Chapter 18 - TWO LINESThey bought six pregnancy tests.
Claire thought one was enough.
Ethan disagreed.
“What if it’s defective?”
“Then we use another.”
“What if two are defective?”
“What kind of pharmaceutical conspiracy are you imagining?”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You bought six.”
“Exactly.”
Claire took three.
All positive.
Ethan sat on the bathroom floor staring at them.
Claire leaned against the sink.
Neither spoke.
Finally:
“We’re having a baby.”
Ethan looked up.
“Apparently three.”
Claire laughed so suddenly she cried.
He stood.
“Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“What if we’re terrible at this?”
Ethan considered it.
“Pepper is alive.”
“That is not the standard.”
“Pepper is emotionally stable.”
Pepper barked from the hallway.
Claire laughed again.
Then Ethan became serious.
“We don’t have to decide how to feel today.”
Claire looked at him.
“You’re happy?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
His eyes filled.
“Terrified.”
“Same.”
“Happy.”
“Same.”
He kissed her forehead.
Then whispered:
“I don’t want you carrying everything.”
Claire smiled through tears.
“That sentence alone might qualify you for fatherhood.”
Pregnancy changed them.
Claire hated being fussed over.
Ethan discovered he loved fussing.
They negotiated.
He could bring water.
He could not track her water intake on a spreadsheet.
He could attend appointments.
He could not ask the obstetrician seventeen questions about airplane cabin pressure unless Claire was actually planning to fly.
At twelve weeks, they heard the heartbeat.
Ethan cried.
Not discreetly.
Claire stared.
“Are you sobbing?”
“No.”
The technician smiled.
“He is.”
“Betrayal,” Ethan muttered.
At sixteen weeks, Claire’s nausea eased.
At nineteen weeks, they learned they were having a girl.
Ethan became unusable for approximately twenty-four hours.
“A daughter,” he kept saying.
“Yes.”
“A girl.”
“That’s generally what daughter means.”
Then, at twenty-two weeks, Claire woke to blood.
Not much.
Enough.
Ethan saw the sheets.
His face drained.
“Hospital.”
“Ethan—”
“Now.”
This time Claire did not argue.
The drive was silent.
At the hospital, monitors were attached.
Tests.
Ultrasound.
Waiting.
The same terrible waiting that had once defined Claire’s marriage.
Except now Ethan waited beside her.
Not somewhere else.
His hand remained open on the bed.
He did not grab hers.
Claire took it.
Finally, the doctor entered.
“The baby’s heartbeat is strong.”
Claire began crying.
Ethan closed his eyes.
“But,” the doctor continued, “you have a low-lying placenta. We need to monitor you closely.”
Not catastrophe.
Not nothing.
Rest.
Reduced travel.
Less stress.
Claire laughed bitterly.
“Less stress. Apparently doctors think that’s a product you can order.”
Ethan did not laugh.
Claire looked at him.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Become afraid of touching me.”
His face changed.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
Ethan swallowed.
Claire squeezed his hand.
“I need a husband, not a security system.”
He nodded.
“I can do that.”
And he did.
For the next months, Ethan did something his younger self would have considered impossible.
He rearranged his life.
Not Claire’s.
His.
He worked from home.
Cooked.
Badly.
Learned.
Attended birthing classes.
Pepper became convinced the nursery belonged to him.
Then, at thirty-five weeks, Claire woke Ethan at 3:13 a.m.
“Ethan.”
He opened his eyes.
“What?”
“My water broke.”
He sat upright.
Then stared at her.
Then at the clock.
Then back at her.
Claire smiled.
“You appear to have stopped functioning.”
“I’m functioning.”
“You’re wearing one sock.”
Ethan looked down.
He was.
Claire laughed.
Then another contraction hit.
Her smile disappeared.
Ethan was instantly beside her.
“Okay.”
He held out his hand.
“Ready?”
Claire breathed.
“No.”
Ethan nodded.
May you like
“Me neither.”
She took his hand anyway.
