Chapter Fifteen

Tyler and I sat side by side in the Lysol-scented waiting room of the obstetrician’s office. He had picked me up in his spotless truck, made small talk on the hour-long drive to Lubbock, and ushered me into the office as though he owned the place. Now we stared at the large-screen TV, watching two sea horses mate.

He grunted.

I considered frowning at him, but a middle-aged, pregnant woman sitting across the room lowered her parenting magazine and did it for me.

“Sorry.” He laid his arm across the back of my chair.

But I didn’t really mind Tyler’s crass behavior. I was just glad I wasn’t alone.

“What do you think the baby will look like?” I rubbed a hand across my inverted belly button.

“I don’t know. Us?”

“But will he look more like me, or you, or one of our parents?”

“He can’t go wrong either way.” Tyler’s eyes drifted to the television, where hundreds of tiny, fully-developed sea horses shot from the male’s swollen belly.

Tyler shook his head.

I snatched a magazine from the coffee table and buried my nose in it, but then a door at the side of the room opened, and a nurse called my name.

She led us to a pink-and-blue exam room that smelled like rubbing alcohol and felt like a walk-in refrigerator. Then she weighed me, took my temperature, and checked my pulse. As always, the speed with which the woman marshaled me through the office made me feel like a cow being driven through a chute at the livestock auction. “It means a lot that you’re here, Tyler.”

“Sure.” He pulled a metal chair forward and sat near my knee, which caused him to look up at me at an angle. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I pretended to study a poster showing the monthly stages of pregnancy, and I wished we had the type of relationship where I felt comfortable sitting in silence.

Tyler pressed a warm palm against my calf to stop the nervous jitters that tapped my flip-flops against the footrest. “The street dance is this Saturday, Fawn. Can I pick you up?”

I opened my mouth to answer but heard my file slide from its resting place on the other side of the wall, and then Dr. Tubbs entered, along with a breeze of cold air and the aroma of onions.

“Hello, young lady. You’re looking well.” He held his hand toward Tyler. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Harrison Tubbs.”

“Tyler Cruz.”

“Cruz …” The doctor squinted. “Are you any relation to the rancher?”

“My father.” Tyler lifted his chin, and on the inside, I did the same.

“Sorry to hear of his passing.” The doctor’s eyes softened earnestly—a facial sympathy card—then he nodded. “Glad you could come today.” He turned his attention to me while Tyler resumed his seat beneath us both. “Any problems this month, Fawn?”

“I’m not sure. The other day I had a few pains.”

“Did they feel like monthly cramps?”

I glanced at Tyler and nodded.

“Ah yes. Those are Braxton-Hicks contractions. Nothing to worry about. Now that you’re in your third trimester, it’s your body’s way of getting ready for labor.” He smiled. “Any other concerns?”

“Nothing besides being hungry all the time. And really, really tired.”

The doctor grinned. “Both are perfectly normal effects of a healthy pregnancy.” He put a chubby hand on my shoulder. “Lie back on the pillow, and let’s hear the heartbeat.”

When I lifted my shirt to expose my abdomen, Tyler looked on with silent interest. I felt my neck flush when I remembered the small stretch marks rippling across my skin. I had found some lotion to make them invisible, but after two weeks of use, I couldn’t tell a difference.

The doctor swiped a handheld probe across my midsection, and I shivered.

“Sorry. I know it’s cold.” He cut his eyes to the side and listened to the sounds coming from the plastic monitor.

But they weren’t the right sounds. Usually the persistent whoosh of my baby’s heartbeat filled the small room, but today I heard only an occasional thump along with the amplified movements of the device itself.

My fingers found the edge of the paper tablecloth, and I poked my thumbnail through it. “Something’s wrong.”

Instead of answering, the doctor shifted his attention to my other side, and he stared into the corner of the room, giving all his attention to the small device in his hand.

My ears became sensitive radar, searching for my baby’s heartbeat but only finding other muffled sounds. A droning voice down the hall, the clank of the scale, water running. My heart seemed to struggle to pump blood through my veins, and I stared at the ceiling in frozen shock. And still the sounds coming from my body were wrong.

Dr. Tubbs finally spoke. “I’m getting an irregular heartbeat, Fawn, but before we panic, let’s get Regina in here for a quick ultrasound.” He stepped into the hallway, leaving the door open.

I lay on the table, my face turned toward the wall while three tears dripped sideways to puddle on the paper pillowcase. My eyelids squeezed shut, pushing the doctor and his machinery out of my thoughts, and I wished I were back home in my shack, lying in Ansel Pickett’s recliner, where I could see my view.

My hand gripped the paper until it tore away from my grasp. I hadn’t talked to God much lately. Or read my Bible enough. Or volunteered to teach Sunday school. But I dressed modestly now, and I stopped drinking and using bad words, and I wanted to be a good mother.

Fingers of guilt strangled me, barely allowing air in and out of my lungs as I choked on silent sobs. I cried for my baby, but I longed to be held like a baby myself. To have someone who could make this go away. To be rocked and cuddled and comforted. And saved.

Tyler cleared his throat. “Come on, Fawn. The doctor said not to panic.”

I opened my eyes and focused on the sonogram machine by the side of the bed. I had forgotten Tyler was even in the room.

I turned my head to see him casually scrolling through his phone messages, and I realized if I stayed with Tyler Cruz … I would always be alone.