“Would you like me to come in with you?” Ah, a subject changer. She must be sworn to secrecy because Jeanine doesn’t come across as the type who likes secrets.
I shake my head. “No, it wouldn’t feel right. It was our thing… you know?”
She gives my hand a squeeze and nods, her eyes misting over with understanding. “I know, pet.”
The doctor sees me immediately. He informs me his name is Dr Meadow and he’ll be delivering my child privately. I guess I’m not getting baby care on the NHS. What the hell is wrong with Nathan? What’s wrong with the NHS?
He does an ultrasound to see how far along I am, even though I already told him two seconds ago. I find no enjoyment in it. I hardly look and refuse to know the sex of it yet. It was for Caleb and I to discover together. It doesn’t feel right doing this on my own. He takes far more measurements than the people back at home did, which concerns me. He assures me it’s so he can monitor every single aspect of my pregnancy from now until the end.
Apparently I’m perfectly healthy as far as he can tell and my baby is going to be a big one. He wants to take my bloods to test me for diabetes and other illnesses, mainly gestational diabetes because apparently people with gestational diabetes have large babies.
This makes me want to slap him, even if he is being nice about it. I’m large, pregnant and hormonal and I don’t need a doctor telling me I shouldn’t be so large.
Fortunately I haven’t put much weight on anywhere else. My breasts are massive and I hope they never deflate. The rest of me, however, is still a good size.
I also tell him to give me a list of all the foods I can’t eat so I can prove to Nathan that he’s being unreasonable. Then I come to the conclusion that all I have to do is get up earlier than Nathan and raid his fridge. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt.
It’s when the doctor tells me he’ll be putting me in to see a therapist that I decide I want to leave and I want to leave now. He thinks I need to talk to someone about what happened or there’s a possibility I won’t bond with the baby at birth. Finding your lover dead is, according to him, a terrible tragedy that needs dealing with appropriately. I disagree. Sure it’s a terrible tragedy, but I believe it needs leaving where it belongs. Locked away until my last breath. I’m not ready to rehash the tale and I’m not sure I ever will be.
So far since Caleb died, all I’ve thought about is the fact that he’s gone. I haven’t thought about the night in question. I’m secretly praying I’ll suppress it forever because if I even get a glimpse of his lifeless body lying on our bed ever again, I’ll die inside and I’ll never be revivable.
He assures me that I’m at a higher risk of postnatal depression due to the events and he’s concerned for my mental state when the baby is born, which is a ridiculous notion because it’s half of Caleb. If anything, I’ll love him or her even more than I would have done if Caleb was beside me. I refuse the help and thank him anyway.
Nathan is on time, which I like. I’m never late for anything. Caleb used to joke and say I’d probably go into labour exactly at midnight on my due date. The funny thing is, I don’t disagree with him. I don’t think I’ve ever been late for anything in my life. Poor time keeping is not a good trait to have.
I don’t say hi as I climb into the car. He looks ticked off that I don’t wait for him to help me in, but who cares? Not me.
I place the scan picture in my bag and tilt my seat back a little.
“I took all of your things inside,” he says. “I apologize for not doing it sooner.”
“Thanks.”
He spares me a glance. “Did your appointment go well?”
“Isn’t the private doctor just going to call and inform you of the developments later?”
He sighs. “I’m just trying to give you a good level of healthcare so everything goes as smoothly as possible.”
“I’m not complaining,” I admit honestly and look at his profile. “I just think we should have discussed it first.”
His tongue runs along his bottom lip. “Guinevere, am I okay to assume you’d like private healthcare?”
“If you’re offering then I won’t decline,” I say, wanting to smile but it won’t come.
“Good. So how did it go?” I open my mouth to repeat my earlier statement but he cuts me off. “Contrary to your beliefs, I’m big on privacy and I wouldn’t invade yours in such a way. If you don’t feel like telling me then fine, I won’t ask again.”
That’s actually kind of sweet in a strange way. “It went great. He’s checking me for gestational diabetes because apparently people with diabetes have bigger babies, but he’s sure I’m fine. I don’t have any of the symptoms.”
“Your baby is too big?”
“He’s guessing it’ll be about nine pounds.” I wince, not wanting to push out something that large.
Nathan’s lips twitch and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile. Well, slightly smile. I wonder if his lack of humour has been because of grief too. “Caleb was eight pounds twelve.”
“I didn’t know that. What about you?”
He looks at me in shock but only for a second, as if me being interested in his birth weight is a ridiculous notion. Have I been that much of a bitch?
No.
He’s been just as unapproachable, if not even more so than me.
“I was nine five.” He says it quietly and twists his fists on the wheel.
“Yay. My baby is going to destroy me,” I mumble.
His hand goes to my knee and he gives it a soft squeeze. “You’ll be fine.” Now I’m the one gaping in shock and I’m doing it for a lot longer than a second. Even though his hand only stayed there for a brief and comforting squeeze, I still feel his touch linger. What the hell was that?
I’m even more shocked when we don’t go home immediately. We make a stop at a clothing store. He leads me inside and puts me at the mercy of two women with tape measures.
“This one,” he says and points to a row of clothing. “These and these. Have them ready by next Monday and I’ll pick them up by eleven.”
I’m annoyed he’s choosing my clothes but I don’t say anything. I do need new clothes and the ones he’s picked are actually quite nice, even if they are mostly black and white.
“I’m shocked,” he announces and runs his hands over a row of stretchy denim jeans.
“About?”
“You’re not arguing with me. I thought for sure I’d have a Guinevere induced migraine by now.”
Scowl. “I don’t give you migraines.”
“I’ve never had so many migraines in my life.”
I’m about to snap but I realise this is his way of teasing. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen any emotion other than irritation in his eyes. He leads me out of the shop and helps me back into the car, but we don’t pull out immediately. He sits, staring ahead aimlessly. I can see he wants to say something but I don’t prompt him; I only wait. “Look, Guinevere. I know this move hasn’t been easy.” You can say that again. “And I know what you’re going through is a grief like none I can imagine.” You can definitely say that again. “I think things have been tense for both of us and I’d like it if we could try to get along. This stress isn’t good for you and it’s irritating me greatly. My home shouldn’t be a place of war. I want you to feel comfortable.”