Self-determination

“My baby is safe and healthy; now you pack up that spare room.”

“It’s not a spare room, it’s my art studio.”

“The baby is what you need to concentrate on,” my husband instructs. We pause at a vending machine; Doug rolls in a few coins and I watch the row of curly rollers unwind, a bottle of water drop down. It’s uncapped and pressed into my hand. “Preparing yourself physically, mentally —“

“I am concentrating on the baby,” I argue, bubbling the water at my lips, one hand naturally sitting on my barely-there bump.

Doug takes the bottle back. “Good.” His grip finds my arm again; it’s painful and I should fight back but…I can’t, not here. I’d only pay for it later.

“I don’t want to stop doing my art, Doug…” Forced to walk side by side with him through another set of double doors, I murmur, “I’m okay,” just to reassure him. I’m safe, the baby is safe.

Wait, this doesn’t look like the way we came in. We stop by a long reception desk and I have to look for signs as to where we actually are. Labor and Delivery Surgical Suite?

“Sit there and rest while I sort out your paperwork, gotta book you in.” Doug gestures to the row of seating, chairs affixed to the floor as if someone might make off with one.

“Already? But I’m only eleven weeks.” I rub my arm when he finally releases it; it’ll bruise worse if I don’t.

“Operating schedules are planned months in advance, Mel,” Doug states, like his meaning should be obvious, but I feel distinctly like I’m missing an important nugget of information.

“Why do I need to go to the OR?”

“For a Cesarean section,” he replies bluntly.

I blink, stunned.

“Since when —“ My hands snap to my hips. Using what is left of my figure to get in his way, I block him from getting to the reception. “You don’t wanna run that past me first?”

“Baby, don’t fight me on this. We’re not taking any risks this time,” he squeezes my arms, manhandling me aside in the politest way possible, the receptionist still on the phone but gesturing she’ll be with us shortly. “You’ll have a Cesarean, and there’ll be a pediatrician at the birth. I’ve worked it all out.” He pecks me on the cheek.

“And if I wanna do it natural?” I fold my arms stubbornly, protecting my heart from his wounding words. He’s probably just being supportive. Taking care of me and looking after things, he’s just anxious.

But I’m already trapped in that house all day long. I wish I’d never told him. Because now what? I’ll be strapped to an operating table, maybe even put under with anesthetic, all so some doctor can pull my baby out of me and hand the child to Doug?

“Concerned about a big scar across your body?” Doug huffs and slides his insurance card across the desk to the clerk with the rest of my paperwork. His eyes flick down to where the scar would be, needling his fingers up under my blouse and drawing the incision with the tip of his finger. “You’ll get over it. It’s only fifteen centimeters or so, and better that my son arrives safely, isn't it.”

I eye the clerk warily, tip-tapping on her deep screened computer. “But we hadn’t even discussed if we were gonna keep it.” I chew my lip. “What if I don’t want this?”

Doug’s arm comes around my back and encourages a subtle submission, one he often pushes for from me. “Trust me, everything will be perfect. You’ll be a great mom.”

I snatch my paperwork when it comes back over the reception desk; I want to read it over. It’s got my name on it. “We can always cancel later, right? If we change our minds?” I ask the clerk, who nods and smiles cheerily.

Doug’s eyes seem to darken.

“Why would we change our minds, Mel?”

“It’s my body, Doug” I snap. But his energy shifts, so I pull back, fold my arms. “You still need my consent. On the forms?”

Doug lowers his voice. “For now.” With his arm still around my back, he leans closer as if to tenderly kiss my cheek — but instead, my husband pinches my ribs, hard. “When it comes to the safety of my child, I know damn well what’s best.” He kisses me then, and I shut my eyes. “Now, be a good girl and go and sit down,” he coaxes, smiling back at the desk-clerk making sure she hears this line, how wonderful and caring he's being.

I rub over my belly and retreat a few steps, then stare at my husband critically. Men grieve differently, my psychiatrist would say. Doug just wants to make sure I’m all right; He lost the last baby too, just like you, Dr Thompson would repeat, but that’s not an excuse for this.

I search for the carefully folded scan prints in my handbag. They aren’t just black and white images. They’re the baby that could be my future. The smile that peaks in my cheeks — the first one that’s happened in a long time — feels so good. But no matter how I try and rationalize it, Doug’s behavior doesn’t sit right anymore. It should not have been his decision that I got pregnant again so soon, not when I wasn’t ready.

I lift the sleeve of my blouse right up to the shoulder, frowning at the new bruises already layering over old ones, that no-one ever seems to notice. Not the doctor or the sonographer. Would they better accept my decision if they realized?

I love my husband.

And I would love this baby.

But with him distracted at the desk, I swing my handbag over my arm and walk right out of the department, calling a cab and not looking back.

Because this is still my choice.

***

Natalie Blake is a British-born writer, now living abroad. Her short fiction has been published in Wyldblood Press, Otherverse Magazine, and is upcoming in Sleet Magazine and Bookends Review. Her flash fiction has also been featured in multiple print anthologies with Pure Slush Books. Through her work, Natalie often explores contemporary issues surrounding gender, sexuality, and the intersectionality of women's lives with wider society.