“I’m opening a bakery,” I say, unable to keep the pride out of it even with everything else. “Within the week, if the universe is benevolent.”
“Ovens, heat, long hours on your feet.” She flips to a checklist. “You’ll want supportive shoes, compression socks if you can tolerate them, and regular breaks to sit down—set a timer if you have to. Avoid heavy lifting. Nothing over twenty-five to thirty pounds. Get help for the flour sacks. Counting on Dad for that one.”
She gives Ben a look before continuing. “Be mindful with cleaners. Lots of ventilation, gloves. Food safety is big. No unpasteurized dairy, mercury in fish. Caffeine is fine up to two hundred milligrams a day. That’s about one small coffee. No alcohol.”
My head is reeling from all the information she’s giving me. I’m trying my best to keep up.
“Umm, I already use gloves and food-safe disinfectants. Nothing unpasteurized. I don’t even like fish that much.”
“Excellent. Exercise as tolerated. Walking is great. Listen to your body.” She clicks to another tab. “Genetic screening is optional but available. Noninvasive prenatal testing can be drawn at ten weeks.”
She goes on to describe that.
I glance at Ben. He’s watching the doctor, not me, jaw set, soaking it in like he’s memorizing it for a test later. “We can talk about the screening down the line,” I say.
“Of course,” Dr. Montez says. “No rush today. We’ll give you a packet that explains everything.”
She closes the chart with a click that feels like a chapter break. “Any questions for me right now?”
I open my mouth. It’s too full of things. Most of them are not for her—how to tell my brother, how to stand across a counter from Ben and pretend we are two people who didn’t do this.
“No,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say.
“Then we’ll see you again in four weeks,” she says, cheerful without being over the top. “And we’re here if anything worries you. Cramping that wraps you in half, bleeding that fills a pad, fever, call us. Otherwise, congratulations again, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
She stands. So do I, a little too fast. Ben is already on his feet, sliding back enough to give me space. Dr. Montez squeezes my shoulder gently as she passes. It’s a small thing. It makes the room feel a little less clinical.
The door snicks shut. We are alone with the vent again.
Ben is close but not touching. “Mid-Spring,” he says softly, like he’s tasting it.
“Mid-Spring,” I repeat, then exhale. “I didn’t think I was going to cry.”
“You were very restrained,” he says, and something like a smile actually makes it to his mouth. “For what it’s worth.”
I stare at the printouts again, then tuck them into the pocket of the folder the nurse left. “I have to go to the lab.” I hear myself saying practical things like I’m practicing for the rest of my life. “Do you have to get back? You don’t have to wait.”
“I’ll wait,” he says. “If that’s all right.”
It is more than all right, and I don’t say that either. I nod. “Okay.”
Chapter Twenty Four
Ben
I’m standing in my kitchen holding a strip of glossy paper like it’s going to deteriorate if I breathe on it wrong.
It’s warm still, or maybe that’s my hands.
I set the image on the counter and step back. The laminate looks wrong under it—too ordinary, like a beer can ring might soak into the baby. I wipe the spot with the heel of my hand even though it’s clean. Then I wipe it again. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating just under the skin, too much electricity.
I should sit down. I don’t sit down.
Instead, I turn the strip a quarter inch, then another, until the frames are squared to the edge of the counter. I don’t even know why that matters. I just know it does.
The words mid-spring ricochet around my head. Mid-spring. Buds on the maples. The river fat with snowmelt. Right in time for Mother’s Day specials with mimosas on the brunch menu.
Mid-spring, there will be another person here. Not an idea or a concept. A real person.
