Swap Out (28 page)

“Mr. Roark,” Dr. Fields says, “if you’ll follow me.”

I follow her down a tight hallway peppered with numbered doors, women leaning against the walls gossiping in scrubs and sending me questioning looks—some a little more appreciative than I’m comfortable with—but two right turns and one to the left and the maze stops at an office no bigger than the kitchen at my apartment. It’s stuffed with bookshelves and pictures and knickknacks and a desk way too large for the space, plus a chair she probably spends hours in which explains why it is three calibers above the rest of the furniture.

“Please, have a seat,” she says, gesturing to one of the stiff chairs opposite her own, and I do as she requests, feeling as though I’m about to be lectured for something I’ve done wrong even though I’m who requested the meeting. “So, I have a feeling this may be a little more than the normal we’re-not-sure-how-this-all-works conversation I normally get from the dads-to-be.”

Dad.

Oh Jesus.

I exhale, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my hands lacing together so she hopefully won’t notice they’re shaking.

“Here’s the thing,” I say quietly, hoping my voice isn’t going to carry out the open door and down the hallway. “This was not something we planned, and to be honest, we haven’t been together that long.”

“I see,” Dr. Fields says, leaning back in her chair, but her face remains calm and neutral. “Mr. Roark, there’s no need to be nervous. Half of all pregnancies are unplanned.”

“And while that’s comforting, our schedule—hers—is not exactly conducive to having a child and at this point, Zoe isn’t quite sure of her decision on how she wants to proceed.”

“What options is she considering?”

I clear my throat.

“Okay,” Dr. Fields says, then gets up and goes to close her door before she returns to her chair. “I appreciate the honesty,” she says, smiling, and I nod once. “But it does beg the question, what are you two doing here? There are other clinics that could—”

“I don’t agree with her decision,” I tell Dr. Fields, and her eyebrow arches. “I just want to make sure she’s healthy, and on the off chance she does change her mind and decides to go ahead, know that everyone is safe.”

“Very understandable.”

“But it does make things like this very complicated. She has a history of anxiety and depression, and we’re managing it and I’m trying to keep her as calm as possible, but she’s under a lot of stress. And with her current plan, I’m worried about the realities of doing an ultrasound and the effect it would have on her.”

The doctor nods, then opens up Zoe’s file and grabs a pen. “Mr. Roark, I assure you that we all want the same things: for Zoe and the baby to be healthy, and it seems like the best thing we can do is try to make this as comfortable for her as possible. But I do have to perform an ultrasound today, and I will have to ask Zoe about her medical history as well.”

“I understand, but I’d still like to do as much of this for her as I can.”

“Okay.” She smiles. “Are you comfortable answering certain questions regarding her medical history? Including those relating to her menstrual cycle?”

“Yes,” I say and nod.

“Very well. Was she on any form of birth control?”

“Yes, Aviane.”

“Twenty-eight day cycle?” she asks, and I nod. “Any gaps?”

“Must’ve been,” I say and she cracks a small smile.

“And what was the first day of her last cycle?”

I shift in my seat, because I’ve known the answer for a while, ever since she told me and the immediate counting started.

“February 20
th
.”

“Okay,” Dr. Fields says, then pulls a circular little wheel out of her desk drawer and spins and tweaks it. “That places your conception date somewhere between March 3
rd
and—”

“Seventh,” I supply. “It was the seventh.”

“Good with dates, huh?” Dr. Fields smiles again, and I relax a little. “Would you like to know the estimated delivery date?”

I nod.

“November 27
th
.”

Thanksgiving.

I swallow and she makes a few notes, then says without looking up at me, “Any prior pregnancies?”

“One,” I tell her, chewing the inside of my lip.

“And did it result in a live birth?”

I shake my head. “She was a minor, and I doubt there are any records to substantiate it. The male party was the driving force behind the decision, and he had a lot of assets to protect.”

The doctor nods, then goes back to writing on Zoe’s file. “Any medical problems since conception?”

“No.”

“Any history of sexually transmitted diseases?”

“No.”

“Any major surgeries or hospitalizations?”

“Appendix at eleven, tonsils at thirteen.”

“Any smoking, drinking habits?”

“No.”

“Any medication?”

“Yes,” I say and shift a little in my seat. “Effexor, 225mg per day, and Ativan, 4mg per day. Her last dosage was on April 17
th
.”

“How is she doing without it?” Dr. Fields asks, looking up at me, and I sigh.

“Considering everything? Extremely well. Two anxiety attacks, one mild, one a little more serious, but both were controlled quickly and her pulse never rose above 140 bpm. Her moods have been stabilizing, and I haven’t witnessed any side effects of withdrawal.”

Her head tilts with a curious grin. “How do you know what her pulse was?”

“Because I checked it,” I tell her, then swallow. “I used to be a paramedic. Of sorts.”

She nods as though in approval, then closes the file.

“All right, so like I told Ms. Pearce, we do have to do a physical and a pap smear, and then we’ll perform the ultrasound. Whether you’d like to be present is between you and Ms. Pearce.”

“I would,” I tell her, and she nods. “But with regards to the ultrasound…”

“Mr. Roark,” she says soothingly, “this is not the first time we’ve had a situation of this nature. I can turn the screen away so she doesn’t see, and we can provide headphones unless you have some on you.”

“I do,” I say gratefully, and she clears her throat.

“I do have to confirm with Ms. Pearce that these are her wishes as well.”

“Of course,” I say and nod, and she smiles.

“Well, let’s not keep her waiting any longer, then.”

She rises and I do the same, following her back to the exam room. She knocks lightly and when we go in, Zoe is pale and wearing an ugly exam gown, looking pissed but also relieved and I wink at her.

“Sorry for the delay,” Dr. Fields tells her, and Zoe waves her off and then levels a look at me.

I pick up her hand and stretch out her arm, smoothing my thumb over her palm. I tilt my head at the square of gauze inside her elbow, secured with clear medical tape. “They didn’t have any Barbie Dream Car Band-Aids after they stuck ya with a needle? Boo…”

“Zoe, we’re going to go ahead and do your physical and your pap smear,” Dr. Fields says after a casual chuckle. “Mr. Roark was kind enough to fill out your medical history with me.”

“Is that right?” Zoe says, and I wrinkle my nose at her playfully while lacing my fingers through hers.

“And you thought I had no attention span?”

“I don’t doubt your attention span, just the areas where you choose to focus that attention.”

I peek over my shoulder at Dr. Fields. “She’s just jealous because I think rock climbing is more fun than shopping for furniture, and she knows I’m right but is too chicken to agree.”

“Luca,” Zoe hisses, and I pucker a kiss at her.

“Okay,” Dr. Fields drawls lightly, “Zoe, do you want him in the room while we—”

“It’s fine,” she says a little petulantly, then pulls her hand away from mine.

I step back as Dr. Fields comes over and presses her fingertips against Zoe’s neck, then lifts each of her arms and checks her breasts.

Behind Dr. Fields’ back, I point to what’s happening and mouth,
“Hot,”
while biting my lip seductively, and Zoe narrows her eyes at me. Jesus, I’m just trying to get her to lighten up a little. Is that so wrong?

“All right, go ahead and lie down, scoot down towards the end of the table with your heels on the stirrups and we’ll get this party started.”

“Out of curiosity,” I say while Zoe lies down, and I turn my back towards the doctor after she drapes a sheet over Zoe’s lap and rolls her stool right up to the end of the bed. Wow, that’s…intimate. I lean my hip against the side of the exam table after Zoe scoots down farther towards the end of the bed, threading my fingers through the hair by her temples. “What’s with the George Clooney pic?”

“Let your hips relax and your knees falls open,” the doctor says and I flare my eyes at Zoe. She winces a bit and then Dr. Fields says, “It’s to help our patients relax, Luca. Most women find it a nice visual to focus on.”

“What about your lesbian patients?”

Both Dr. Fields and Zoe laugh suddenly, then Zoe sucks in a breath and grasps at my arm. “Don’t make me laugh right now.”

“Sorry, not my forte.”

“All right, Zoe,” Dr. Fields says, “everything looks great.”

Zoe’s eyes close and I feel a knot begin to unwind in my chest.

“I’m going to go get the ultrasound machine, and feel free to go ahead and get dressed, but leave your jeans unbuttoned and if you could lie back down when you’re done, that would be great.”

Zoe nods, and I don’t take my eyes off her when I hear the door open and close.

I brush my knuckles over the back of her cheek, and she reaches up and takes my hand.

“Doing okay?” I ask quietly, and she nods. “Everything is going to be fine, and we’re almost done.”

“Okay,” she says softly, then lets me help her sit up before I take a step back. I turn away and pretend to study some painting of a sunset on the wall while she gets dressed, hearing the soft whoosh of fabric as she folds her hospital gown. “What did you talk to her about?”

“Just taking care of the boring stuff. Doing my normal minion duties.”

I peek over my shoulder and the corner of her lips turns up, and as soon as she lays back down on the bed, there’s a quick two-rapped knock before the door opens: Dr. Fields wheeling in a monitor on a cart.

“Okay, Zoe,” she says gently, and I cross the room to take Zoe’s hand, squeezing it. “I understand you’re going to listen to music during the ultrasound. Is that correct?”

Zoe looks at me, and I keep my face steady. “Yes,” she replies, and I make myself not swallow.

“Then let’s go ahead and get started.”

I pull my phone and earbuds out of my pocket, bringing up my playlist and passing it to Zoe. The corner of her eyes tightens in fear and I lean down, breathing, “Just close your eyes, and I’ll let you know when it’s over.”

She nods and puts the earbuds in, and I exhale when I hear the faint noise of music start from within them.

I look over to the doctor and nod, and she turns the screen away from Zoe’s view while scooting forward, squirting some goo over the bump in Zoe’s lower stomach that makes her jump.

“Ready?” she asks me, and I nod. She smiles and then places a knobbed wand against the bump, and the screen lights up with black fringed in gray and I don’t hear
anything
.

Oh God, what if nothing’s there? My entire chest squeezes in panic that we may be too late, that I let her get away with avoiding it for too long because I was so scared that forcing the issue would send her running and now…

What if my willingness to give Zoe everything she wants meant sacrificing the one thing I want? Christ, what have I done?

My pulse speeds and I feel the blood draining from my face the longer it stays quiet in here. But after two small movements of Dr. Fields’ wrist, time stops; my eyes darting to Zoe’s closed ones as I feel the largest smile I’ve ever worn stretch across my face because there’s a very quick, very prominent heartbeat flooding the room and suddenly I can’t breathe.

“Heartbeat is good,” Dr. Fields says, but I’m having trouble understanding words. Except for alive, and family, and love. Those I know. And the longer I look at Zoe, the stronger I feel them. “About 130 bpm.”

I blink. Normal for adults is 60-100. “Fast,” I mutter, and she smiles up at me.

“It starts around 180, then settles and it’ll stay somewhere between 120 and 160 for the remainder of the pregnancy.”

I nod, but there’s something I’m not used to flooding my body, and it feels like ice.

“Want to see?” Dr. Fields asks, and my head turns automatically.

Air rushes out of my lungs because it’s…it’s a baby
.

It’s not some blob or misshapen form, it’s not a little squid or tadpole or a shape resembling a pea or an alien. It’s a tiny little person. A tiny. Little. Person.

As I stand still in shock Dr. Fields moves her left hand over a mouse as her right one holds the wand still, the screen showing as she draws a circle over the head and measures it.

“Looks like your dates were right on,” she says as the screen freezes, then she peeks up at me. “We’re just over thirteen weeks.”

I swallow and nod, and she moves the wand a little. “How big is…?”

“About three inches long, weighs probably about an ounce.”

I look down at my index finger, unable to reconcile the length with the detail of the person I’m seeing on the screen. How can it be so small and be so real?

Jesus Christ it’s
real
. Like a real person that wasn’t there before and now exists and has a heartbeat that is reverberating inside my head and through the room and I…I need to sit down.

I look back to the monitor and my chest constricts as the image focuses on little hands, then freezes, then two little feet, then freezes again. Ten fingers and ten toes and as Dr. Fields moves the wand, one little hand shifts up to the mouth and he, or she, begins to suck on it.

My eyes widen. It can do that? Like, has thoughts and wants and can move and decided, actually decided, to suck its thumb?

Fuck, I hate saying
it
. It’s not an
it
, not a problem or a situation, it’s a person.

Holy God it’s a
person
.

“Is that…”

“Yes, that’s normal,” Dr. Fields says, a smile in her voice. “They’re quite active at this point. Flipping around and moving, and—op! There she goes,” Dr. Fields says when the image on the screen shifts to reveal a long back, and my eyes widen as my voice catches in my throat.

She.

I clear my throat, trying to keep my jaw from quivering but it’s entirely a lost cause at this point. Along with my voice sounding all soft and reverent when I ask, “You can tell the gender?”

“No, sorry,” she tells me, an apologetic smile on her face, “just a habit since all fetuses start out as female. Gender has been determined by now, but we usually don’t get a good visual of it until about week twenty.”

I cross my arms, covering my mouth with my fist as I watch the baby,
my baby
, twist and wiggle and squirm. She trades gumming one hand for another, then just holds both close to her chest and then turns again, the bottoms of her feet coming clear into view and there are little toes and arches and heels and they’re so small. One more turn onto her side, her whole profile coming into view of head and body and arms and legs and something raw in me scrapes my heart like it’s desperate to take hold. Like it’s begging, reaching out.

“Everything looks beautiful, Mr. Roark,” Dr. Fields says, and my eyes close. “Development is right on track, and both mother and child are the picture of health.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, and an unfamiliar hand pats my arm.

“Would you like a print out?”

My eyes open and I pull my hand away, dazedly pointing to the screen.

“Yes,” she says and nods. “A few pictures, if you’d like them.”

“I would.” I clear my throat again, then try to smile at her. “I can’t tell you—”

“It’s my pleasure,” she says, then swivels her chair and makes a few clicks before turning off the monitor and the heartbeat disappears from the room. Alarm explodes inside me and I barely resist shouting, clawing at the machine to make it come back. “We’re finished, if you want to get Zoe.”

I test my muscles and then uncross my arms, trying to smooth my face into something calm and reassuring before I take two small steps towards Zoe. Her eyes are closed and music is still faint through the earbuds, and a feeling I don’t want to know slices at me from every angle. I bury it.

Gently, I brush the back of my knuckles over her cheek and try to find half a smile for her when she opens her eyes. Her brow furrows as her gaze settles on me, and I wink at her but it feels like a lie. I give her a thumbs up and she pulls out the earbuds, and I put them in my pocket along with my phone as she sits up.

“Here’s a cloth for you,” Dr. Fields says kindly, handing it to Zoe with a smile I wish I knew how to make right now, and Zoe takes it and wipes off her stomach. “So, that’s it for today and I’m going to grab a few things and then I’ll be right back.”

“Sounds good,” Zoe tells her, and I take the cloth she hands me as Dr. Fields wheels the ultrasound machine out of the room. “Are you okay?” Zoe whispers as soon as the door closes, and I look away, tossing the towel onto the counter like I’m shooting a basketball as she buttons and zips her jeans.

“Just ready to get out of here.”

Another quick two-rapped knock and then Dr. Fields’ cheerful voice is back in the room, and I turn around and keep my focus trained on her as she hands Zoe a box.

“Vitamins,” she says, then passes me a folded piece of paper no larger than a cigarette box but thick like it’s folded many times. I slide it quickly into my back pocket as Zoe’s eyebrow arches, but I ignore it as I extend my hand.

Dr. Fields shakes it warmly, and thankfully my voice is as sincere as I feel when I tell her, “Thank you. It was very nice to meet you.”

She nods and smiles, then shakes Zoe’s hand, covering it with her other. “Pleasure meeting you, Ms. Pearce.”

“And you.”

The doctor gives us each one final nod and smile, then turns and leaves the room and I blow out a breath. Zoe grabs her purse, but is still eyeing me warily as I hold open the door and gesture for her to lead the way, my hand light on the small of her back as we make our way out to the parking lot.

She’s still throwing me odd looks as I open the passenger door of my Stingray for her, waiting until she sits before I close it and walk around to my side.

“Do you want to go get something to eat?” she asks as I start the car, and I glance at her.

“Buckle your seatbelt.”

I wait until I hear the click then back out of the parking lot.

Zoe doesn’t say anything else as I maneuver through light traffic, then finally pull onto the highway towards Moab. My eyes dart to her and then back to the road, and I can’t get a handle on this. How incredibly alone I feel, and furious with her I am. How instead of trying to do anything for me, instead of being there with me, she listened to fucking music and closed her eyes and blocked it all out.

We could’ve rode that high together, celebrated and shared the experience of hearing the heartbeat and seeing our baby for the first time, but no. Because she doesn’t care, doesn’t want it, doesn’t give a shit that I do and that’s not love. If she loved me, she would’ve—

Thank God I’m in my Stingray right now, because I need the familiar weight of the clutch under my foot, the rhythm of the shift and the feel of the steering wheel under my hand. It’s the only thing keeping me together as the lines on the highway blur into a heartbeat that I’ll never hear again, into the shape of a profile that is life and a soul and wants and dreams and that Zoe is going to destroy.

My fingers tighten around the shifter, and acid burbles up my throat.

Ten fingers. Ten toes.

“Luca,” she starts, and I pull off onto the shoulder so suddenly that she gasps and braces herself against the dashboard. She shrieks my name as the tires grind to a stop, and I pop the parking brake and have the door open before the engine has stopped growling.

I half jog to the back of the car because there’s no cover anywhere, and my palm barely catches the trunk before I bend over and lose it right on the side of the fucking highway. My muscles seize as I heave and sick fury burns up my throat, wretched betrayal coating the back of my teeth and I spit with a hate I haven’t felt in years.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then straighten and bellow a curse with every breath of my body at the cars passing by. My hands tug through my hair as I lean back against my car, totally unsure how I’m going to make the two-hour drive back to Moab.

Back to Zoe’s house with my razors in her bathroom drawer and my clothes in her closet, my climbing gear in her garage and the sonogram pictures of our unborn child in my back pocket.

Christ, how am I ever going to look at her after this? How am I supposed to love her when I hate her too?

“Luca,” Zoe says softly from my left, her feet stopping in front of mine as her hand settles on my shoulder before it slides up to my neck. I bring my arms down and cross them over my chest, sucking in a breath and my jaw locking taut before I lift my eyes to hers.

Her face falls as she swipes her thumb over my cheek, and I despise the feeling of her skin against mine.

“Was something wrong with the ultrasound?” she asks, and I harden my gaze at her.

How dare she fucking ask me that?

And I know I shouldn’t, that her day has been rough and she never asked for any of this, but the hurt is too much and I can’t stop the words when I slide back out of her reach and shake my head.

“Since when do you care?”

*              *              *

I stand in the aisle of City Market, just as I’ve been doing for the last forty minutes, my hands in my pockets and my gaze dull and unseeing as I face the display of Pepto-Bismol. I don’t know what I’m doing. How I got here. And not here in the store because I specifically remember driving here after I dropped Zoe off, went in her house and brushed my teeth before storming back out and not saying a word to her. Not that it was any change from the rest of the drive home after the doctor’s appointment, so I don’t know why she was just standing there in shock, staring at me.

“Can I help you find something?” a female voice says from my right, and I don’t look at her, still just numbly eyeing the shelf of Pepto-Bismol.

“No.”

“You know, if your stomach is upset, sometimes it helps to talk to people.”

“Is that right?” I ask without inflection.

“Yeah,” she says, then her voice drops lower. “Maybe you could start by talking with your girlfriend.”

“Don’t have one.”

She stays quiet for a minute, and I tilt my head at the shelf. Who wants cherry-flavored Pepto? That has to be the grossest thing ever, and not a good mix with an already unsettled stomach. Although I highly doubt that even the maximum strength version is going to make me feel better. When the label says it cures heartburn, I doubt that covers heart
ache
.

But I didn’t know what else to do. When you’re a man and you don’t feel right, you go for the bubble-gum flavored pink stuff. It cures everything except loneliness and skin torn from my hands after crack climbing. For those ailments, you reach for whiskey.

“So,” the voice timidly starts again, “if you don’t have a girlfriend, then maybe you could talk to me.”