“For fuck’s sake. The light’s green, asshole!” Garrett lays on the horn.
We’re on our way to the hospital, and I’ve
been braced in my seat since we pulled out of the driveway and almost backed into a passing car. Traffic won’t cut us a break as Garrett white-knuckles the steering wheel and alternates between impatient outbursts, worried questions, and angry demands.
“How long has this been going on?” he snaps, scowling at the windshield.
“I woke up not feeling well. I had cramps, felt a bit nauseous. Then it got worse.”
“Why didn’t you say something then?”
“Because you were all worked up about the interview, and I didn’t want to add extra stress on you. I couldn’t tell you I was pregnant five minutes before you had to leave the house to see your father.”
“I wouldn’t have gone!” he shouts. Then he takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just don’t get it, Wellsy. How could you not tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. When I noticed the blood and texted Allie—”
“Allie knows?” Garrett swerves between vehicles.
“—she said I should ask Sabrina if it was normal and—” “Sabrina knows?” he roars. “Jesus Christ. Am I the last
one to find out?”
My hand grips the armrest for dear life. “I meant to tell you,” I say through a lump of guilt. “I kept trying to, but it never felt like the right time. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you, Garrett. I wanted to tell you.”
“But you didn’t. The first time I hear anything about it, I’ve spent all day getting grilled beside Phil, and I check my voicemail to hear you basically in tears telling me to come home because you’re pregnant. I mean, what the hell, Hannah?”
“This is why I haven’t said anything!” Tears sting my eyes as desperation, frustration, and fear form a lethal cocktail in my throat. I feel like I’m going to throw up. “The last thing I wanted was to dump it on you like this. You had this interview. And before that, it was the awards. And before that, it was post-season.”
“You’ve known about this since post-season?” He nearly sideswipes a utility van that’s trying to merge. Horns blare at us from all directions as he speeds up and slips into the left lane. “Christ.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“I’m not yelling at you,” he growls through gritted teeth. “I’m yelling at the fact that you’ve kept this from me for months.”
“At this point I’m sorry I called at all,” I growl back. “I should have just gone by myself.” Because the louder he gets, and the more the indignation strains his voice while I’m sitting on a pad soaking up blood, the more my own anger rises.
“That’s a low blow.” He curses loudly. “I can’t believe you just said that!”
“You’re shouting at me again,” I snap in accusation. I could be losing our baby, and this jackass is making it all about himself like I’m not terrified.
“This is exactly the kind of shit my father pulls,” Garrett snaps back. “Manipulating me with information. Keeping things to himself.”
“Are you serious right now?” I’m so furious, my hands are actually burning with the urge to smack him. “You’re comparing me to your father?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Talk about low blows.” I can’t remember the last time I was this mad at anyone. “You know what, Garrett, if you really wanted to get him out of your life, you could just be honest. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: just tell the world what a monster he is and be done with it. You act like you have to keep silent about the abuse and protect the man’s legacy. But you’ve chosen to keep quiet. You do this to yourself.”
He glances over, eyes blazing. “What, so I should go on TV and announce to the world that my dad used to hit me? Give newspapers interviews describing the various incidents so they can glorify it and pant over the juicy scoop? Screw that.”
“I get that you’re embarrassed, okay? And yeah, it’s not a pleasant subject. Nobody wants to relive their trauma. But maybe it’s time you did.”
He doesn’t say another word or even spare a sideways look in my direction until we get to the hospital and he checks me in. By that point, I’m relegated to the third person while the nurse asks questions and Garrett takes command. I’d protest more, but I don’t have the energy.
Eventually, we’re brought into an exam room where I undress and put on a scratchy hospital gown. Neither of us say a single word. We don’t even look at each other. But when the doctor enters with the ultrasound machine, Garrett brings a chair over to sit beside my bed and grabs my hand to squeeze it tight.
“It’ll be okay,” he says roughly. It’s the first anger-less thing he’s said to me since we got in his car back at home.
“So, Hannah,” the doctor says, prepping the machine. She’s an older woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and silver streaks in her short hair. “The nurse tells me you’ve had some spotting and cramps. How’s the bleeding now?”
“Like a medium-flow period,” I answer awkwardly. “It was lighter earlier, but it started getting worse around lunchtime.”
“Any other symptoms?”
“I was nauseated for a couple weeks. Then this morning the cramps were pretty bad.”
I was expecting the belly ultrasound like I’ve seen on TV, but then the doctor turns to me with a phallic-looking wand, and I realize this is a whole different kind of exam. Garrett stares at the floor uncomfortably. Not a milestone in our relationship either of us was prepared for, but I guess we should have thought about that before I got pregnant.
“Some bleeding and discomfort is normal,” the doctor says. “But let’s get a better look.”
A dozen horrible thoughts crash through my brain as I hold my breath. I hadn’t decided what my next step would be, mostly because I hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell Garrett. Having that choice ripped from my hands before I’d fully gotten my head around all of it feels unfair. Like I’ve been cheated. My heartbeat accelerates the longer the doctor scrutinizes whatever she’s seeing on the screen.
“So, when the body is preparing to carry a baby, it undergoes a number of changes,” she tells me, her gaze glued to the imaging scan. “The new rush of hormones can have a number of effects, one of which is changes in your cervix that make it softer. This can lead to bleeding in some cases. Sexual intercourse, for example, or a number of other athletic activities, can exacerbate this. Have you engaged in any strenuous activities in the past few days?”
I bite my lip sheepishly.
Garrett clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. We had some, ah, vigorous intercourse the other night. Like, multiple times.”
“Vigorous intercourse?” I echo, turning to sigh at him. “Really? Couldn’t find any better words?”
He lifts a brow. “I was going to say I gave you a good pounding, but I figured the doc wouldn’t want to hear that.”
I feel my cheeks heat up. “I’m sorry,” I tell the doctor. “Ignore him.”
She looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “Vigorous intercourse could do it,” she says, her gaze returning to the screen. “And like I said, some bleeding is not unusual. On its own, it’s nothing to worry about.”
“So that’s it?” I ask, confused. “There’s nothing wrong?” “It all looks good from where I’m sitting. You seem to be
about ten weeks along. Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”
And then suddenly we hear this wet, whooshing, underwater sound. Like the soundtrack of an alien space horror movie. I listen, dumbfounded, staring at the blob on the screen. How is that noise coming out of me?
Beside me, Garrett looks as stunned as I feel.
“I’d still suggest taking it easy for the next few days,” she advises. “Let your body rest and recover. Otherwise, I see nothing to suggest trauma. You’re not running a fever, and I have no reason to suspect an infection.”
I bite back a relieved laugh. “I feel kind of embarrassed now for coming to the ER. I guess I overreacted.”
“You did the right thing,” she assures me. “You know your body better than anyone. If something seems off, better to get checked out and make sure.”
The doctor takes a few minutes to answer some of my questions and prints out a picture that she hands to Garrett. Though it’s so early in the pregnancy, there isn’t much to see. He takes the scan without a word. Still silently fuming, I imagine.
Once she leaves us, I quickly clean myself up. Then, as I get dressed, I finally work up the nerve to ask Garrett the question hanging in the tension-thick air between us.
“What do you want to do about it?”
