Pregnant in Pennsylvania Page 19

Aiden.

  “I need to see Aiden. I need him to know I’m okay.”

  “Mrs. Emory has called your parents. They’re on the way to come get him so I can take you to the hospital.”

  “I need to see him.”

  “Okay, this way.” He doesn’t let go of my hand; his palm is warm and dry against mine, keeping me upright as I wobble on shaky legs.

  I’m still three or four feet from the front door of the school when Aiden barrels through it at a dead sprint, arms wide, tears running down his cheeks. “Mama!”

  I get down to my knees, and let Aiden slam into me for a hug. “Whoa, careful, bud.”

  “The car hit you and Coach pulled me back and I thought you were—I thought—” He’s sniffling, sobbing, close to hyperventilating.

  “I’m okay, honey. I’m fine.” I wipe his cheeks and cup them. “Look at me, honey. Not a scratch on me. I’m shaken up and my neck hurts, so I’m gonna have a doctor look at me to be sure. You’re going to go with Grandma and Papa, okay?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I’m going with you.”

  I smile, and hug him. “Aiden, baby. Do you remember how long it took at the hospital when you hurt your ankle?”

  He nods, sighing—I can see the resignation in his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “I promise you I’m okay. I’m not injured. I’m barely even hurt. It was scary, but I’m okay. I just need to see the doctor to be absolutely sure.” I hug him again. “I want you to be with me too, buddy, but there will be a lot of hospital time, and you’ll get bored. Go with Grandma and Papa. Have some dinner, watch a show, build something with Papa in the barn, and I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

  “All right.” He frowns at me. “You’re not just being tough because you don’t want me to be scared or worried?”

  I laugh. “I won’t lie to you, Aiden—I’m pretty shaken up. It was scary as heck, and I have a headache and my neck hurts. But that’s all minor stuff. Remember what you told me about the difference between hurt and injured?”

  He nods. “Yeah.” He glances at Jamie. “Coach told me that.”

  “Right. So, buddy, again, look at me: I’m a little hurt, but I’m not injured. Have I ever lied to you?”

  He shrugs. “Not that I know of.”

  I laugh. “Not that you know of, because I’ve never lied to you, and I never will. And I’m not just being tough. But I don’t want you to be scared or worried because I’m okay. I just have to get checked out to be a hundred percent sure.”

  “Okay, Mama.” I hug him again, and then I hear the telltale rattle of Dad’s ancient Chevy pickup as it enters the pickup/drop-off circle.

  Dad hops out, and while his expression is neutral, I know him well enough to know he’s worried. “You all right, kiddo?” His voice is low, gruff, and angry.

  “I’m fine, Dad.” I stand up and hug him. “Whiplash and a headache.”

  He glances at Jamie. “You’re taking her in?”

  Jamie nods. “Yes, sir. Right now. Or as soon as I can get her into my truck.”

  “Good luck with that,” Dad huffs. “She’s as stubborn as they come.”

  “Dad!” I snap.

  He shrugs. “You are. Just like your mama.”

  “Mama’s not stubborn,” Aiden says. “She just knows what she wants.”

  Dad laughs at that. “Well, I can’t say you’re wrong there, pal.” He claps Aiden on the shoulder. “Well, buddy, I’ve got a carburetor needs fixing so my ol’ tractor will work, and I need your help.”

  “What’s a carburetor? Is it like carbohydrolates?”

  I laugh. “Carbohydrates, bud.”

  “Yeah, that,” Aiden says.

  Dad snorts. “Not even close. A carburetor is a part in older cars and trucks. I’ll explain what it does while we fix it and put it back in.”

  “Okay.” Aiden hugs me once more. “Be good for the doctors, Mom.”

  I wobble a little, and Jamie catches me, his arm surreptitiously bracing my elbow. “I will. You be good for Grandma and Papa.”

  “I will!”

  “And don’t learn any more of Papa’s crabapple wisdom.”

  Dad laughs. “I’ve been a crabapple my whole life. Ain’t about to stop now.”

  I pat him on the arm. “I know it, Dad. And we love you that way. Just don’t turn my son into one.”

  “Eh. Worse things’n bein’ a crabapple. Could be a no-good wussy.”

  “Like my sperm donor?” Aiden asks.

  I whirl on him. “Aiden Daniel Thomas! Where in the world did you hear that?”

  He pales. “I didn’t know it was bad! Carter said that’s what his dad said my dad is—nothing but a good-for-nothing sperm donor.”

  “Ugh, my god” I sigh. “Do not repeat that, okay? Your father made his choices, but it doesn’t mean we get to say nasty or unkind things. We take the high road, Aiden.”

  “Okay, Mama. I understand. I won’t say it again.”

  Dad squeezes his shoulder. “Let’s go.” He shoots Jamie another glance. “Get her to the hospital and make sure my little girl is okay.”

  Jamie’s nod is serious. “Yes, sir.”

  Dad winks at me. “He’s respectful. I like that.”

  “Dad,” I growl, my voice full of warning. “Don’t.”

  He raises his hands. “Just sayin’.”

  He helps Aiden into his truck; Aiden scoots behind the wheel and reaches for the gas pedal. “Can I drive?”

  Dad snorts. “Not a chance. Now scoot.”

  “But you—”

  “Would never let an eight-year-old boy drive my truck,” Dad cuts in, a little too loudly.

  I laugh. “You really think I don’t know you let him drive? You strapped blocks to my shoes and taught me to drive when I was six.”

  “Never can start a kid too early, as long as you’re careful. We go way out in the north field where there ain’t so much as a stump for acres, and I let him toddle around in the grass. He’s a champ. He’ll be the best driver on the road by the time he’s got his license.”

  “Just be careful, and don’t let him go too fast.”

  Dad slides behind the wheel, makes sure Aiden is seated properly on his booster and is buckled in, and then he rattles away, waving at me through the open window.

  Mrs. Emory and a few other teachers have taken over directing traffic and getting kids to their parents while Sheriff Johnson writes a ticket for the driver of the truck who rear-ended me. A flatbed tow truck rumbles up, waiting as the last few parents pick up their kids, rubbernecking, and then the flatbed backs up, beeping loudly, right up to the back of my car. He lowers his bed and sets about attaching the chain and hooks while Sheriff Johnson takes my statement.

  And then, finally, Jamie escorts me to his truck, not letting go of me for a second. I slide up and in, slowly and carefully, my neck aching and protesting with each movement.

  Once I’m alone in the truck, I allow myself a quick, quiet sob. And then Jamie is climbing behind the wheel and starting it up and heading out of the parking lot. An old Randy Travis song is playing on the radio, the volume down low.

  “You don’t need to be strong right now, Elyse,” Jamie says.

  “I’m fine.”

  “That scared me.”

  “Thank you for pulling Aiden out of the way.”

  He shrugs. “It was instinct. I didn’t even think about it.” He growls. “I’ve heard more than one person say Mrs. Quincy needs to stop driving, and that’s why.”

  Mrs. Quincy is at least eighty years old, but she’s the only living relative Victoria Quincy has, seeing as her parents died in a car accident and left Victoria with no other relatives except her great-aunt, Mrs. Quincy. And Mrs. Quincy has been driving…erratically, shall we say…for at least ten years.

  I sigh. “People have tried stopping her from driving on and off for the last decade, and she just refuses to give up her license. Plus, she’s Victoria’s only way to and from school.”

  “Well
, she could have killed you, or others.” He frowns. “What’s she doing driving that huge truck anyway? She can barely see over the wheel!”

  “Her husband bought it with cash about six months before he passed, and she won’t sell it. She’s had offers, but it’s Herb’s truck, and she’s clinging to it.”

  Jamie taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “There’s got to be something we can do. That can’t happen again.”

  It’s quiet the rest of the way to the hospital. Jamie is deep in thought, and keeps glancing at me as if to make sure I haven’t developed a sudden injury or passed out.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing.”

  “I’m fine, Jamie.”

  “I know. It was just…” He sighs roughly. “Scary. Watching that happen and being helpless.”

  “You weren’t helpless—you were right there, taking care of Aiden.”

  We pull into the ER parking lot, and he finds a spot near the back. He puts the truck in park, but glances at me before shutting it off.

  “There’s so much I want to say, but…” He shakes his head, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “I won’t open that can of worms right now.”

  “Probably best,” I say. “I don’t think I can handle that conversation at the moment.”

  Jamie exits the truck and circles around to the passenger side, opening my door and holding my hand to help me down.

  I want to hold his hand; I want that comfort. I’m shaky, trembling, more from residual adrenaline and the post-trauma surge of fear and anxiety.

  Instead, I walk on my own two feet, fists clenched, refusing to lean on Jamie any more than necessary.

  He notices, and his jaw tightens, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, tightening with…irritation? Hurt? Frustration? I don’t know.

  We find a pair of seats together near the entrance to the ER, and Jamie brings me a clipboard with paperwork to fill out. Instead of letting me do it, however, he asks the questions and circles the correct answers and writes in the correct information—much of it he remembers from our visit here with Aiden.

  After a fairly short wait, a male nurse opens the door to the examining area and calls my name, “Elyse Thomas?”

  I rise, slowly, shakily, and Jamie helps me to my feet. “That’s me.”

  The nurse glances at Jamie. “You’re the husband?”

  Jamie blinks a moment. “Um. No, but—”

  “He’s with me,” I cut in, quickly; the thought of sitting back there alone waiting for a doctor…my stomach flips with anxiety just thinking about it. “He’s coming with me.”

  “Okay,” the nurse says, not really caring either way. “This way. Room four.”

  I follow him, with Jamie at my side.

  Holding my hand.

  I don’t want to let go, but…I can’t let myself think this is normal. I just need the support in the moment.

  The problem is that whenever I need someone to support me, Jamie has been there, since the first day we met.

  We reach room four, and I sit on the hospital bed, and the nurse takes my vitals and tells me the doctor will be right with me.

  The doctor finally arrives about forty minutes later and after asking several questions he begins to poke and prod my neck, has me roll it this way and that, checks my pupils and has me follow his finger up and down and side to side, and asks me more questions.

  When he’s finished, he sets his computer tablet aside and frowns at me. “I’d like to have an X-ray on your neck, just to err on the side of caution. It sounds like it was a rough crash, and your neck is pretty well tweaked.”

  “Okay.”

  He asks a few questions about allergy to medication and such, typing my replies into his tablet.

  “Okay. I’ll get someone from radiology in here as soon as possible, get your neck scanned, and see what we see.”

  “Sounds good,” I tell him.

  “Great. I’ll be back in to talk to you once we get the scans back.”

  Another wait, and then a young woman from the radiology department comes in, and she has more questions, most of them straightforward, and most of which I’ve already answered at least once.

  “Any allergy to medication?”

  “No.”

  “Any family history of cancer or high blood pressure?”

  “No.”

  “Are you pregnant or is there any possibility you could be?”

  I blink. “Um. No?” I wasn’t expecting that question. “Why?”

  The young woman eyes me. “Standard procedure. We wouldn’t X-ray you if you were pregnant unless absolutely necessary.”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  She smiles. “It can’t hurt to be sure. A quick urine test and we’ll have you under the X-ray in no time. Okay?”

  I shrug, nod. “Sure, I guess.”

  I glance at Jamie, but his expression is carefully blank.

  So…I follow her out of the room and to a bathroom, where she gives me a quick rundown of clean-catch procedure and I procure the sample.

  I return to the waiting room…and wait.

  And wait.

  Finally, after about forty minutes, the doctor comes back in—not the nurse, not the girl from radiology, but the actual attending ER doctor.

  He stuffs his hands in his lab coat. Adjusts his stethoscope around his neck.

  Smiles at me.

  At Jamie.

  “Congratulations, Mom and Dad.”

  17

  “I…w-w-what?” I stammer. “What do you mean, congratulations?”

  Jamie, who had been pacing restlessly, sinks to the chair, his hand over his mouth.

  The doctor tugs on the ends of his stethoscope. “You’re pregnant.”

  “I—no, I’m not.”

  He smiles patiently. “Yes, you are. The results were unequivocal. Your hCG level says you’re about…oh…seven, maybe eight weeks along.”

  “I…I haven’t—um.” I blink, swallow, try to think, to remember. “I haven’t had any symptoms. Not one.”

  He shrugs. “You don’t always get early pregnancy symptoms. Some women have terrible symptoms for one pregnancy, and essentially none for the next.”

  “You’re positive?”

  He nods. “I mean, I’ll administer a blood test if you want, but I’m one hundred percent certain, Mrs. Thomas.” He smiles again. “You’re pregnant—I’d say just over seven weeks.”

  I stare at Jamie and he stares back.

  I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant.

  I’m…pregnant.

  Jamie hasn’t said a word since we received the news. Of course, there’s barely been time.

  I don’t get the X-ray, but an ultrasound is ordered. Since they can take me right away, we are shown into an examining room right away.

  Sitting in the darkened room, a brusque but kind older nurse slides the wand over my stomach, Jamie is in a chair in the shadows, watching with a carefully neutral expression as the technician smears the jelly around and adjusts the wand, taps a button, and then there’s a distorted whooshing sound, which warbles and distorts further as she wiggles, tilts, and twists the wand, and then the staticky whooshing sound turns into a sound which is familiar to me…and absolutely terrifying:

  Ba-BUMP-ba-BUMP-ba-BUMP-ba-BUMP-ba-BUMP…

  Steady, rhythmic, quick.

  The technician smiles at me. “There it is. Nice strong heartbeat.”

  I feel like I could pass out. “Yeah…” I mumble. “A heartbeat. Guess I didn’t have the flu after all.”

  Her eyes go from me to Jamie and back. “Not expecting this little nugget, huh?”

  I shake my head, speaking for both Jamie and I, “No…no, we weren’t.”

  Jamie is visibly pale, even in the dark ultrasound room.

  “Well there it is, ready or not.” She taps a button again and the heartbeat goes silent, and then as she taps some more and adjusts the wand she says, “Let’s see if I can ge
t some measurements.”

  She does whatever it is ultrasound technicians do, making certain things light up, measuring, labeling, taking still shots and printing them out. She freezes the wand in a certain position and points at the screen. “There’s the heart, left side and right side, contracting and expanding beautifully.”

  She takes the stack of printed glossy ultrasound photos, puts them in a folder, and then uses a new clean towel to clean the worst of the jelly off me before handing me paper towel to take care of the rest myself.

  “You have a nice healthy fetus, Mom. We’ll see you in a few months for the gender ultrasound.”

  “Thank you,” I say automatically.

  She helps me off the table and I finish adjusting my clothing as she turns the lights back on, and then Jamie and I are alone in the hallway. Fluorescent bulbs bathe everything garish white, and Jamie’s shoes squeak on the linoleum while mine clack noisily. There’s a strong smell of antiseptic.

  A male nurse appears. “This way, please.”

  We follow him through the maze of hallways to another room, this one not in the emergency department. We wait in silence for whatever is happening next.

  There’s no sound in the small, cold hospital room. Even my own heartbeat seems muted.

  Jamie looks at me as if trying to find something to say.

  I give a small shake of my head. “Not here, not now. Let’s talk, but later.”

  “Elyse, I—”

  “Jamie, please, let’s just get through with this whole hospital business and go home. We’ll talk at home.”

  After what feels like two hours, but was probably less than half an hour, the original ER doctor bustles in, leans against the door and toys with his stethoscope. “So. We found a heartbeat, got some measurements. Things look great. I would’ve liked an X-ray on your neck, but I’m confident it’s just a case of moderate whiplash, so it’s not really serious enough that I’m willing to order an X-ray anyway. Just take it easy, maybe put a hot pad on it, or some Ben-Gay. If it hurts bad enough that you have a hard time sleeping, you could probably get away with a low dose of aspirin, but I’d recommend against it unless absolutely necessary.”

  “I’m fine. I can tough it out.” I try for a smile, but don’t quite manage it.