A Southern Star (23 page)

Her voice trailed off; Blake watched her suspiciously, wondering if she was being sarcastic, thinking he had made a polite excuse when in fact he did have a crucial meeting later that afternoon.

— # —
 

Christie leaned back, reclining the seat, trying to counter the light headedness she felt. Blake looked over at her, said nothing as she sat forward, adjusted the air conditioning, trying to cool down. She lay back again, suddenly feeling cold, pulling the travel rug up as she did so; discarding it immediately as it felt prickly, hot, on her skin. Her stomach lurched as she flushed hot, then cold again. Christie closed her eyes, realising the extremely hot day was making her feel tired.

She heard Blake ask if she was alright, nodded, muttered a reply. The dizzy feeling only intensified, prevented her from sleeping. Instead Christie simply kept her eyes closed, trying to relax, focusing on getting back to Lisa’s parents’ place, wanting to be by herself, her emotions exhausted. Blake did not speak again and Christie waited until the car stopped before she opened her eyes, knowing Lisa and her parents would be at the family wedding.

Christie sat up groggily, tensing as she realised they were in a carpark, not the driveway she expected.
We should be in Arrowtown by now.
She looked around, panicking slightly, looking back at Blake, suddenly anxious. “Where are we, Blake? I want to get back to Lisa’s place.”

“Frankton,” he said tersely. Too tired to argue Christie sank back into the seat. “I’ll just wait here,” she said, trying to make herself comfortable, hoping whatever he needed to do would be quick. Blake got out of the car without answering, gently shutting the door. Christie tilted her head, closing her eyes again, imagining herself resting, trying to block out thoughts of the baby, of Blake, what had happened at the apartment in Dunedin.

Blake’s presence only threw Paul’s absence into sharp relief, seeing Scott and Mel, hearing about their carefree lives, only emphasised the changes a baby would force onto her lifestyle, her career. Doubts that she had kept at bay or ignored suddenly flooded into her mind. Dully, she opened her eyes, gazed unseeing through the windscreen. Her baby was due in around three months; she knew she needed to make decisions about the birth, follow the professional advice of the doctor she had seen in Invercargill. Christie closed her eyes again, tried to relax, hoping Blake would return quickly.

She heard the sound of the passenger door, felt the warm air, opened her eyes reluctantly. Blake was standing there, watching her. “What?” Christie said, unnerved. He
 

gestured to the building.
 

“This is the hospital. You’re going in for a check-up.”
 

Christie looked at him, stunned, shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She could not meet his eyes, his intent look. She looked at the dashboard, said nothing. “Are you?” he asked, insisting on an answer. Christie looked at him, her eyes huge, hunted, refusing to answer. “At least you’re not arguing,” Blake said, his eyes never leaving her. “I can’t get hold of Lisa,” he said eventually.

“She’s at a wedding,” Christie said, her anxiety spiralling as she continued telling Blake irrelevant details about the wedding Lisa and her parents were attending, trying to change the subject.
 

Blake interrupted, said her name abruptly. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me you’re okay, I’ll take you back to Arrowtown.”

“I’m worried about the baby,” Christie said hesitantly, looking back at the dashboard.

“Well come in and get a check-up then,” Blake said matter-of-factly. Christie unclipped her seatbelt, realising Blake had assumed she had a specific concern that could be resolved by a check-up, rather than the mingled anxiety, resentment and fear that was filling her.

Blake watched Christie like a hawk, moving only fractionally to allow her to climb out of the car, walking silently next to her into the hospital where he had clearly already spoken to the medical staff. She felt embarrassed, vulnerable as she sat on the hospital bed in the small examining cubicle. Blake stood, leaning on the wall, seemingly unconcerned.
 

This was hardly the way I wanted Blake to see me.
Christie hazily fought off another wave of dizziness, dreading another check-up where well-meaning doctors asked polite questions, enthused about the baby, told her how much she must be looking forward to the birth.

Suddenly, real fear swamped Christie.
What if something was really wrong with the baby; what if she had a miscarriage? What if she didn’t; could she really bring up a baby herself?
Her mind seesawed, imagining different variables, her pragmatic planning and usual common sense swept aside as she struggled to think of anything positive about the baby.

Nervously swallowing her pride, Christie turned to Blake, trying to find the words to ask him to stay in the room. “Blake, can you please—”

“I’ll leave when the doctor arrives,” Blake finished her sentence, his eyes meeting hers. He saw a flash of emotion in her eyes before she looked away, saying nothing further. Her heart ached at his impersonal tone, wishing he would stay, realising he didn’t want to.

Blake was silent, seeming impatient, glancing towards the corridor.
He wants to get back to work,
Christie thought dully.
Not sit here dealing with pregnancy and mood swings.
She heard him talking, summoned a polite smile as he told her he would wait outside now, walked out without another word.

Christie swung her legs onto the bed, leaned back just as the doctor walked in and introduced herself, asked Christie several questions to ensure there was no critical emergency, examined her briefly. “You might like to ask your partner to come in,” the doctor went on. “Put his mind at rest.”

“Yeah right,” Christie said, irrationally feeling like bursting into tears. “He said he’s waiting outside. And he’s not my partner.”
 

The doctor raised her eyebrows slightly, giving Christie an assessing look. “Well he’s a very concerned friend then,” the doctor said calmly. “Perhaps I’ll just double check; if he wants to come in, is that all right?” Christie shrugged, the doctor’s words only increasing her turmoil. “Is that a yes?” the doctor asked gently.
 

Christie nodded briefly. “Only if he wants to,” she said lamely. “I don’t need him.” The doctor nodded, smiling as she left the room, returned instantly with Blake who resumed leaning against the wall. Christie averted her eyes, suddenly self-conscious.

“Is Christie all right?” Blake said suddenly to the doctor. “The baby?”

“I am here in the room, Blake,” Christie said sarcastically, her own worry about the baby spilling out in her tone, knowing Blake would want to get going as soon as possible.
 

The doctor spoke to Blake calmly. “We’re just establishing that. I suggested to Christie it might be better if you were in the room to see things first hand, keep her company.” Acutely aware he was only there because the doctor had suggested it, Blake fell silent.

The doctor started asking Christie questions about how she was feeling; she answered briefly, painfully conscious of Blake as he shifted position, folded his arms.
 

“She seems tired all the time.” Unable to help himself, Blake interrupted Christie’s monosyllables.
 

“I’m pregnant, Blake,” Christie said defensively.
 

“That’s true,” the doctor said mildly. “But you shouldn’t be so tired now, at this stage of your pregnancy. How are you sleeping?”

Christie looked at the doctor, feeling trapped, regretting allowing Blake into the room. Blake who was so perceptive, Blake who could always second-guess her. “You didn’t sleep well last night. And you barely eat.” Again, Blake’s matter-of-fact assessment cut through her hesitation.

“It was just one night,” Christie burst out, stung by Blake’s reference to her lack of sleep. “And I don’t feel well today, but it’s just the heat and lack of sleep. Simple.”

“That’s probably right,” the doctor agreed. “But we’ll just make sure.” The doctor asked Christie if this had happened before; she told the doctor about fainting in the pub, flushed as the doctor raised her eyebrows slightly.
 

“I wasn’t drinking alcohol,” Christie said, remembering with cold terror the wines she had drunk before she had realised she was pregnant, the panicked Internet searches, the conflicting information.

“And how are you feeling about the pregnancy?” the doctor asked.
 

“Fine,” Christie muttered.
 

“That’s hardly a ringing endorsement,” replied the doctor.
 

“You said you were worried about the baby,” Blake interjected, wishing Christie would talk to the doctor, frustrated by her minimal responses.
 

Christie shrugged. “Not medically,” she lied, thinking again of the wines, wines she had been too ashamed to mention to the doctor in Invercargill. Thinking of the heavy pack she had insisted on lifting…
Too late now
, she told herself.

“In what way, then?” the doctor prompted. “Giving birth?”
 

Christie shook her head, blushing, desperately wishing Blake would leave the room. “Just managing with a baby…giving up my career…practical things.” The doctor kept asking questions, asking about family support, accommodation, financial support. The doctor’s professional, practical manner eventually won Christie’s confidence. She found herself feeling calmer, the haziness receding, beyond caring about Blake’s silent presence as she discussed the apartment, how at least that had fallen into place, how she hoped her mother would be able to travel from Australia for the birth.

“And how are you feeling about the pregnancy, Christie?” The doctor repeated her question.
 

“You won’t get the baby any toys,” Blake said, trying to articulate the feeling of unease he had experienced in Dunedin the day before. “You just focus on practical things.”

The doctor frowned, glanced at Blake to acknowledge his words. “Christie?”

“Better than I was,” Christie said bluntly, trying to block Blake’s presence out, the memory of the vibrant animal mobile taunting her with all that it symbolised. She shrugged, not sparing herself. “My ex wanted me to have an abortion. But I couldn’t do it. And then I thought of adoption, that the baby would be better off with two parents.”
 

She took a deep breath, realising Blake had moved closer, was sitting in the plastic chair next to the bed, leaning forward slightly. “I thought I was selfish for wanting to keep the baby, then selfish for wanting to adopt it out. But I realised I want to keep the baby, definitely. Even though it’s a huge—” Christie broke off, taking another deep breath, “—adjustment. In every way, really.”
 

Blake remained silent, not trusting himself to speak as he battled his intense emotions at hearing Christie’s frank responses. He was relieved her voice had become surer, more confident as the doctor overcame Christie’s reserve. He had contemplated leaving the room, bitterly aware she would talk freely if he wasn’t there but had found himself staying, guiltily wanting to know more about Christie, hear her talk. He thought back to her comment she wasn’t worried medically and his eyes narrowed, thinking of her tear-stained confession on Stewart Island, wondering if she had asked a doctor in Invercargill.

“Christie didn’t realise she was pregnant for a couple of months,” Blake said, realising Christie had tensed at his words.
He still doesn’t trust me,
she thought, devastated by his comment, knowing he would ask the doctor whether she should have known earlier, imply she had somehow misled him.
 

“I didn’t know,” she said defensively.

The doctor looked at Blake, nodded. “That’s quite common,” she said, looking back at Christie as she spoke, her voice professional as she explained the reasons. Christie held her breath, wondering what Blake would say next, embarrassed by the doctor’s reference to the symptoms of conception.
 

“So a barbeque meal and few glasses of wine socially in that time wouldn’t harm the baby?” he continued, striving for a casual tone, nervous as he thought of the Internet searches he had done on the effects of drinking alcohol while pregnant.

“Again, that’s quite common,” the doctor said. “I can’t give you an absolute assurance, but I’d try not to worry too much,” the doctor continued. “A lot of mothers are in that situation and their babies are fine.” Tears of relief spilled down Christie’s cheeks; she wiped them away abruptly, acutely aware of Blake tensing in his chair, making no move to touch her, saying nothing. “I take it that was a concern,” the doctor said briskly.
 

Christie nodded, not looking at Blake. “And I lifted a heavy pack,” she muttered.

“You’ve got this far,” the doctor said. “But no more heavy lifting from now on.” Some of the tension left Christie’s body as she thought back over the doctor’s reassuring words, lessening the guilt that had lingered for so long. Her dizziness had faded; replaced by overwhelming embarrassment as she realised Blake had heard her responses, seen her distress.

A sense of loss invaded her as she acknowledged that the consultation had been about as far removed from romantic as was possible; answering clinical questions about her pregnancy, her concerns.
Not what Blake needed to hear,
she thought wearily.
Not when he could walk into any bar in town and pick up a gorgeous, adoring girl with no pregnancy concerns, no baby on the horizon. Who he trusts,
she added silently.
And shares things with.