Hearing her baby’s heartbeat, I reach out and take her hand. “I’m certain your exam will reveal a healthy baby.”
If only I could follow my own advice. If only I believed the future held such sureties for me and my daughter.
She spies me with narrowed eyes. “I hope you’re right. I’ve had two second term miscarriages. It’s not anything I’d wish on anyone. And I’m sorry about the Dracula baby comment. It was insensitive of me and rude. I’m just jealous and want this baby so badly.”
I smile, but it doesn’t feel sincere. “Don’t worry, everything will be okay.”
I shouldn’t make promises I can’t back up, but I’m weary stressing about the effects of this pregnancy and subsequent birth. I’m worn-out over the pressure to be perfect.
I glance down at my feet expecting them to be swollen, but they’re not. I haven’t had one questionable or out-of-range test. I shouldn’t worry now. Damn Catherine.
“What about you? Are you here just for routine?” She lifts her brows.
Am I? Couldn’t what I have to discuss have waited until next week? “Yes, routine. Nothing to worry about.”
“Tricia,” the nurse calls my name.
I follow her through the open door that leads to the back room. While I get weighed, I rest my arm over my belly but underneath between the skin that separates me and my child, I don’t feel movement. It’s the scariest part of the third trimester. Is my baby sleeping, coiled in a choking chord, smothered by some unknown means or by something I’ve done? Is my time in Faery hurting the side of the baby that’s a vampire? Had the dark magic I used early in my pregnancy scarred the baby in some way?
“One hundred and thirty six pounds.” The nurse scribbles down my weight. She hands me a sterile cup. “Can you give me a urine sample?”
I’m up a pound. Am I holding fluids? Am I on the verge of preeclampsia? All these nasty thoughts rush into my mind as I void into the tiny green plastic cup.
The weight gain is probably from the fried chicken I’ve been chowing down. Along with Riley’s blood, which I don’t share with the doctor that while we’re making love I crave his blood, the rich thickness as it slides down my throat. I crave his essence more than I ever have since being pregnant, as if each day the petals of darkness unfold, leaving me hungry for its nectar.
When I’m done with my sample, I wash my hands and head back out into the hall.
The nurse leads me to the exam room and hands me a paper privacy cover.
“Undress from the waist down. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
As I undress, the exam room walls seem to close in on me. I tell myself that the floor isn’t shrinking, that this is not a place of Alice in Wonderland. I inhale and press the air back out through my pursed lips, but when the doctor enters with a twisted expression, panic wakes.
“Tricia. You’re here a week early.” Doctor Sharma puts her hands on my belly, feeling the position. “Are you having contractions?”
“No. Well, nothing more than practice ones on occasion.”
She measures the fundus, stretching the tape measurer over my swollen belly. “Braxton Hicks. Are they painful and are you in pain now?”
“No. Just a tightening. Mostly when I’ve been on my feet too long.”
She spies me derisively. “You’ll need to listen to your body more than ever now. Standing for long periods of time isn’t good for you or your baby.” She wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm.
The cuff swells, constricting my arm until my pulse strains against my vein and my fingers fall numb. Here’s the thing. I am numb to my condition. I want to feel joy, but I’m feeling something else—fear I suppose. “I just want to make sure I’m doing the right thing by having this baby.”
She unwraps the cuff and sits on a wheeled chair. “What you’re feeling is perfectly normal. Many mothers-to-be question if their identity will be lost when the baby arrives. They worry that they’ll be too weary to keep up with the demands of being a wife, running a household, and working full time. I promise, you’ll survive this. Why don’t we do an ultrasound to check the baby’s position, and then I’ll send you to the lab for a routine blood test.”
Blood test? Routine? I get the feeling she suspects something’s up but isn’t saying. My concern is what I’ve been keeping from Riley. Will I survive? Can survival include more than mortality? What if my grandmother’s warning includes a psychological death?
I lie back, the small pillow attempting to support my neck but failing. Warm gel lands on my belly and the doctor waves the ultrasound wand over my skin.
Every so often, she pauses to take measurements over the grainy black-and-white image that’s too large for me to make out as compared to when I was five months along.
Everything Dr. Sharma’s doing is what she’s done before, but I can feel the angst wafting off her. “Is there something wrong?”
She sighs through her nose. “Your baby is still in a breech position. She should present head down toward the birthing canal in the next few weeks. We’ll do another ultrasound next week and monitor you more closely. I’d like you to schedule appointments for every week from here on out.”
She flashes me a smile, but I don’t feel consoled. “What if she doesn’t present properly? What if I have to have a cesarean?”
She reaches forward, giving my hand a squeeze.
I stiffen. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to be made to feel more vulnerable than I’m already feeling. In the back of my mind, I can almost hear my grandmother laughing.
“Tricia, I don’t want you to worry. I’ll call with the blood test results as soon as they come in. Okay?”
She tells me not to worry, which spikes my adrenaline, and my skin flashes a pale shade of neon. Great. This entire thing could be just what my grandmother wants, which is to stress my body so my baby suffers. I wouldn’t put anything past her. In contradiction, the deep grooves cutting an arc on the doctor’s face makes me wonder if my grandmother is right. If I’m headed to my death that will have a catastrophic domino effect, I don’t want to allow Riley into my head that’s filled with such negative turmoil. He’s been gone more and more as he works to strengthen vampire politics and the mess Kane left behind. But even though the birth we’re facing troubles me, I won’t allow it to rule me. My stress isn’t helping me think straight, improving my and Riley’s relationship, or easing my reservations about this pregnancy.
Months ago, when Riley thought he’d lose me as I battled my grandmother inside the Senate with the senators and the Vice President of the United States watching, I captured the fearful look in Riley’s eyes. I never want to repeat watching his horror as he thought he might lose me to dark magic.
I open to my mate, letting him glimpse my fear, when I’m questioning our future. I’m questioning this mark. Is it affecting all newborns? I’m not sure if the mark is good or bad. Either way, I want to be safe. I want Riley and me to rejoice in the family we’ve created and welcome our future. But right now, I’m not convinced that’s a sure thing for us, which is why I’m conflicted about this baby.