“If there’s something wrong with our baby, I want to know.”
“I’ll join you and Bristol in a moment,” Dr. Wagner says evenly. “I’ll talk to you together.”
She doesn’t deny that there’s a problem, and that fact cuts through my protests like a shard of glass.
“Wait . . . I . . . okay. If we could just . . .” The possibility of something being wrong with our child has me stumbling. “If you could just tell me first.”
“Mr. James.” Dr. Wagner’s reservations come to life on her face. “I’d prefer to discuss everything with you and your wife together.”
I want to be the first line of defense for Bris. I’ve always been protective of her, but the shit that went down with Parker ramped up my need to shield her from danger, from pain. Anything wrong with our baby is pain like I can’t imagine. A premonition of it skims across my nerves. It’s times like these I hate those extra senses Ma says growing up street gives us, the ones that dig between Dr. Wagner’s words, the things she says, into all the things she doesn’t.
“I’ll be there shortly,” she says, finality in her voice. “Thank you, Mr. James.”
Darla’s biting her lip, anxiety in the eyes she slides between Dr. Wagner and me. If I had one minute alone with Darla, I’d get it out of her, but with Dr. Wagner standing guard over whatever secret they’re keeping, I’m getting nothing. Resigned, I head back to the examination room. I open the door tentatively, not sure how I’ll handle Bristol’s questions on the other side.
But there aren’t questions—she’s fallen asleep again. Between the sleep her pregnancy demands and me interrupting her sleep this morning, she’s exhausted. Her head droops to the side, her long lashes shadowing her cheeks. Her hand rests over the small bump, even in sleep, protecting our baby. I slide the chair beside the exam table and dip my head to kiss the baby through Bris’s clothes. I do what I’ve been doing ever since we found out, and the ritual gives me some comfort. These words about what’s possible ease my mind as I wait to hear what left Dr. Wagner’s eyes so grave.
“Dwell in possibility, baby.”
Chapter 35
Bristol
SOMETHING’S WRONG.
If Grip’s abrupt departure and lame excuse didn’t give it away, Dr. Wagner’s expression does, even though she tries to hide it beneath a m
ask of professionalism when she enters the room without the ultrasound technician. She goes through the same process Darla did, running the wand over my belly and studying the screen. She turns the ultrasound away to look at it, her mouth firming into a grim line.
She indicates that I can leave the examination table and take a seat beside Grip.
“Okay. What’s going on?” Grip asks. “We’d like to find out the sex of our baby. Is there a problem?”
A brochure of some kind rests facedown in Dr. Wagner’s lap. Anxiety ratchets up, plucking at my nerves. I just want her to blurt it out if there’s a problem. This delay only stirs fear inside of me.
“When Darla looked at the ultrasound,” Dr. Wagner finally says, “she noticed something about the fetus.”
“What?” Grip demands. “What did she notice?”
“Based on what we see,” Dr. Wagner says, her voice careful, like she’s measuring the words out in a recipe that has to be exact, precise portions of brutal honesty and compassion. “We suspect anencephaly.”
Should that mean something to me? For all I know, that could be anything from a rash to . . . I can’t play that all the way out. This baby isn’t even born and I haven’t seen the 3D ultrasound, but I’ve felt flutters under my heart. My shape is changing and my body is working overtime to grow this baby. Anything that endangers my baby’s life could cleave me into un-mendable pieces.
“Ance-what?” Grip’s eyes don’t leave Dr. Wagner’s face, but his hand bridges the small space between us until our fingers twist into a knot of solidarity. “What is that? How do we fix it?”
“An-en-sef-uh-lee,” Dr. Wagner sounds out slowly. Her face still wears that impassive mask, but her hands clutch the brochure like she’s steeling herself to say what needs to be said. “And you don’t . . . well, you don’t fix it. Anencephaly is a terminal diagnosis. I’m so sorry.”
The word “terminal” multiplies, flying around my brain over and over until my mind is a hive of bees swarming, stinging. I struggle to pluck one lucid thought from the buzzing in my head.
“But . . . but how can you know?” My voice emerges from its hiding place high and thin. “You just look at the screen and hand down a terminal diagnosis? That can’t be right. There have to be tests or—”
“Yes, we’ll run an amniocentesis as a . . .” Discomfort crinkles Dr. Wagner’s face. “As a formality, but I’m certain, Bristol. It’s apparent even in the ultrasound.”
I can’t even cry. My arms clasp my little belly protectively and my hands shake. My extremities have frozen like I’m in shock. How could I not be in shock when she just ripped the rug, the floor—the earth from under my feet? I don’t have a leg to stand on.
“What exactly is this condition?” Grip’s voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. He has one of those voices, so warm it draws you in, but right now, there’s distance, distance and desperation. “You said it’s terminal, but we don’t know anything about it yet.”
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Wagner allows sympathy into her eyes.