“Right next door,” the tech says, pointing. Amanda rushes in and the lock clicks.
“I'd be happy with whatever,” I assure Tanley. “Boy, girl, nonbinary, unicorn, or baby android, as long as they’re both healthy.”
“But...”
“But this is going to really make my brother's teeth grind.”
“I thought the only grind he was into was coffee.”
My turn for eyebrows to shoot up. “You're a Grind It Fresh! patron?”
“I am. Next time you see your brother, thank him for me. His new roasted cacao latte has made many pregnant patients happy. Not as much caffeine as coffee, and all the good vibes from the theobromine make for happy moms.”
“I will let him know.” I clear my throat. “Right after I tell him I won.”
Did she just roll her eyes like Amanda does?
Speaking of my wife... she’s taking a while. Tanley hands me a long strip of photos of the babies, then extends her hand. “Good to see you. Marci at the front desk will make sure your next appointment is a rotation with one of the other doctors or a CNM. Good luck!” She guides me to the hallway then knocks lightly on an exam room door, entering with a greeting. The sound of the door closing leaves me in a daze.
Ultrasound paper is like old-fashioned fax machine paper, with a coated finish, and the fluorescent ceiling light's reflection on the image catches my eye. One big sac, split in the middle by the placenta, babies floating next to each other, stares back at me and whisper, “Daddy.”
“Hey, there,” I say to them, looking around furtively. No one heard me.
Good.
A chair is against the wall opposite the bathroom where Amanda's taken up residence, so I have a seat. You can admire a grayscale photo of your womb babies for only so long; after a while, I check messages on my phone, answering a few from Gina.
And then:
Help. I can't pee.
Gina can be a little too TMI for my taste sometimes, as her boss, but this one takes the cake.
Hold up.
That text isn't from Gina.
It's Amanda.
What? I reply.
I CAN'T PEE.
“You don't need to shout,” I say aloud.
I can hear you through the door, she answers.
I look up sharply, half expecting her eyes to laser holes through the thick wood.
Do you need help?
What do they do to help you pee? This is ridiculous, now I can't. I can't pee.
One of Amanda's best qualities is her ability to fix things, but when she's the one who needs help, she can be slow to ask for assistance. That's where I come in.
I'll get a doctor, I type, standing up.
NO!
NO!
NO!
The three panicked texts make me halt in my tracks.
Come over to the door, she quickly adds. Put your mouth near the crack.
“That's what she said,” I mutter out of the side of my mouth.
ARE YOU MAKING THAT STUPID JOKE WHEN I AM IN CRISIS? she texts.
“No. Of course not,” I whisper into what I assume is the crack she's talking about.
“I need you to help me,” she hisses through the door.
“I can't pee for you, honey. No matter how hard we try, it's impossible.”
“A good husband would find a way,” she snaps.
Oh, boy. This has escalated instantly to Defcon 5.
“A doctor can help.”
“I'll be humiliated! And this is the best practice in the city.”
“Have you tried running the faucet? The sound of water could help.”
“I tried. No luck.”
“Relax. Think about sex from last week.”
This is how bad things have gotten. I'm referring to sex in terms of weeks.
Not days. Or hours.
“Why would thinking about sex help me pee?” she shouts through the door.
Just then, a medical assistant walks by. She doesn't make eye contact, but she bites her lips as if trying not to laugh. I give her my most charming smile and shrug.
She continues down the hall.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don't know!” she wails.
Then the door clicks and opens half an inch.
“What are you doing?”
“Get in here!” My upper arm is grabbed with surprising strength and in less than a second, I'm in the bathroom with her, back against the door, wondering if I can text Gina to help me figure out how to make my wife pee.
That's a really bad idea, isn't it? She already gets hazard pay for working for me. I don't need to up it.
Amanda is like a caged animal, walking back and forth, her panties in a wad on top of her purse, her skirt swishing around her knees. If she weren't in so much distress, I'd consider this the prelude to an awesome quickie experience in public, but if I suggest that, I believe she will extract her full bladder from her body using only her fingernails and beat me to death with it.
Then empty it, slowly, on my cooling corpse.
“I can't pee, Andrew! I can't! It's like my body clamped down hard to make sure I didn't embarrass myself in the ultrasound room and now it just refuses! My bladder has selective mutism, except instead of being quiet, it's not releasing.”
“Do you want me to massage it?”
“Huh?”
“Or... I don't know! I've never been in this situation before. I just want you to feel better.”
Her eyes drop to my hand. “What's that?”
“Pictures of the babies.”
She bursts into tears. “I can't even enjoy my own babies' first images because I have a bladder that's turned into a prison gate! AAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHH!” she screams.
Immediately, someone's banging on the door.
“Hello? Can I help you?” The doorknob jiggles.
“We're fine!” I call out, regretting the words instantly.
“Uh, who's in there?” A different voice, lower and commanding.
And male.
“It's me, Amanda McCormick,” Amanda says, moving closer to the door. “My husband's in here. Don't worry. We're not being weird or having sex or oh, God,” she mutters at the end. “I'm just having a problem.”
“Can we help?” Back to the female voice.
“I can't–I can't pee!” Amanda gasps. “I came in for an ultrasound and–”
“It's okay,” the woman says. “It happens. Did you try running the sink water?”
“Yes!”
“Are you open to essential oils?”
“What?” Amanda says to the door, incredulous. “Are you one of those MLM people, pushing your product on me now?”
Laughter, muted but genuine, pours through the door. “No, no. Peppermint oil helps women pee after labor and delivery. It sounds crazy, but it's worth a try. If you open the door a crack, I can give you a small bottle to try.”
Amanda looks at me. I hold up my palms in surrender. When I gotta go, I just whip it out, point, and go. I am not an expert on her predicament.
Bzzz
My phone.
At the same time, Amanda opens the door, grabs an amber bottle from an unknown person, and shuts the door quickly.
“Ten drops in the toilet water. Turn on the faucet, too. And tell your husband not to watch.”