* * *
That night we stayed in New Bern’s historic district, not far from the park where we’d seen the flotilla. Grabbing my duffel bag, I followed the family inside the house, and Bryce’s dad showed me to my room. After putting on my pajamas, I fell asleep within minutes.
In the morning, Bryce’s dad made pancakes for breakfast. I sat beside Bryce, listening as the rest of them figured out their own shopping plans for the day. But the clock was ticking—no one wanted my aunt to have to wait in the church parking lot. After a quick shower, I repacked my things and we made the drive back to Morehead City while my hair was still air-drying.
Aunt Linda and Gwen were waiting, and after saying goodbye to the Tricketts—Bryce’s mom offered a hug—we did the church thing. Lunch and the supply run followed, and while I knew I’d mentioned that I needed bigger clothes, my aunt casually reminded me of something I’d forgotten.
“You might want to pick up gifts for your parents and Morgan while we’re out and about.”
Oh yeah. And while I was at it, I figured I should probably get something for my aunt, too. Seeing as I was living with her, I mean.
We ventured to a nearby department store and split up. I bought a scarf for my mom, a sweatshirt for my dad, a bracelet for Morgan, and a pair of gloves for my aunt. On our way out, my aunt promised to box and ship out my family’s gifts the following week.
We next visited a store that specialized in maternity clothing. How she knew about the place, I had no idea—it’s not like she’d ever needed it—but I was able to find a couple of pairs of jeans with elastic waistbands, one for now and one for when I was watermelon-sized. In all honesty, I hadn’t even known that such things existed.
I dreaded the idea of having to check out—I knew the cashier would give me that look—but thankfully, my aunt seemed to sense my concerns.
“If you want to head to the car and wait,” she said casually, “I’ll pay for these and Gwen and I will meet you there.”
I felt my shoulders suddenly relax. “Thanks,” I murmured, and as I pushed through the door, I was struck by the revelation that a nun—or former nun, whatever—was actually one of the coolest people I knew.
* * *
We met up with Bryce and his family on the ferry and saw that their van had a large Christmas tree strapped to the roof. Bryce and I hung out for most of the ride until my aunt strode over to let Bryce know that on Tuesday, she and I were going to take a “personal day,” so Bryce wouldn’t have to tutor. I had no idea what she meant but knew enough to stay quiet; Bryce took her comment in stride, and it wasn’t until I was back at the house that I asked my aunt about it.
I had an appointment with the OB-GYN, Aunt Linda explained, and Gwen would be joining us.
But strangely, even though we’d bought the maternity jeans, it struck me that in the last couple of days, I hadn’t thought about my pregnancy much at all.
* * *
Unlike Dr. Bobbi, my new OB-GYN, Dr. Chinowith, was male and older, with white hair and hands so huge he could have palmed a basketball twice the normal size. I was eighteen weeks along, and by his demeanor, I was pretty certain I wasn’t the first teenage unwed mother-to-be he’d come across. It was also clear that he’d worked with Gwen numerous times in the past and they were comfortable with each other.
We did the whole checkup thing, he renewed the prescription for prenatal vitamins that Dr. Bobbi had originally written, and afterward, we spoke briefly about how I’d likely be feeling over the next few months. He told me that he usually saw his pregnant patients once a month, but because Gwen was an experienced midwife—and getting to appointments was an all-day, inconvenient thing—he was comfortable with seeing me less often unless there was an emergency and that I should speak to Gwen if I had any questions or concerns. He also reminded me that Gwen would be monitoring my health extra closely during the third trimester, so there was nothing to worry about on that end, either. Once Gwen and my aunt left the room, he mentioned the adoption and asked me whether I wanted to hold the baby after delivery. When I didn’t answer right away, he asked me to think about it, assuring me that I still had time to figure it out. The whole time he was talking, I couldn’t take my eyes from his hands, which actually frightened me.
When I was shown into an adjoining room for the ultrasound, the technician asked whether I wanted to know the sex of the baby. I shook my head. Later, though, as I was putting my jacket back on, I overheard her murmuring to my aunt, “It was hard to get a good angle, but I’m almost certain it’s a girl,” which confirmed my mom’s earlier suspicion.
As the next days and weeks unfolded, my life settled into a regular routine. The December weather brought even chillier days; I completed homework assignments, reviewed chapters, wrote papers, and studied for exams. By the time I took the last round of tests before my winter break began, I felt like my brain was going to explode.
On the plus side, my grades were definitely improving, and when I spoke with my parents, I couldn’t help bragging a little. While my scores weren’t at Morgan’s level—I’d never be at Morgan’s level—they were a lot higher than they’d been when I left Seattle. Though my parents didn’t say it, I could almost hear them wondering why studying suddenly seemed so important to me.
Even more surprising, I was slowly but surely getting used to life in Ocracoke. Yeah, it was small and boring and I still missed my family and wondered what my friends were up to, but the regular schedule made things easier. Sometimes, after I finished my studies, Bryce and I would walk the neighborhood; twice, he brought his camera and the light meter along. He’d take photos of random things—houses, trees, boats—from interesting angles, explaining what he was trying to achieve with each photo, his enthusiasm evident.
Three times, we ended the walk at Bryce’s house. The kitchen featured a lowered prep area that Bryce’s mom could easily access, their Christmas tree looked a lot like the one we’d decorated, and his home always smelled like cookies. His mom made a small batch almost every day, and as soon as we entered, she’d pour two glasses of milk and join us at the table. Through these snack-time chats, we gradually got to know each other. She told stories about growing up in Ocracoke—apparently it had been quieter back then than it was now, which I found almost impossible to believe—and when I asked how she’d been accepted to MIT at such a young age, she merely shrugged, saying that she’d always had a knack for science and math, as if that explained it all.
I knew there was a lot more to the story—there had to be—but because the topic seemed to bore her, we usually spoke about other things: what Bryce and the twins had been like when they were younger, what it was like to move every few years, life as a military wife, homeschooling, and even her struggles after the accident. She asked me lots of questions as well, but unlike my parents, she didn’t ask what I intended to do with my life. I think she’d picked up on the fact that I had absolutely no idea. Nor did she ask why I’d come to Ocracoke in the first place, but I suspected that she already knew. Not because Bryce had said anything—it was more like a teen-pregnancy radar—but she always insisted that I have a seat while we chatted and never asked why I wore the same stretchy jeans and baggy sweatshirts.