ask him to lie for me.
“No, no,” I said quickly. “You don’t need to say anything, hon. You don’t need to even mention that I’m pregnant or that we aren’t keeping the baby. If someone asks you if I’m having a baby, you can tell them the truth. You can say ‘yes.’ But you don’t need to say anything else. Okay?”
“But what if later they ask where the baby is?” he asked.
It suddenly occurred to me that everybody who knew me and could see that I was pregnant would wonder where the baby was. There seemed to be no end of uncomfortable circumstances looming ahead.
I wanted to say, “Tell them the baby died.” But I couldn’t tell my son to say that. I knew I couldn’t say it. It was a lie. I decided I needed time to think about what we could say to little seven-year-old boys and everyone else.
“Let me think about it and get back to you on that. Okay?” I said.
“All right.” He cuddled down into his blanket and I left him.
I told Dan that night as we got ready for bed about the little problem I had at the pizza restaurant and what I had told Spencer.
“What are we going to tell people when they ask, Dan?” I said. “Only a handful of family and friends know the truth. What are we supposed to say?”
I could tell Dan had already given this a lot of thought.
“I’m working on it,” he said.
“What?” I said, though I had heard what he said.
“I am working on it.”
He didn’t say anything else. I was tired after the long day with seven little boys, so I let it go.
Katie’s piano recital was held at her school on Palm Sunday afternoon. She played flawlessly. Practicing her piece relentlessly the previous few weeks had definitely paid off, but she had grown to hate the piece, I think. She never played it again.
Two days before Ed and Rosemary came down for the second time, I had another doctor’s visit. I was nearing the end of the seventh month.
An ultrasound revealed the placenta was still in the same place, perhaps a little higher.
“At this point, I would say you could possibly deliver this child naturally, Claire. A lot depends on these last two months,” Dr. Whitestone told me. “The weight of the baby often pushes the placenta upward, where it’s supposed to be. That’s what happened with your first child. Other than that, everything looks fine.”
“I really don’t want another Cesarean,” I told him as I sat up on the table and covered my stomach.
“I know you don’t,” he said gently. It was like he and I both wordlessly agreed I shouldn’t have to bear that burden along with everything else.
The picture of my child was still on the ultrasound screen, frozen in time as Dr. Whitestone printed the image.
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” I asked him out of the blue, suddenly wanting confirmation of what I already knew in my heart.
He looked up from the printer and studied me for a moment.
“I do,” he said.
I nodded. So he knew.
“Do you want to know?” he asked.
There didn’t seem to be any point in not knowing. This was not like being pregnant with Katie and Spence or even Sarah—the child I miscarried and we named. I thought for a second that perhaps it would be helpful for Ed and Rosemary to know. Maybe it mattered to them. I quickly dismissed that thought. I knew it would not matter to them. It would not matter to them if the child was male or female, one-legged, blind, or anything else. “Yes, I do,” I said.
“It’s a girl,” he said and turned away from me so I could process this information privately.
“You’re sure?”
He turned around and smiled just a little. “Ninety-nine percent sure,” he said.
So was I.
I left with instructions to take it easy. Keep stair-climbing to a minimum. No jogging or jumping, neither of which I had done in years. Dr. Whitestone also wanted to see me in two weeks, not four, to see if there had been any change.
I didn’t want to go home right away. It was early in the day yet,
“No, no,” I said quickly. “You don’t need to say anything, hon. You don’t need to even mention that I’m pregnant or that we aren’t keeping the baby. If someone asks you if I’m having a baby, you can tell them the truth. You can say ‘yes.’ But you don’t need to say anything else. Okay?”
“But what if later they ask where the baby is?” he asked.
It suddenly occurred to me that everybody who knew me and could see that I was pregnant would wonder where the baby was. There seemed to be no end of uncomfortable circumstances looming ahead.
I wanted to say, “Tell them the baby died.” But I couldn’t tell my son to say that. I knew I couldn’t say it. It was a lie. I decided I needed time to think about what we could say to little seven-year-old boys and everyone else.
“Let me think about it and get back to you on that. Okay?” I said.
“All right.” He cuddled down into his blanket and I left him.
I told Dan that night as we got ready for bed about the little problem I had at the pizza restaurant and what I had told Spencer.
“What are we going to tell people when they ask, Dan?” I said. “Only a handful of family and friends know the truth. What are we supposed to say?”
I could tell Dan had already given this a lot of thought.
“I’m working on it,” he said.
“What?” I said, though I had heard what he said.
“I am working on it.”
He didn’t say anything else. I was tired after the long day with seven little boys, so I let it go.
Katie’s piano recital was held at her school on Palm Sunday afternoon. She played flawlessly. Practicing her piece relentlessly the previous few weeks had definitely paid off, but she had grown to hate the piece, I think. She never played it again.
Two days before Ed and Rosemary came down for the second time, I had another doctor’s visit. I was nearing the end of the seventh month.
An ultrasound revealed the placenta was still in the same place, perhaps a little higher.
“At this point, I would say you could possibly deliver this child naturally, Claire. A lot depends on these last two months,” Dr. Whitestone told me. “The weight of the baby often pushes the placenta upward, where it’s supposed to be. That’s what happened with your first child. Other than that, everything looks fine.”
“I really don’t want another Cesarean,” I told him as I sat up on the table and covered my stomach.
“I know you don’t,” he said gently. It was like he and I both wordlessly agreed I shouldn’t have to bear that burden along with everything else.
The picture of my child was still on the ultrasound screen, frozen in time as Dr. Whitestone printed the image.
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” I asked him out of the blue, suddenly wanting confirmation of what I already knew in my heart.
He looked up from the printer and studied me for a moment.
“I do,” he said.
I nodded. So he knew.
“Do you want to know?” he asked.
There didn’t seem to be any point in not knowing. This was not like being pregnant with Katie and Spence or even Sarah—the child I miscarried and we named. I thought for a second that perhaps it would be helpful for Ed and Rosemary to know. Maybe it mattered to them. I quickly dismissed that thought. I knew it would not matter to them. It would not matter to them if the child was male or female, one-legged, blind, or anything else. “Yes, I do,” I said.
“It’s a girl,” he said and turned away from me so I could process this information privately.
“You’re sure?”
He turned around and smiled just a little. “Ninety-nine percent sure,” he said.
So was I.
I left with instructions to take it easy. Keep stair-climbing to a minimum. No jogging or jumping, neither of which I had done in years. Dr. Whitestone also wanted to see me in two weeks, not four, to see if there had been any change.
I didn’t want to go home right away. It was early in the day yet,
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