But somehow, month after month, failure.
It was like a test I kept failing and I didn’t know why.
And I wanted, so badly, tonotthink about tests, vitamins, Indi’s face pinched with worry, my craven gut-deep fear that I wasn’t doing something right. . .
My body shook as I dreamed, as if I could prevent what had happened, stop myself from going over to Astrid’s after work, knowing full well that if I went over there just for a drink that I was feeling so desperate for distraction that I’d linger, that I wouldn’t move away when she stepped up to me, that I wouldn’t stop her when she kissed me. . .
When I came to again, I was sprawled on a couch in the waiting room covered in a tissue paper like blanket, and my ex-wife was looking down at me, tapping her toe impatiently.
“Is there something I canhelpyou with, Ambrose?” Indi asked.
God, she looked beautiful, that big belly bump popping out in front of her, the lovely auburn curls spilling down her back. Iwanted to sit up and watch her waddle up and down the hallway and just worship her.
“What do you mean help me?” I asked weakly. Being found limp on a hospital couch was hardly the way I had dreamed of spending time with Indi.
“Thehospitalcalled me. You still have me listed as your emergency contact. Why haven't you updated that?”
My throat felt sandpapery, but I knew perhaps it was time to come clean about my insecurities, even though it was a deeply humiliating process.
“Denial,” I said, “Ever since we got divorced I’ve been in denial it was real. I guess I hoped. I hoped that somehow, if I didn't change that, it would make itnotreal, and we could still get back together.”
She stared at me and then asked, “What did they call me in here for? What's wrong?”
“I kept fainting,” I said, jealously thinking thatFinnwould never have fainted, probably grew up birthing calves and lambs out in the Irish countryside and would be shoving the doctor aside to deliver Indi’s baby himself.
“You fainted?” Indi asked.
“I fainted.”
Without another word, she left the room. I sat up, attempting to wipe the drool from my mouth, contemplating my miserable life decisions.
When she came back, she was holding out a can of ginger ale.
“Drink this,” she said, “It always helps you when you're feeling nauseated or dizzy.”
I stared at the can. Indi was so sweet. She was the sweetest woman in the world. Why hadn'tIthought of that?
“Thank you,” I said inadequately.
“Goodbye, Ambrose,” she said. “Just sit down with your head between your legs if you feel faint again.”
When I made my way back to the delivery room, my new brother was in a bassinet beside Astrid and she was crossing her arms and ordering room service.
“There you are,” she said. “Well, it’s your turn now.”
“Do you--feel any differently?” I asked, walking carefully up to where the tiny baby was swaddled in a colorful blanket, a knit yellow cap on his head. “He’s pretty cute. We could still co-parent.”
“Nope,” Astrid said. “I don’t want anything to do with any member of your family and I still plan to sue the sperm bank for loading me up with your father’s sperm. Masterful CEO type, indeed!”
I sat down beside the bassinet and watched him sleep.
The hours, maybe even days, blurred together as the nurses came in frequently to check on him and prepare bottles of milk.
Then, as I napped fitfully in the chair, I woke up with a jolt to a paper cut on my throat.
When I jerked upright in surprise, my fingers closed over a crisp piece of paper.
Well, it was official.
