I make a face. “I tripped on a chair leg. I’m a barista at the moment.”
“Ah.” There’s something about her face that makes me wonder if she thinks I was drunk when I did it. Which might have been true a while ago, but isn’t today.
Don’t project. I suddenly wish I’d brought Rory with me. Why didn’t I? “My friend is in the waiting room. Can I have her come in?”
“Sure.” She walks to the door and murmurs to someone outside, then comes back in. She examines me inside and out, then rolls over an ultrasound machine. “We will get a better idea of the age of the fetus this way.”
A knock sounds at the door and Norah sticks her head around. “You rang?”
I smile, and reach for her with my left hand. “Yes. Thank you.”
It is completely natural to hold her hand, which she covers with both of hers. “You’re okay.”
I nod and ask the doctor, “Can you tell how old the baby is without the information on my period?”
“Happens all the time.” She squirts cold gel on my belly and rubs the wand over the spot. I see gray shapes, coming together, moving apart, and then—
“Oh my God! I see her. Him. Her?” A head shape, a back. Hands. That feeling of light and astonishment moves through me again, filling the marrow of my bones, the cells of my heart. “Oh my God,” I whisper again.
Norah squeezes my hand, and I look up at her. “Crazy, right?”
“Yeah.” She blinks hard and I know it’s miraculous for her, too.
“Do you want to know the sex?”
“Um. I don’t know. No. Not today.”
“Okay.” She runs the wand around the edges, across the body parts. “I’m guessing you’re about eighteen or nineteen weeks, so you were impregnated about four months ago. How does that sync up with your alcohol use?”
Terror fills my throat. “I went to rehab ninety-seven days ago.”
She nods and I can’t read her face. “So you might have been three or four weeks pregnant by then.” She hands me tissues and I wipe my belly. Does it look like it might be getting a little bowed? Maybe. My heart squeezes. “I’m going to be as straightforward as I can so you can make good decisions.”
“Okay.”
“How stable is your sobriety?”
Emotion swells through me. “Pretty good. Today,” I say honestly. “One day at a time, and I really want to be sober, so . . .”
“Do you have a good support system?”
“Yes. My mom and my sister.” I squeeze Norah’s hand. “My friends.”
“Good.” She pauses. “The ultrasound is most accurate before fourteen weeks, but I’m pretty sure this is a fetus at nineteen weeks. Since you went into rehab ninety-seven days ago, the window for your drinking continues until about three weeks postconception, and that, unfortunately, is right on the line. At three weeks, a lot of things start happening, and alcohol can interfere.”
A thud hits my heart. “How will I know?”
“You won’t, not until the baby is born.”
“And what kind of problems will she face if she does have it?”
“It’s a spectrum, and it’s different from child to child, but it’s not insurmountable as long as you stay sober. There are many programs to help you and your baby.”
As long as I stay sober. I look at her, the joy of this whole beautiful gift sliding out of my body, pooling in glittery puddles on the floor. Behind it is the shame of my life, the things I’ve done. “Is your recommendation to abort?”
“No!” Something must show on my face, because she takes my hand. “No! Not at all.” Her face is calm. “There is a chance of some problems, but there’s also a chance the baby will be perfectly healthy. There are never any promises, and a lot will depend on what you do from here forward. What do you want?”
“I want the baby,” I say, clearly. “Girl or boy, I don’t care.”
“Good. In that case, congratulations. If you want to choose me, I’ll see you in about a month.”
Tears are pouring from my eyes, making my nose run. “When am I due, then?”
She glances at her tablet. “Right around Thanksgiving.”
“Thank you.”
When she’s gone, I look up at Norah. “I’m having a baby!”
She hugs me. Her hair smells of Herbal Essences. “Congratulations, Maya. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.”