When You Least Expect It (14 page)

“Wait—do we know what the doctor’s office is going to charge?” I asked, trying to remember how much we had in our checking account and if it would be enough to cover it.

“It’s not going to cost anything. Or, at least, it won’t cost us anything,” she said.

“Why?” I asked. I knew Lainey didn’t have health insurance through her job. If she even still had a job. As far as I could tell, Lainey hadn’t gone to work since moving in to the guesthouse. India was thrilled—she worried that it wasn’t safe for the baby to be around the noxious nail salon fumes. I was less pleased. We’d already agreed to pay Lainey a monthly stipend, with Mike laying out the guidelines for what was allowed. Even so, I suspected that an unemployed Lainey would want more than we were already paying her, and kept expecting her to approach us—or, more likely, India—with a demand.

“Don’t you remember? Mike found out that Lainey qualifies for Medicaid. He helped her get the paperwork filled out, and recommended a good obstetrician who accepts Medicaid patients.”

“Was I in the room when this was being discussed?” I asked.

India thought about it. “Actually, you might not have been,” she admitted. “But I definitely told you about it afterward.”

“I don’t think so. I would have definitely remembered hearing that something related to this adoption is free,” I said. I eyed India,
still hopeful that she’d step back into my arms, which would maybe lead to more interesting activities. But instead, she turned, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to get dinner started,” India said. “Do you think Lainey would like a cheese and onion frittata? I think I could sneak some spinach into it without her noticing.”

Before I could answer, she was gone.

I could tell Lainey was nervous. As we waited to see her doctor—sitting all in a row, with India in the middle—Lainey had her arms and legs crossed, her right foot bouncing rhythmically in the air. I tried to figure out if she was bouncing along to a song playing in her head, and if so, which one—I’m partial to tapping along to EMF’s “Unbelievable” myself—but quickly gave up. She probably listened to music by Justin Timberlake, or whoever else is big with the kids these days. Nothing I would know.

“It’ll be fine,” India said soothingly. “I think it’s basically like having a Pap smear.”

“What’s that?” Lainey asked.

“You’ve never had a Pap smear before?” India asked.

Lainey shook her head, and shrugged. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s a test they do to see if you have cervical cancer,” India explained. “Have you ever had a pelvic exam?”

This time Lainey nodded. “When I went to the clinic for the abortion.”

India flinched involuntarily. I glanced around at the waiting room, which was decorated for the holidays. There was a fake tree with blinking multicolor lights set up in one corner, red and white paper bells hung from the reception desk, and cutouts of Santa were taped to the wall.

There were five other women there, all obviously pregnant, although
there was a lot of variation in stomach size. Some were so hugely round they looked like they’d swallowed a baby elephant. Others were just a bit bloated, as though they’d gone overboard on the Szechuan chicken and fried rice at the all-u-can-eat Chinese lunch buffet. One of the larger women—so big she had to sit with her feet splayed out to either side while her enormous protruding stomach rested on her thighs—looked as though she might be ready to pop at any minute. She caught me looking at her, and I quickly averted my eyes, pretending I had been looking at the clock over her head.

“Lainey Walker,” a nurse called out.

Lainey stood quickly. India stood, too, and glanced down at me. “Are you coming?”

“Right,” I said, getting up.

The nurse led us back to a small, rather utilitarian office—laminate desk, matching five-shelf bookcase, framed diplomas on the wall—and told us the doctor would be with us shortly. India and Lainey sat in the two available chairs; I stood off to one side. The doctor came in almost immediately.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Jones,” she said, smiling.

Dr. Alice Jones looked to be in her mid-to late thirties. She was black, with closely cropped hair and silver-framed glasses, and wore no makeup or jewelry. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see the three of us there together, and shook each of our hands in turn. I wondered if this was common—the adoptive couple tagging along to the exam—or if she’d been informed ahead of time.

“I’m sorry there’s not an extra chair,” Dr. Jones said to me. “I can try to find one for you.”

“That’s okay. I’m good,” I said.

She sat behind her desk and flipped open a manila file that contained the paperwork Lainey had filled out in the waiting room. “I see you didn’t put down the date of your last period,” Dr. Jones said.

“I couldn’t remember,” Lainey said.

“That’s fine. We’ll do a sonogram today and see if we can get an idea of how far along you are,” Dr. Jones said. “Have you been taking prenatal vitamins?”

Lainey shook her head.

“I’ll give you some samples before you leave. Let me know which you like the best, and I’ll write a prescription for you. So, do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Jones looked up. “Any of you?”

Lainey and I both shook our heads this time, but India—sitting on the edge of the chair, her back poker-straight—had come prepared with a list of questions she’d gotten out of
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
. She’d actually taken to carrying the book around with her, and it was now worn and dog-eared from frequent use.

“How long have you been in practice?” India asked.

“I’ve been here for two years. Before that, I did my residency in obstetrics at Jackson Memorial in Miami,” Dr. Jones said.

“How often will we see you, and how often will we see the other doctors in this office?” India asked.

“There are five physicians here in this office, along with two midwife practitioners. I’ll be Lainey’s primary doctor, but she will have the opportunity to meet the other doctors and midwives. We like to do that so if, for some reason, I’m not available when she goes into labor, she’ll have already met the doctor on call.”

“Is that likely?” India asked.

“We all like to attend the deliveries of our own patients. I’ll make every effort to be there,” Dr. Jones replied.

India went on to ask about prenatal testing, childbirth classes, developing a birth plan (whatever that was), the odds of a cesarean, what hospital Lainey would give birth in, and who would be available to answer phone calls, should we have any concerns while at home. Dr. Jones answered each question equably and
competently. Lainey sat in absolute silence, and I did likewise, shifting from foot to foot, wishing India would hurry up and finish. I wasn’t sure what the point of this all was anyway—there were only so many obstetrical practices in the area that accepted Medicaid, and Mike had assured us that this was the very best of the lot.

Finally, India ran out of steam. “That’s all we have for now,” she said.

“Anyone else? Lainey? Jeremy?”

Lainey and I shook our heads in unison.

“All right. Lainey, you come with me. We’ll do the exam, and then when it’s time for the sonogram, India and Jeremy can join us,” Dr. Jones said.

Cool relief trickled through me. I wouldn’t have to be present for the examination. Once Dr. Jones had ushered Lainey out of the office, and India and I were alone, I claimed Lainey’s vacated chair. India turned to me.

“So?” she said.

“So what?”

“What did you think?”

I shrugged. “I really didn’t want to be in there during the exam anyway.”

“I meant what do you think of the doctor?”

“She seems nice. And her glasses are really cool,” I said.

“Her glasses?”

“Yeah, didn’t you notice? They were rectangular. Very funky,” I said.

“Oh, good. That’s right here on my list of what to look for in an obstetrician. Funky eyewear. Check.”

“Really?”

“No. That was sarcasm.”

“That’s too bad. It should be on your list.”

“Jeremy?” India said.

“Uh-oh.”

“Why
uh-oh?”

“You only call me Jeremy when you’re mad at me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is,” I said. “Usually you call me honey or snookums.”

“I have never, ever called you snookums,” India said.

“Maybe not, but when you call me Jeremy, that usually means I’m in trouble,” I said. “So why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. I’m concerned.”

“About what?”

“The jokes, the obsession with Dr. Jones’s eyewear,” India began.

“I’m not obsessed. I just liked her glasses. And I always joke around.”

“I know. But there’s a time and a place for it. And when we’re interviewing our birth mother’s doctor, it really isn’t the best time or place. She’s the person who’s going to be responsible for the safe delivery of our future child. It feels like you’re checking out.”

“Checking out on what?” I asked.

“Everything.” India made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “The adoption. Getting to know Lainey. Interviewing the doctor.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I pointed out.

“Yes, but you’ve barely said anything. You didn’t ask Dr. Jones a single question,” India said.

“That’s because you asked everything anyone could possibly want to know,” I said. “There was nothing left.”

“It’s more than that,” India continued. “You just don’t seem present. It was one thing when you let me handle all of the paperwork leading up to the adoption.”

“I wrote our adoptive-parent profile,” I said indignantly.

India just looked at me.

“What?” I asked.

“You wrote it in the style of a movie trailer. ‘Meet India and
Jeremy Halloway. They’re about to embark on the biggest adventure of their lives: parenthood,’” India said, reciting the profile by heart in a way that made me suspect she’d been harboring a grudge about it for some time.

“I was trying to make us stand out from all the other prospective adoptive parents. I was trying to give it a good hook,” I said.

“I had to rewrite the whole thing,” India said peevishly.

So she
had
been holding a grudge.

“But it worked. Lainey picked us,” I said.

“I know.”

“Then why are we fighting about it now?”

“We’re not fighting. We’re talking. I just need you to be with me on this,” India said.

“I am with you,” I said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” India asked.

The door to Dr. Jones’s office swung open, and a nurse stuck her head in. “Dr. Jones said you can come in now if you’d like to be present for the sonogram.”

India stood. “Yes, we definitely would,” she said quickly.

We followed the nurse down the hall. She knocked briefly on a closed door, then opened it without waiting for a response. Lainey was inside, sitting up on an exam table. She was wearing a yellow cotton hospital gown and had a blue paper blanket spread over her lap. Dr. Jones was sitting on a wheeled stool, scribbling in the ever-present chart. She looked up at our entrance and smiled at us.

“Come on in,” she said.

“Is everything okay?” India asked, looking from Dr. Jones to Lainey.

Lainey shrugged—this seemed to be her default reaction to everything today—but Dr. Jones said, “So far, so good. We’ll have a better idea once we get a picture.”

There was a sonogram machine, complete with a small television, set up next to the examination table.

“Where would you like us?” India asked.

“Right back here,” Dr. Jones said. She stood, and gestured for us to move to the far end of the table, next to where Lainey’s head would be once she lay down. “I’ll turn the monitor so that you’ll be able to see. Lainey, lie back and put your feet up.”

Dr. Jones switched off the lights while Lainey got into position, resting her heels in the stirrups and lying back with her knees bent and legs spread. Dr. Jones fiddled with the machine for a few moments, flipping switches and adjusting the monitor toward us.

“Do you have a good view?” she asked.

“Yes,” India said.

Dr. Jones rolled her stool over and sat down between Lainey’s legs. Embarrassed, I stared at the television screen. Lainey had the paper sheet spread over her lap, so even if I looked—which I had no intention of doing—I wouldn’t be able to see anything, but I still felt vaguely lecherous just for being in the room.

Suddenly, a blurry picture appeared on the black-and-white screen. It was almost triangularly shaped, although the top was sawed off and the bottom was curved. In the middle, there was a bubble, and inside the bubble …

“There’s the fetus,” Dr. Jones said, pointing. “Here’s the head, the torso, this is the leg.” The blob moved. “There’s a hand. Do you see?”

India gasped. I turned to look at her. She had both hands pressed over her mouth, and her eyes glittered with tears. A lurch of panic seized me.

“Is it okay?” I asked. “Is it …”

I was going to say
alive
, but couldn’t seem to form the word.

“So far, so good. Do you see this here?” The doctor pointed at something that looked like a flickering grain of rice. “That’s the heartbeat.”

I stared at it and waited for a sense of divine knowledge to hit me, a feeling that
this was my child
. It didn’t come.

“Lainey, look,” India said, squeezing Lainey’s shoulder.

“Cool,” Lainey said. She sounded bored. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“It’s too early to tell,” Dr. Jones said.

“Can you tell how far along Lainey is?” India asked.

“The measurements I took are telling me the fetus is twelve weeks, four days old,” Dr. Jones said.

I glanced down at Lainey, wondering if this revelation was causing her to remember the fateful night that the baby was conceived. But she appeared uninterested in what she was seeing. And so, so young. Despite her heavy makeup—black eyeliner, caked-on foundation, maroon lipstick—she looked much younger than her twenty years.

“Jeremy, look,” India breathed.

I looked at her. She was staring so intently at the monitor, she didn’t seem to notice the tears that were running freely down her face. I glanced at the screen again. It looked exactly as it had before.