Redeeming 6: Boys of Tommen #4

FEELING EXTREMELY SELF-CONSCIOUS, I stood on the physician scales in examination room 3B in the maternity hospital and watched as the midwife fiddled with the reading rod.

My heart was racing violently in my chest, and every ounce of blood I seemed to possess had decided to rush to my cheeks.

I loathed being weighed.

I loathed being here even more.

But the worst part of the whole ordeal was that I had to do it alone.

Today was day eight of Joey being AWOL and I was at my breaking point.

“You’re a fine tall girl, aren’t you? Just under 5’9,” the midwife mused, distracting me from my internal meltdown. “Is the baby’s father tall?”

“Um, yeah, he is,” I replied, stepping off the scales, and toeing my pumps back on. “He’s about 6’1.”

“You’ll have a fine tall baby on your hands so,” she chuckled, scribbling in the red folder that I had been given at reception. “Now, you’ve had your urine sample taken and your bloodwork done, so why don’t we take a seat and go through some medical history.”

“Okay.”

“Is baby’s father joining us?”

“Uh, no, he’s, ah…” Voice trailing off, I slumped in the chair before adding, “He really wanted to be here, but he couldn’t get time off work.”

The lie slipped off my tongue to join a whole host of other lies I had told this past week to explain my boyfriend’s absence to the people in my life. Because telling the truth was out of the question.

The only one I had been able to confide in was Casey.

“No problem,” the midwife replied, taking the seat opposite me. “You can answer any of the questions you know about your partner’s family history, and if he has any concerns, he can have additional information added at any time.”

“Okay.” Clasping my hands on my lap, I nodded and forced a smile. “Ask away.”

“First day of your last menstrual cycle?”

“December fourteenth.”

“And how long does your cycle last?”

“Anything between 28 and 35 days usually.”

“Do you or your partner, or any family members have any history of diabetes, hypertension, heart disease, autoimmune disease, epilepsy, or any other serious medical illness not mentioned?”

“Uh, no…” I roughly cleared my throat. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Are there any genetic conditions in your family or your partner’s family of down’s syndrome, muscular dystrophy, spina bifida or any other serious genetic condition not mentioned?”

“No,” I breathed, heart fluttering nervously. “Nothing.”

“What about a history of twins?”

“I’m a twin,” I replied. “I’ve a twin brother. My mother’s aunt has two sets of twins. That’s all as far as I know.”

“Are there any allergies in your family or your partner’s family?”

“I have an intolerance to bullshit if that counts?”

She smiled. “No, that’s okay.”

I shrugged, face flaming with heat. “Okay.”

“Any recurrent miscarriage or stillbirth in the family?”

“Uh no, not on my side.”

“Your partner’s?”

“Uh, his mam lost a baby late into her last pregnancy.”

The midwife’s eyes flickered with sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you happen to know what the cause of that loss was?”

“I think she had a placental abruption?” I squeezed out, flustered. “I’m not entirely sure. She’s had a lot of children. I think that one was her seventh?”

The midwife’s brows rose in surprise. “And your partner? He’s number…”

“Two,” I filled in. “He’s her second son.”

“Big family.”

Big mess. “Yeah.”

“Sexual partners—”

“I’ve only been with him,” I blurted out, cutting her off. “We’ve been together since fifth year, but we’ve been friends since first year.”

She smiled warmly at me. “And your partner?”

“Uh, he’s had other sexual partners, but since we’ve been together, it’s only been us.”

“Uh-huh, and are you a smoker?”

“No.”

“Is your partner a smoker?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“And your alcohol intake?”

“I’m eighteen,” I replied with a shrug. “When I went out, it was a matter of go hard or go home.”

“And during this pregnancy?”

“God no,” I spluttered. “I would never knowingly drink while I’m pregnant.”

“And baby’s father?”

“No.” My palms began to sweat. “He’s not a big drinker.”

“What about birth control?”

“I was on the pill,” I explained. “Obviously, I stopped taking it once I found out.”

“Do you use condoms?”

“No.”

“Any vitamins and supplements?”

“I’ve been taking folic acid and these multivitamins for pregnancy that my mam bought in the chemist.”

“What about recreational drug use?”

Oh Jesus, here we go.

“I’ve never taken anything stronger than a paracetamol in my life.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, scribbling down everything I told her in my folder. “And your partner?”

I hesitated.

“I’m not here to judge, Aoife,” she said, noticing my reluctance. “Everything I’m asking is for the benefit of your baby.” Her eyes were warm and full of kindness when she said, “It’s all in confidence.”

“He’s fine,” I squeezed out, heart hammering wildly in my chest. “I mean…yeah, he dabbled a little in the past, but he’s fine now.”

“And when you say he dabbled?”

I shrugged, unable to get my voice to comply because talking meant betraying him, and my heart strings refused point blank to do that.

“Aoife, if there’s a pattern of drug abuse in,” she paused to glance at her notes before adding, “Joey’s history, then that’s necessary information for your unborn baby.”

“A little weed,” I finally came out with, deciding that weed was the lesser of evils in this instance. “But like I said, he’s fine now.”

“Okay.” Setting my folder down on the chair beside her, she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to be completely transparent with me.”

“Okay.”

“Does your partner have a history of alcohol or substance abuse?”

“No, I already told you that he’s not a big drinker.”

“Aside from marijuana, does your partner consume other illegal substances?” she pushed. “Substances that could put you at risk?”

“Like what?”

“Is he an intravenous drug user, for example?”

“No,” I choked out, flustered. “I mean, not really.”

“Not really?”

“He has in the past.”

“Okay.” Concern flooded her eyes. “And has your partner ever been violent with you?”

“What?” I balked. “No.”

“Has your partner ever caused harm or pain to your body?”

“That’s the same question,” I snapped. “And the answer’s still no. He has never laid a finger on me, and he never would.”

“Do you feel like you’re in danger?”

“Oh my god, no,” I snapped, knees bopping restlessly. “He wouldn’t harm a hair on my head.”

“Okay.” Reaching over, she gave my knee a supportive squeeze. “I don’t want you to panic, and it’s purely hospital protocol, but we’re going to have to have more extensive bloodwork sent off.”

“For what?”

“To eliminate any sexually transmitted diseases not screened in your previous bloodwork.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Joey and I are only with each other.”

“More often than not intravenous drug users have a tendency of using contaminated needles. Not to mention the lack of inhibition when under the influence. It’s not uncommon for pregnant women in similar circumstances to present with STDs, even when they have only been with their partner, therefore I can’t stress to you enough the importance of protecting yourself during intercourse.”

“He’s not dirty,” I strangled out, mind completely reeling from the information she was throwing at me. “He’s a great guy. He’s smart and responsible, and in school, and has a job. He’s a Cork hurler for God’s sake.”

“We have a service available at the hospital for young mothers that I think might be of great benefit to you—”

“No thank you.” I shook my head. “I don’t need any of that.”

“I’m going to refer you anyway and have a member from their team contact you in due course.” Ignoring my wishes, the midwife reached for my notes and resumed her scribbling before standing up and moving for the door. “I’m going to need you to wait here, Aoife. I’ll be back shortly.”

Oh god.

This was not good.

This was not good at all.

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I quickly dialed the one number I knew would always answer me and held the phone to my ear.

“Aoife, love, are you alright?”

“Mam. Can you come up to the hospital?” Clenching my eyes shut, I blew out a ragged breath before whispering, “I really need you.”