Shatter My Rock (4 page)

“There
is
a little room for variation,” she tells me, a calming tone now
saturating her voice. “Let’s go with August 15th and keep an eye on things.
We’ll get a new measurement next time.”

Another
question nips at me. “What about the bleeding? I told Marci… There was a spot
the size of a silver dollar yesterday.”

She
mops my belly clean with a soft rag and helps me sit up. “Did you have spotting
with your first pregnancy?”

Before
I can answer, Tim blurts, “No, we didn’t.”

“What
color was the blood?”

“Sort
of reddish-brown.”

“Any
pain?”

I
shake my head.

“What
about clots? Or tissue?”

“No,”
I say. “Nothing.”

“From
what I’ve seen, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” she assures me.
“It’s probably idiopathic and transient. All of the structures look good; the
embryo has implanted in the proper place. I’d say you’re in the clear.” She
offers a smile that suggests we may be neurotic. “But if the bleeding
continues, or stops then recurs, you should contact us immediately.”

I
sense a ticking clock that has just zinged past our allotted appointment time.
“Okay,” I agree with a complicit glance at Tim. “We’ll do that.”

There
is a ghoulish picture of a naked woman on Eric Blair’s cell phone, spread-eagle
and wanton. At least five men in the office have seen it and say it’s the most
titillating pornography upon which they have ever laid eyes. Through the
grapevine, I know they believe it’s me.

I
glimpse Eric through my office window and decide to settle the matter, once and
for all. As swiftly as my middle-aged, five-months pregnant body can move, I
pop out of my chair and give chase, my prey nearly vanishing into the elevator.
“Eric!” I call, breathless from the exertion.

He
turns in slow motion, as if he expects the sight of me to hurt. But he smiles.
“Claire-bear.”

I
summon all the self-control I possess, which may be minimal given my erratic
hormones of late. “I need to talk to you.”

He
takes a couple of lurid, hip-swinging steps in my direction and purrs,
“Anything you say.”

His
hypersexual affect would be sickening, even if I weren’t pregnant. “In my
office.”

I
march back down the hall and he follows, his gaze burrowing into me. Already, I
regret this contact.

I
close the door after us and assume the power position behind the giant slab of
mahogany that is my desk, but Eric refuses to play along. Instead of sitting,
he loiters, fondles things that do not belong to him. “So what’s up?”

I
clear my throat. “I’ve become aware of an image that’s circulating,” I begin,
“of a woman.”

He
shoots me a Cheshire grin and props his foot on the arm of an empty chair, his
crotch pointing at me in the same way I imagine this mysterious photograph to
be. “Sorry about that,” he claims, “but it was too good not to share.”

“This
type of behavior is strictly prohibited in the workplace,” I inform him. “Get
rid of it, or I’ll have to tell Bob.”

“You
look great,” he says. “Some of my best work. I didn’t even have to touch it
up.”

A
chill rolls through me. “Cut the shit, Eric,” I say. “Stop screwing around.”

He
lifts an industrial-sized bottle of prenatal vitamins from the corner of my
desk and spins it around, studying the label. “Do these cause breast
enlargement?” he asks, planting his gaze on my chest. “Because from where I
stand…”

I
feel like a rat in a sadistic experiment. “Just get rid of the picture,” I
reiterate. “I don’t want to have to—”

He
steps on my words. “You were good, you know. I don’t think I told you. We can
do it again, once this
situation
resolves,” he says, gesturing at my
swollen belly as if it’s a disease he’s loath to catch.

I
have crossed the threshold from lab rat to
Twilight Zone.
“You need
help,” I say. “
Serious
help.”

He
lowers his leg and moves closer. “Don’t be like that, Claire-bear.”

It
hits me that I’ve made an error in judgment. “Get rid of it or don’t,” I
backtrack. “It’s not my concern.”

His
hand slips into his trousers and comes out with the phone in question, which he
sets to display the photograph I have yet to see. “Go ahead,” he says as I turn
away. “Take a look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

As
much as I don’t want to, I must. I may not get another chance to know for sure.
I take the phone into my palm and draw it toward my face, aghast.

The
rumors are well-founded. Although I know it’s not me, even Tim might disagree.
I look closer, mine for details to bolster my case, sicken at the thought of
dissecting this poor woman—whoever she is—for my own gain.

Yet
the proof I seek eludes me. I want to believe Eric has Photoshopped my head on
some porn star’s body, but this is not the case. Too many rounded features and imperfections.
Flaws I have seen in the mirror. Then comes the sucker punch: the wallpaper.
It’s the stuff from Cincinnati, room two fourteen.

By
July, the only place I can get comfortable is my temperature-controlled office
at work. If hot flashes were a symptom of pregnancy, I’d be first in line for
the cure.

There
are other problems with this pregnancy too, troubles I didn’t have with Ally: edema,
preeclampsia, a mild case of gestational diabetes. Even the specter of
placental abruption looms, a complication Dr. Patel warns us could threaten the
baby’s life and mine.

But
Ally is in heaven, her entire summer thus far devoted to a homespun infant
wardrobe in shades of yellow and green. We knew the sex of the blastocysts when
they were transferred: three females and one male. But the baby remains a
mystery.

“Look,”
Ally says, proudly dangling her latest creation, a tiny pair of zigzag-patterned
mittens, before me.

The
air conditioner blows squarely at my face as I lounge propped by numerous
pillows, my feet elevated, reading the most recent edition of
What to Expect
When You’re Expecting. I look normal, feel normal,
am
normal,
I tell
myself.

I
outstretch my arms for a hug. “I love ‘em!”

Ally
sinks into my lap, nuzzles her chin to my neck, splays her fingers over my
belly. “Is it kicking?”

I
am so aware of this baby’s form that I don’t even have to think. I guide her
hand to the right spot. “Here.”

Ally
has felt the petite nudges and jolting thrusts before, always responding with
the raw fascination one might reserve for a brush with a tornado or a movie
star. But today the baby plays possum. “I don’t feel anything,” she complains
with an exaggerated frown, her lower lip outthrust.

“I
think it’s sleeping.”

Ally
seems as if she may drift off too, revert to infancy here in my arms. I am sticky
enough that I wish to move her, but the tenderness of her touch gives me pause.
Savor this,
I remind myself.
Soon it will be gone.

I
drag the back of my hand over her brow, clearing the droplets of perspiration I
somehow feel are my fault. “What should we name the baby?” I ask. This has been
a hot topic of conversation between Tim and me, but so far we have kept our
daughter out of it.

Ally
springs off my lap, glowing with excitement. “I
love
Gypsy,” she
proclaims, “or Blossom.” She clamps a thumbnail between her teeth and casts her
eyes skyward. “Oh, or Miracle.”

I
am beginning to share Tim’s worry about Miss Abigail and the threat of Ally
joining the circus. “What if it’s a boy?”

It’s
obvious she hasn’t given this idea a shred of thought. “A boy? I thought Daddy
said…”

“There’s
a one in four chance,” I explain. “Three out of four it’s a girl.”

She
mulls this information. “Ricky?”

I
have told Ally the bare minimum about the uncle who died two decades before she
was born, but what she does know has stuck.

“You
think?” I say, sure now that I want a girl. Not because of Ricky, but because
of Ally, the heartbreaking thoughtfulness of her.

“It’s
nice,” she tells me softly. “It would make you happy.”

It
occurs to me that Ally may know more than I think, may have borne silent
witness to the breakdowns I’ve had at Christmas and on Ricky’s birthday.

“I
like Brayden,” I say, “or maybe Owen.” I smile. “We still have time to decide.”

Babies
come when
they
want to, when
they
decide, due-date charts and
ultrasounds be damned.

I
phone Tim from the office. “Okay, don’t panic.”

“What?
What’s wrong?”

“I
think my water just broke,” I tell him, when in fact I know.

As
if it matters, he says, “But we haven’t even… Are you sure?”

“Call
Dr. Patel,” I insist coolly, “and meet me at the hospital.”

“You
can’t drive.”

“Yes,
I can; there are no contractions.”

“But
what if…?”

I
interrupt, “It’s only fifteen minutes. I love you.”

Before
he can object further, I hang up. Then I switch the phone off and bury it
inside my purse. Now he has no choice but to cooperate.

When
I tell my assistant, Laurie, what’s happening, she stares at me as if I’ve
sprouted another head. “I can call an ambulance,” she offers nervously. “It’s
no problem.”

I
am not a cripple and bristle at being treated as such. “Not necessary,” I
flatly state. “Just clear my calendar for the next six weeks and let the other
VPs know.”

“Okay.”

Over
my shoulder, I add, “And don’t forget to water my plants.”

Dr.
Patel is on a mission to Timbuktu, news I struggle to accept when Tim delivers
it. “The doctors on staff here are topnotch,” he says in hopes of allaying my
concerns. “They handle over two-thousand births a year.”

I
had our daughter in this hospital. On this floor. Maybe even in this room and
this bed. “I know,” I say, coming to terms. “I’m sure it will be fine. Where’s
Ally?”

“Mom’s
picking her up from camp,” he tells me, the words ringing incestuous. His
mother has been more pertinent than my own, but the thought that we share her
throws me.

It’s
been a while since anyone has checked, but the most recent stats on my labor shake
out like this: two centimeters dilated; one-hundred percent effaced; zero
contractions.

I
wish to see the nurse, and miraculously she appears. “How’re we doin’ in here?”
she asks in a bubbly, singsong tone. “Can I get you some ice chips?”

I
wonder if babies like the undulating way she speaks. “Sure,” I say. Ice is all
they’ll give me.

She
turns to Tim. “I can man the fort here, if you want to sneak down to the
cafeteria.”

Tim
is on a sympathetic hunger strike. “I’m good.”

“What
about the Pitocin?” I ask, distracting her from the bedside monitors. “Are they
going to induce?”

I
didn’t have
this
problem with Ally either, the lack of contractions. But
I’ve heard about it from friends and read the literature.

“The
doctors are discussing that right now,” she informs me with a placating smile.
“They just tracked down your group B strep results.”

Tim
asks, “Her what?”

My
husband’s confusion strikes me as funny, but I manage to stifle a giggle. As
obsessed as I’ve been with this pregnancy, Tim has been doubly so. I didn’t
think there was a stone he’d failed to overturn.

“It’s
a strain of streptococcus bacteria,” the nurse explains, “that can be
transmitted to the baby during delivery. It can lead to sepsis, pneumonia,
meningitis.”

Tim’s
hand tightens around mine. To calm him, I say, “But it can be treated with
antibiotics, right?”

The
nurse nods with enthusiasm. “Sure can.”

“Prophylactically?”
Tim asks.

“That’s
the idea.”

I
say what Tim is thinking. “Was my test positive?”

“You
know, I’m not sure. But I’ll have Dr. Mason come in and talk with you,” she
promises. “Now let me get you those ice chips.”

She
ducks out, and I tell Tim, “You should get something to eat. We’ve been here
for hours, and nothing has changed. It might be a while.”

“Uh-uh.”
He shakes his head. “I want to be here when the doctor comes.”

Because
of what happened with my father, how he deserted us and started a whole new
family—a better, healthier one—in Mexico, Tim’s unwavering support clinches our
bond. “I love you,” I declare for the umpteenth time, my eyes welling. There is
no finer man on earth with whom to share a love. A life. Destiny.

Tim
leans in and pecks me on the forehead. Smoothes my hair. Says nothing and
everything.

The
doctor arrives before the ice chips do. “Hello, Mrs. Fowler,” he says, his eyes
glued to his BlackBerry. He steals a glance at Tim. “Mr. Fowler.”

For
both of us, I say, “Hi.” This bed is so uncomfortable that it wears on my
nerves, readies me to be done.

“Dr.
Mason?” Tim verifies, since we have failed to receive an introduction.

Already
snapping on a pair of latex gloves, the doctor confirms, “Uh-huh.” Some doctors
are like this: They treat people like chattel. This one takes it a step further
by pushing the drape over my knees and probing my vagina without as much as a
syllable of explanation.

He
peels the gloves away and tosses them in the trash, then goes right back to his
BlackBerry. “Has anyone talked to you about a Cesarean section?”

I
want to say no, but this would be a lie. “Dr. Patel said it might be necessary,
if the preeclampsia worsened,” I admit.

“That’s
just one of your problems,” he tells me. “Your membranes have ruptured, and you
tested positive for group B strep. We need to get the baby out of there, or there’s
a serious risk of infection.”

The
nurse slips into the room, ice chips in hand, but waits, affords the doctor the
respect to which he is entitled.

“When?”
asks Tim.

I
have purposely avoided the thought of a C-section, to spare myself undue
stress. But now I wish I’d prepared.

“Let’s
get the antibiotics started and recheck you in an hour. If nothing has changed,
we’ll proceed with the surgery.”

“Okay,”
I say.

I
sense that Tim wishes to object but can’t find the appropriate grounds. Instead,
he nods.

It
seems an irregular way to enter the world, to be sliced from the warm sling
that cradles you. “So that’s it, I guess,” I say to Tim as the doctor hits the
hallway. “Change of plans.”

He
offers me a comforting smile, and it works; I feel better. “Look at it this
way,” he suggests. “It’ll be over before you know it, and then you can get some
rest.”

As
it turned out, the mention of a C-section was premature, because no sooner do
the antibiotics hit my bloodstream than rolling waves of pain overspread my
abdomen. And things only pick up from there; within the hour, I enter the
pushing phase, the portion of labor that, with Ally, was the lengthiest and
most arduous.

But
this baby has other plans.  

In
the time it takes to chip the ice from my car on a winter morn, he arrives:
Owen Richard Fowler. The son Tim has always wanted and the boy I need.

The
nurses bundle him and let me look, a sight that cracks my chest with joy.
I
love you,
I tell him telepathically, as I have all these months,
sweet
baby boy.