Because of Them (Because of Love #2)

Chapter Seven

AUDREY

T he room smells clinical; bleach burning through my nostrils with a subtle citrus scent that tries to force its way into the aroma. It’s sterile in a way that reminds me of the day Maisie broke her collarbone. I realised that day, how different our future was going to be from the one I had planned. I was no longer in charge of her every movement, I was no longer always going to be there for her. It broke my heart, but it was also a weird turning point for me.

Sitting on the floor of the waiting room, my arms wrapped around her legs, I realised that the three of us would be stronger apart. And that for this to work, Callum and I needed to get along, properly, not just a little bit. By default, I figured that meant Cassidy and I had to get along as well.

I vowed then to never be the clichéd evil bio-mum, trying to stop my daughter from having a friendship with her eventual stepmum. Because I have no doubts that Callum and Cassidy are racing down that path at breakneck speed. Maisie adores Cassidy, and the two have a lot of shared interests. I came to terms then with the fact that I was no longer the only woman in my daughter’s life. That in a roundabout way she would have three parents, not just two, and certainly not just one.

That thought flings me back to the present at the same time the ultrasound technician turns back toward the waiting room with a furrowed brow. Her lavender scrubs compliment the deep purple of her hair but are contrasted by the bright red glasses framing her face.

“Are you by yourself?” she questions.

I’m sure she doesn’t mean for the words to cut as deeply as they do. But I am. I am by myself, and this baby will only have one parent, so unlike Maisie with her whole team.

I could call Michael.

I should call Michael.

But I’m afraid of what he would say. Too scared he would ask if we should keep the baby I’ve already grown to love. Terrified that he might want nothing to do with his child. His actions have shown me that he isn’t ready to become a father, so I’ve kept this secret. Because if he doesn’t know, he can’t hurt us by walking away.

Michael is outrageous and fun, there’s no way he is ready to become a father. I’ve been clinging to that thought, as though it justifies my decision not to tell him. Even though he has a right to know, I’m choosing to protect myself, and this baby, first.

I give the technician a sharp nod and climb onto the reclined chair. It’s easier to let her comment slide than to open my mouth. If I do, the can of worms might spill open. I choke a little, hoping I can hold my nausea at bay at least until the appointment is over.

I pull up my shirt as she dims the lights, and I squeeze my own hands when she dumps cold gel on my stomach.

“That’s fine,” she chimes. “Lots of dads can’t make it to appointments. We will take lots of pictures for you to show him.”

Her bold assumption shocks the polite grin off my face. She cracked open the can of worms all by herself. Sure, most women that come in for pregnancy ultrasounds would be coupled up. Most dads would at least make an effort to be there, or care enough to want a printout—but then again, most dads also know about the baby.

My fingers squeeze against my thumb as I consider all the possible reasons her words might have cut open an unintended wound. What about the women who choose to have a baby on their own? The ones who don’t know who the father is? Or the ones who know exactly who it is but are desperately trying to escape him? What about the women having babies with other women, thanks to a generous donation from a friend or a stranger?

So many scenarios that don’t fit the life she assumed I lived. For a moment, I consider pretending to live one of those lives. Anything to escape my own fucked up situation.

But I remain silent, choosing to avoid the awkwardness altogether.

Without another word, she presses the wand into my stomach. Forcing my flesh to descend and twist, she wriggles the receiver around while examining her computer. The screen above the chair remains blank, and her monitor is directed away from me, but the subtle woosh of my insides rings in the air.

Until another sound is added to the mix. One that makes my eyes unexpectedly swell. A piece of my heart tears away, floating down my abdomen and settling itself low in my belly. And it will stay there, I’m sure, until this little baby is born. Then they will carry it around with them forever, just like Maisie does with her piece.

Dub-dub, dub-dub, dub-dub.

It’s faster than I remember, but the sound is unmistakable.

My hand clutches around my throat, my mouth falling open. Without intention, I reach to the table next to me for my phone. I want to record this moment. I want to be able to show Michael.

Because God, it doesn’t matter if I don’t think he is ready. It doesn’t matter if he is immature and inflated, and it doesn’t matter that he has no clue what he is doing with his life. Because what I realise now, is that he is also kind and nurturing. He cares more than his actions show and I know that because he still checks in, making sure I’m okay, even though he has no clue what might be wrong.

“Oh, you can’t use your phone, sorry. I can print some photos, and take a recording if you like?”

The technician’s voice cuts through the echoed heartbeat. I open my mouth to speak, but the words get stuck in my throat.

“Please.” It comes out on a cough, spluttering its way into the air as I choke on the rush of emotion.

She clicks a button to turn on the screen above me. The display flickers to life, full of tiny words and numbers so small and blurry I can’t make them out. As she presses the wand into me again, she also clicks on her computer. The image flashes onto the screen, a greyish wedge of lines and swirls.

Then, as she wriggles the wand, the grey seems to crack. A roundish shape of black emerges and there, nestled against one side is a tiny bean shaped baby. It throbs in time with the heartbeat still playing through her speaker.

“That’s it?” I press up on my elbows, drawn towards the screen as though I could reach out and touch it.

I forgot. I don’t know how but I forgot just how magical this moment is. Seeing my baby for the first time, I bat away the moisture trickling down my cheeks. More than anything, I wish I had someone to share this moment with. It’s tainted almost, knowing that I am alone. Knowing that I might not have been if I had been able to see past Michael’s flaws and tell him about the little bundle of life and joy that’s growing inside me.

“Yep! That’s your little baby. You’re measuring ten weeks and three days.”

It lines up with my own calculations. Almost perfectly.

“We’ve got your email on file, so I can send you the digital files, but here are some printouts.” She hands me a stack of photos before wiping the remaining gel off my stomach with a paper towel. The image on top steals my breath. My little bean, or is it a strawberry? I had an app that told me each week how big Maisie was, but I can’t even remember what it was called now, let alone what fruit correlated to each week.

I brush the picture with my thumb, committing every millimetre of it to memory. I can make out the rough, oversized shape of the baby’s head and the tiny arms and legs. The little button nose is barely formed, but I already know it will be just like Michael’s. It’s too small and soft to be mine.

I flick through the stack, registering that the technician printed two of each image. My hands shake as I pull down my top. My knees wobble as I push myself to stand. My ears ring as I book my next scan. And I know it’s time to tell Michael that he is about to become a father.

I call him as soon as I get into the car. The phone bounces on the passenger seat when I throw it down as soon as it connects to the Bluetooth. I count the rings, desperate to distract myself from my rapid pulse. I have to have this conversation, but I have no idea what I’m going to say.

One ring as I reverse out of the car park, another as I steer towards the exit, a third as I pull out onto the main road.

Halfway through the fourth ring, he answers.

“Audrey?”

Somehow, his voice calms me the second I hear it. Laced with concern and care and something else that I can’t quite pinpoint. It sounds like love, but surely that’s not it. That’s just the hormones talking.

“Michael.”

My own voice is a shaky whisper. I clear my throat, wiping each sweaty palm in turn. My grey skirt turns dark with the streaks.

“Sorry,” I correct myself once I’ve gained a tiny ounce of composure. “How are you? Are you good? It’s been a while, I’m sorry I haven’t responded to your messages. I’m sorry I wasn’t well that day at the cafe. I hope I didn’t make you sick.” I couldn’t have made him sick, not when the only thing causing my nausea was the toxic mix of hormones and anxiety.

Word vomit continues to tumble out as I try desperately to fill the silence, to talk about anything other than the baby.

“Audrey?” Michael cuts off my rambling. “What’s wrong?”

“I … You’re … We …” I try, but none of the sentences flying through my head seem appropriate. There’s no right way to tell the man I had a fling with that he is about to become a father.

The car seat scratches against the back of my thighs. I take a deep, pained breath, fighting the urge to close my eyes. When a traffic light ahead of me turns red, I ease the car to a stop and take the chance to blink away the stinging. Under my closed eyes, tears swell and overflow.

Michael sucks in a deep breath, letting it out on a low sigh. But he remains silent while I process my thoughts, trying to find the words I know I need to get out.

Behind me, another driver punches on their horn, signalling that I missed the light turning green. I take off slowly. As the car picks up speed, so does the pounding in my chest.

“I can’t do this.” The words surprise me as they escape my lips, but once they are out in the open, transported via Bluetooth and phone connection, I know what I need to do. Rolling my shoulders back I sit a little taller in my chair, faking confidence in the way I always do. “Can we meet again? I’m sorry I ran off last time.”

It takes too long for Michael to answer. I hear him fumble with the phone and his rough breaths. My heart continues to beat ferociously and my left knee shakes as I pull into my work car park. Turning the engine off and unbuckling my seat belt, I trace the steering wheel with a finger while I wait for him to say … anything. Even no, by this stage.

“Look sorry, you don’t have—”

“I want to.” He cuts off my attempt to take back the invitation. My shoulders relax as he continues. “Yes, please. Let’s meet again. But I can’t this week. Maybe next?”

I sink into the seat.

“I’ll have Maisie, the weekend after?”

The idea of waiting two weeks to tell him is a kick right to my growing stomach, but it’s better than the alternatives. I can’t rely on my ex-husband to look after Maisie again, but I have no one else nearby to babysit and I’m not ready to bring her along. We could meet for dinner after work one night, but I have evening showings for a bunch of high-end houses I need to sell. Plus, lately I’ve been so exhausted afterwards that I doubt I’ll be able to get the right words out.

So, two weeks it is. At least I’ll have time to figure out what I’m going to say. And plan for the many hundreds of ways this whole situation is likely to go pear shaped.