Page 32 of Pregnant in Plaid
I freeze. "A birthing plan?"
"It's not required, but many women find it helpful to think through what they want ahead of time. Epidural or natural? Hospital or birthing center? Music, dim lights, that sort of thing."
"I haven't—I mean, I didn't—" I can feel panic rising in my throat. "I don't have a plan."
Dr. Martinez's expression softens. "That's okay. You have time. We can discuss it at your next appointment."
"What are the options?" Trace asks, and he's pulled out his phone, apparently ready to take notes.
"Well, for pain management, there's epidural anesthesia, which is very common. Some women prefer IV pain medication, others go natural with breathing techniques and support. And then there's?—"
She goes through the entire list while Trace types everything into his phone with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. He asks questions—good questions, specific ones about risks and benefits and recovery times. He asks about C-sections and whathappens if there are complications and whether there's a NICU in this hospital.
I sit there, paper crinkling beneath me, watching him turn into this person I don't recognize. The man who took me dancing all those months ago didn't ask about neonatal intensive care units. That man told terrible jokes and spun me around the dance floor and kissed me like I was the only person in the world.
This man is asking Dr. Martinez about episiotomies and I'm not sure which version I prefer.
"Now," Dr. Martinez says, standing. "Let's take a look at this baby, shall we? Ultrasound time."
She dims the lights and wheels over a machine that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. I lie back, and she pushes my shirt up, exposing my rounded stomach to the cool air.
"This gel is going to be cold," she warns, and then squirts what feels like an entire bottle of arctic liquid onto my skin.
I gasp. "That's not cold. That's glacial."
Trace moves closer, eyes fixed on the monitor as Dr. Martinez moves the wand across my stomach. Static and shadows at first, and then?—
"There we go," Dr. Martinez says softly.
And there's the baby.
My baby. Our baby. Moving, real, undeniable.
I've seen ultrasounds before—three of them, actually, all in Florida with me sitting alone in rooms that smelled like antiseptic while technicians made smalltalk and pretended not to notice I didn't have anyone with me. But this feels different. Maybe because Trace is here, leaning forward in his chair like he's trying to memorize every pixel. Maybe because I'm in Alaska, in a place that's starting to feel less foreign and more like somewhere I could actually be. Maybe because for the first time in seven months, I'm not doing this alone.
"Strong heartbeat," Dr. Martinez says, and a rapid thump-thump-thump fills the room, impossibly fast, impossibly real. "See that fluttering there? That's the heart. And here—" She points to the screen. "That's a foot."
"A foot," Trace repeats, his voice rough. "That's—that's a whole foot."
"Complete with toes." Dr. Martinez smiles, adjusting the wand slightly. "And if you look here, you can see the baby moving. See that? That's an arm. Baby's quite active today."
I watch the screen, mesmerized. The baby shifts, curls, stretches. A tiny hand comes into view, fingers splayed like a star.
"Oh my God," I whisper. "Is that?—"
"That's the hand," Dr. Martinez confirms. "Ten fingers, ten toes. Baby's measuring right on track. Good size, good position. Everything looks perfect."
"Is the baby healthy?" Trace asks, and I can hear the fear beneath the question. The same fear I've been carrying for months, the constant low-level terror that something will be wrong, that I'll have done somethingto mess this up, that the universe will punish me for hiding this pregnancy, for not telling him, for all my mistakes. "Everything okay? No problems?"
"Everything is perfect," Dr. Martinez assures him, her voice warm and certain. "Strong heartbeat. Right on track for development. All the measurements look good. Amniotic fluid levels are normal. Placenta is in a good position. This is a very healthy baby."
I look over at Trace and realize his eyes are wet. He's not quite crying, but close. He's staring at the screen like it's the most important thing he's ever seen, one hand pressed against his mouth like he's trying to hold something in.
And something in my chest—something I've been keeping carefully locked away since I found out I was pregnant, maybe even since that morning I left his bed—cracks open.
This is real. This man, this baby, this moment. All of it.
"Do you want to know the sex?" Dr. Martinez asks.
