Page 15 of Because of Them

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.

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