Like I'm going to spontaneously develop an interest in landscaping at seven months pregnant."
"Maybe the baby wants you to take up gardening."
"The baby wants me to eat an entire jar of pickles at two a.m. and then immediately regret it. The baby has questionable judgment."
I grin, watching her work her way through the eggs. She eats like someone who's been hungry for a while, which makes me wonder when she last had a proper meal. That granola bar on the plane doesn't count.
"When did you eat last?" I ask. "Like, actually eat. Not snacks."
She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. "Define 'actually eat.'"
"Protein. Vegetables. Things that aren't packaged in convenient, portable formats."
"I had Chinese takeout three days ago. Does that count?"
"Three days ago?"
"I've been busy." She's defensive now, which means I'm right to be concerned. "Packing for the trip, tying up loose ends at work, preparing for the move to Anchorage. It's not like I've been starving myself."
"But you haven't been feeding yourself properly either."
She sets down her fork, and I can see I've pushed a button. "Look, I'm doing the best I can, okay? It's noteasy being pregnant alone. Some days I'm so tired I can barely stand up long enough to cook anything. Some days food makes me nauseous. Some days I just—I just survive. That's all I can do."
The anger I felt earlier evaporates, replaced by something that feels suspiciously like guilt. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to criticize. I'm just?—"
"Worried," she finishes. "I know. But Trace, you can't come in here and suddenly start managing my life because you're worried. That's not how this works."
"Then tell me how it works," I say, leaning forward. "Because I don't know. I don't know what you need. I don't know what's normal and what's concerning. I don't know if you're supposed to be this tired or if that's a problem. I don't know anything, and it's driving me crazy."
She studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Okay. Fair point. How about this—you can ask me things. You can express concern. But you can't make decisions for me. Deal?"
"Deal."
"So," she says finally, pushing her plate back. "What's the plan?"
"Plan?"
"For today. The weekend. This whole..." She gestures between us. "Situation."
Right. Plan. I have one of those. I think.
"I called Dr. Martinez," I say, and watch her eyesnarrow dangerously. "She's the doctor from town—delivered Tessa's friend's baby last year, really well-respected. I figured you'd need someone local while you're here, and she had an opening this morning, so?—"
"You made me a doctor's appointment?" Her voice is very quiet. Very controlled. The kind of quiet that means I've just stepped on a landmine.
"Well, yeah. I thought?—"
"Without asking me?"
"I was being helpful?—"
"You were being controlling!" She stands, and I can see the anger radiating off her. "You don't get to make decisions for me, Trace. You don't get to schedule my medical appointments without my permission. That's not help. That's—that's?—"
"Smart!" I stand too, because this is apparently happening now. "That's smart! You're seven months pregnant and you just flew across the country, and you don't have a local doctor here and what if something happens? What if you go into early labor? What if?—"
