“Sheisso cute already,” Celia gushes, giving me another squeeze.
“Here,” Dr. Carroll says, reaching for the keyboard. “Do you have a name yet?”
I wipe my eye with the back of my hand. “No.”
“That’s okay.” She punches a few keys and then hits a button. A sheet of shiny, black and white photos spews out of a small printer, and she hands it to me.
The first one is a photo of the baby’s profile, and across the bottom are the words,Little Baby Girl Coming in April.
I can’t fight the tremble of my chin and the pout of my bottom lip as I turn to Celia, who snorts and kisses the top of my head.
“Ahjeez. I think we need to go feed you or something.”
Or something.
I don’t think food is going to make me feel better about this.
Food didn’t make me feel better,however, I do have a weekly home check with Archer this afternoon, and thatalwaysmakes me feel good. Because Archer iscrushing it.
He got his GED about a month and a half ago, and then we spent two weeks going over the Spring catalog from Borough of Manhattan Community College. He’s currently registered for English Comp, College Math, Life Sciences, and Intro to Theatre, the very first requirements of an associate’s degree in theatre. It should only take him two years to finish if he can stay on track. And I have no idea what Colin has had to say about Archer’s phenomenal progress because I haven’t spoken to him since the day I broke the news, but Archer says his older brother is “totally fuckin’ stoked.” And that’s something.
Given that Archer is doing so well, the home checks never take more than fifteen minutes, but I need a little pick-me-up—and possibly a little connection to Colin—so I’m thinking I may stick around a little longer for this one. I’ll shoot the breeze with Archer and let him gush about whatever play is showing at the theatre where he still works as a janitor. That always keeps him focused on his long-term goal, and today, it’ll keep me distracted from the ache in my chest leftover from the ultrasound.
I show up at Archer’s studio apartment at the corner of E. 78th Street and First Avenue unannounced, as is standard operating procedure, knock on the door, and wait.
And wait.
I knock again.
And wait again.
I knock a third time.
And keep waiting.
“Hey, Archer,” I call through the door as I knock a fourth time. “It’s Elle. Just here for your standard bi-weekly home check.”
After a few seconds of no response, I press my ear to the door.
Silence.
Pursing my lips—because he’s treading on thin ice by not answering—I pull out my phone to dial his.
After six rings, it rolls over to voicemail.
“Archer, it’s Elle. I’m standing on your doorstep for a home check. Can you answer the door?”
I end the call, then call again, but press my ear back against the door to listen for his phone ringing inside.
Still nothing but silence.
“Archer,” I say in another voicemail, “I’m going to wait out here for fifteen minutes, and I really,reallyneed you to either call me back or open the door. Let’s not break this awesome hot streak you’re on, okay?”
I stare at the time on my phone for literally the entire fifteen minutes, and even give him an extra five.
Still no call. Still nobody opening the door. Still no sound from inside.
So I get on the call tree.
