Ceara hugged her middle. “Ach, ’tis scarce able to believe it I am. A babe!” She looked up at Quincy through a blur of happy tears. “What do ye think ’twill be, a lad or lass?”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We won’t know that until they do an ultrasound. That happens at about four months, I think, but don’t quote me on it. Loni can tell you for sure.”
“What is an ultrasound?”
* * *
Quincy had never been quite so happy and frightened both at once. Now that the reality of it had started to sink in, he embraced fatherhood with a sense of joy that truly astounded him, but at the edges of his delight lurked a dark cloud of fear. It was dangerous to the fetus for a woman to drink alcohol during a pregnancy, and though Ceara had never overindulged until last Saturday, she’d had small amounts of wine or champagne nearly every evening.
Stupid, so stupid. Quincy knew he needed a good, swift kick in the ass. He’d known that he and Ceara had engaged in unprotected sex on their wedding night, so why had he never given pregnancy a second thought until he found her wolfing down sour artichokes as if they were provender for a queen? If his wife had been of his century, he might have laid half the responsibility for this at her feet, but under the circumstances, if their baby was born with brain damage or physical defects, the blame would rest solely upon him. Ceara had been out of her element here from the start. She’d also been raised in a strict family where the girls were kept innocent and protected until marriage. Hell, back in her time, people probably didn’t even know that alcohol and pregnancy could be a disastrous mix.
My fault. The words whispered in Quincy’s mind even as he smiled down at Ceara and told her they needed to get her an appointment with an OB as quickly as possible.
“What is an OB?” she asked.
“A doctor who specializes in taking care of pregnant ladies and their babies.”
Quincy could only pray that their baby would be born hale and hardy, despite the incredible stupidity of its father.
* * *
Loni recommended Dr. Marie Stevenson, saying she was the best OB in town, so soon after seeing the positive results of Ceara’s pregnancy test, Quincy was on the horn scheduling his wife’s first prenatal checkup. Leaving Ceara in the kitchen to happily devour vanilla ice cream and dill pickles, he went into his office to place the call. The receptionist at first maintained that the doctor was booked clear into July, but after Quincy explained that his wife had been consuming alcohol since conception, the young woman arranged for Ceara to be seen during one of the time slots they kept clear each day for emergencies.
Quincy was inexplicably grateful for her cooperation. “I really appreciate this,” he told the lady. “Maybe I’m overreacting, but I know alcohol can have a bad effect on a fetus, and I’m very worried.”
“I’m not allowed to give out medical advice,” she replied. “But I will say that you shouldn’t worry too much. Two of my very good friends drank alcohol before they realized they were pregnant, and they both delivered healthy babies.” She paused. “Can you have your wife here on Monday morning at nine thirty?”
“Absolutely, and thank you so much for fitting her into the doctor’s schedule.”
* * *
Dr. Stevenson, a slender dishwater blonde who wore her hair slicked back in a French braid, was a serious woman with a gentle demeanor. She explained to Ceara that a blood draw would be necessary, which was something Quincy had sort of dimly realized but failed to warn Ceara about. His wife looked resigned and rolled up her sleeve. “A woman who helped me mum with house chores had this done a few times fer her evil humors, but I dinna know it could tell us about babes. Are ye going to nick me arm with a knife?”
The doctor laughed. “You have a good sense of humor, I see, Mrs. Harrigan. It’s just a simple blood draw. I’ll have the technician come right in to take care of it, and then we can do the pelvic.”
Ceara shot a puzzled look after the departing doctor. Quincy felt his palms start to get moist. He’d neglected to take into consideration that pregnant woman had pelvic exams. He was also a little vague about just what a pelvic exam involved, but he knew every female in his family loathed them. Well, he’d address that part of the office visit later.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “this type of blood draw isn’t the same as it was in your time. A small needle is inserted into your vein and it draws out a little blood. It may sting a bit going in, but it doesn’t really hurt, I promise. I’ve had it done dozens of times.”
She looked anxiously at the closed door, glanced at her slender arm, and then turned her gaze to his with such trust that he got a lump in his throat. “I dinna ken just what ye mean, husband, but if ye say ’tis all right, I believe ye.”
Before he could respond in any way except to wrap an arm around her, a brisk young woman came in carrying a small tray. With swift efficiency she pulled on gloves, wrapped a piece of rubber tubing around Ceara’s upper arm, felt with her finger, assured Ceara that she had great veins, and drew the blood. Ceara closed her eyes and leaned her head against Quincy, then sighed with relief when the procedure was over. Quincy was just as relieved, though for a different reason. Not until the needle had actually penetrated his wife’s arm did it occur to him to wonder whether druid blood was the same color as a regular human’s.
“Nice, bright red,” he muttered, which earned him a questioning glance from his wife.
Dr. Stevenson returned and explained to Ceara that the in-house pregnancy test would be run at once. Then she asked Ceara a few questions. The one that stuck like a buzzing hornet in Quincy’s brain was, “How long has it been since your last menstrual cycle?”
Ceara looked blankly at the doctor. “Me what?”
He probably looked just as dumbstruck, Quincy thought, because so far as he knew, Ceara hadn’t had a period since he’d married her, and he’d been too damned interested in sniffing her skirt to notice the lack of one.
Sounding slightly puzzled, the doctor explained, “Your monthly cycle. You know, when did you last bleed?”
Comprehension flashed in Ceara’s eyes. “Ach,” she said. “Me curse, ye mean. Since afore I left Ireland.”
“And it didn’t strike you as abnormal when you were late?” Stevenson asked.
“The journey weakened me, ye ken, and ’tis a long way from normal I am just yet.”
“Oh.” Stevenson glanced up from the chart on which she jotted notes. “Rough trip?”
Ceara cut her gaze sideways at Quincy, which told him she knew to be careful how she answered that question. “Yes, verra rough.” Then, borrowing one of Father Mike’s stories about a return flight from his homeland, she said, “I got hold of bad food—tainted, I think ye call it—and I near puked up me toenails for many a day.”
“Uh-oh. I hope you went in for care.”
Ceara nodded. “Went to the ER, and they pumped me so full of fluids, I gained near ten pounds overnight.”
“Our ER?”
“A little urgent-care place,” Quincy inserted. “Right after we landed in Philly.” He hoped to hell flights from Dublin landed in Philadelphia—or that Stevenson wasn’t much of a world traveler. “We had to stay over for several days because Ceara was so weak. I think the food poisoning really got her system out of whack—or, at least, that’s what we thought it was. When she was late getting her monthly, I mean.” His own glibness disconcerted him. Quincy had a high regard for the truth, but prevarication here was better than telling a strange doctor that his wife was actually a druid who had been born well over four hundred years ago and had traveled forward in time to remove a curse from his family.
The doctor nodded. “I suppose with no other symptoms until this past week to indicate pregnancy, that was a logical enough assumption. From here on out, though, when she’s late, get an OTC pregnancy test kit. The earlier a mother realizes she’s pregnant, the better for the baby. Now, Mrs. Harrigan, we’ll get you into a gown and do a quick pelvic. Mr. Harrigan, per
haps you’d like to step outside.”
Quincy would have liked nothing better, but he couldn’t in good conscience leave Ceara to face the exam alone.
“If you don’t mind I’d prefer to stay,” he said. It was the biggest lie he’d ever told.
“Well . . . all right,” Stevenson replied doubtfully. “I’ll send Lisa in with a gown and then we’ll get started.”
The same young woman who had drawn the blood bustled back into the room, handed Ceara the ugliest hospital gown Quincy had ever seen, and laid a tray covered with wicked-looking instruments on the counter. “Just take off all your clothing, Mrs. Harrigan, leave the gown open at the front, and crack the door a little when you’re ready. I’ve brought both the regular and smaller-size specula. The doctor will decide which will be better to use.”
“What is a specula, and what is it used fer?” Ceara’s tone was doubtful, and she was giving careful attention to that tray. Quincy could see she didn’t like the look of any of the instruments. He didn’t blame her.
“The Pap smear and visual exam,” said the young woman as she exited the room. Ceara’s gaze slewed to Quincy, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“Quincy,” she whispered, and shivered. “’Tis frightened I am. What will they be doing to me?”
Obviously she was expecting him to explain. The problem was, he didn’t have a clue in hell exactly what was going to happen. “Well, uh . . .” he began. “First you need to take your clothes off and get into this gown. This is what women wear when they get examined for pregnancy.”
She fingered the dingy patterned material doubtfully. “’Tis ugly. Rainie would ne’er approve. Do the little tie straps go afore me or behind?”
“In front. She said open in the front.”
After Ceara drew on the gown, he helped with the ties. Then she perched on the edge of the examining table and shivered in the chill room.
Dr. Stevenson came through the door. “All set? Good. Now if you’ll just lie down, we’ll get started.”
Ceara complied, never taking her eyes off the doctor. Her face had paled, and Quincy thought it looked a little pinched. She was clearly terrified, and scrunched her eyes tight shut when she was told there would be a brief breast examination.
The doctor palpated Ceara’s breasts, then slid her hands down to her stomach. Ceara shook her head no when Stevenson asked if there was any pain, and as Quincy glanced down at Ceara, he realized she was holding her breath. When the doctor removed her hands, Ceara let out a long, unsteady sigh, and her eyes popped open. “Are we done?”
“No, Mrs. Harrigan, we still—” Dr. Stevenson broke off, and Quincy felt that for the first time the doctor was looking at Ceara as a woman rather than a patient. “Mrs. Harrigan, have you ever had a pelvic exam before?”
“Nay, ’twill be me first.”
“I see. I didn’t realize. What’s going to happen is that I will be asking you to scoot down until your bottom is at the end of the table. Your heels will be placed in these stirrups”—she indicated—“and your knees will be spread apart with a sheet draped over them. First we’ll do the smear. When the speculum is in place you’ll hear a slight click. The instrument will open you enough for me to put this swab stick inside to obtain the smear and take a look with my light to make sure everything is fine. After that part of the exam, I will insert my fingers very gently inside you to feel around. That will help me determine approximately how far along you are in the pregnancy.” She smiled reassuringly. “Don’t look so nervous. There’s really not much to it, and I’ll be using the smaller speculum, since you haven’t had anything inside of you before.”
“I dinna mean I’ve had nothing up there, Doctor,” explained Ceara. “Me Quincy is in there regular, and he’d make two of yer little swab stick fer size.”
Quincy coughed and felt his face flush crimson. Ceara flashed him an apologetic glance. “He’d make ten of yer swab, I mean. At least. He’s na at all small.”
As greatly as Quincy appreciated Ceara’s attempt to stroke his male ego, he wished she’d left well enough alone.
Dr. Stevenson’s cheek muscles went into a long, twitching spasm. For a moment her shoulders quivered; then suddenly she turned and began making a note on the chart. It seemed to take her an inordinately long time. When she turned back, she explained to Ceara how to position herself properly, and held up an instrument that looked to Quincy like it had come straight out of the Spanish Inquisition.
Ceara tugged the voluminous folds of the gown tightly around her. “Be ye certain that none of this will harm the babe?”
“I’m absolutely positive,” Stevenson assured her.
Quincy half expected Ceara to lunge off the table and dart behind him for protection, but his brave little Irish rose gave a decisive nod and lay back on the table. Quincy took her right hand, and she clamped down on his fingers with all her strength when Dr. Stevenson gently spread her knees apart.
The humiliation so overwhelmed Ceara that she wasn’t sure she could hold the position. Then she felt the light. She hadn’t anticipated so much heat.
Dr. Stevenson gently touched her inner thigh and told her she would be inserting the speculum. ’Twas uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as Ceara had feared. She heard the tiny click she’d been told to listen for. There was pressure, but no real pain, just a horrid feeling of vulnerability. The idea of anyone, even a woman, staring at her private places made her stomach clench.
“You’re doing fine, honey,” Quincy said. “This won’t take long.”
She hoped not. Resentment flared for an instant, because he was a man and would never have to do this, but as quickly as it came it was gone. If this was part of the modern world and the way women had their babes, she would adjust. Even climbing into bed with a stranger hadn’t been this bad.
In a moment it was over, and the speculum was removed. “You did fine,” the doctor told her in a sympathetic tone. “The worst part is over. Now I’ll be doing the manual exam . . . but that will be easy.”
And it was. Ceara trusted Dr. Stevenson, who had looked after Loni during her pregnancy, but most of all she trusted Quincy. She was so glad that he’d stayed with her. The doctor’s request that he leave the room had told her it was unusual for the man to be present.
When the doctor departed so Ceara could get dressed again, she jumped off the table and jerked on her clothes every which way, so anxious was she to be covered. As she settled her shirt into place, she saw that Quincy had sat down on the wheeled stool and held his head in his hands. She went to him and rested a palm on his shoulder.
“Quincy? Are ye all right, then?”
Her husband raised his head and she saw embarrassment in his eyes. “Just felt a little light-headed for a second. You were wonderful, honey. I was so proud of you. You didn’t know what to expect, and neither did I, but you were terrific.”
His praise warmed her right through. She began to thank him when Dr. Stevenson came back, and one look at her face told Ceara that she was bringing joyful news.
Quincy hadn’t been wrong in his estimation. Ceara was about two and a half months along. The doctor asked her to lie on the table again. “I almost forgot to share with you the most wonderful part of this visit, and it’s going to be a very special treat.”
After Ceara was prone again, Stevenson pushed up her blouse and tugged down the elastic bands of her skirt and panties to bare her midsection. Then Quincy was invited to put the stethoscope to his wife’s flat abdomen to listen to his child’s heartbeat. He wasn’t sure whether he was hearing a tiny heart or the protest of Ceara’s stomach to a breakfast of three-bean salad and ice cream.
“I hear diddly-squat,” he told the doctor.
She smiled and plucked the stethoscope tips out of his ears and inserted them into her own. “Slowly circle with the chest piece,” she told him. “Slowly, and then pause, slowly and then pause.” Quincy circled, stopped, circled, stopped. “There. Don’t move it.” Stevenson put the prong
s back in his ears. “Now you should hear it. Very faint right now, but that’s quite normal.”
At first, all Quincy caught was the gurgle and churn of Ceara’s stomach, but then, like a glimmer of a miracle, he finally heard a rhythmic beat, so faint, as the doctor said, that it was really hard to pick up on. Quincy wanted to hear a damned thud-thud-thud, something to tell him his kid was okay. But this was normal, the doc said. A tiny little heart, pumping in a minuscule body not yet all the way formed.
A huge grin spread over his face, making his cheeks almost hurt with the stretch. He kept the chest piece pressed to that exact spot and glanced up at Stevenson. “Put the prongs in Ceara’s ears, please. I want her to hear it.”
The doctor chuckled softly and did as Quincy asked. Lying on her back, Ceara squeezed her face into an expression of pained concentration, her eyes closed. And then, with a radiant smile, she lifted her lashes. “I hear it!” she cried. “Me babe’s heart. ’Tis so tiny a sound.”
“Your baby is still very small,” Stevenson said. With a smile she added, “But the perfect size for two and a half months.” She glanced at her chart. “My notes say you feared that this might be a high-risk pregnancy. Can you explain why?”
Quincy cleared his throat. “I do have a concern.” He avoided meeting his wife’s gaze. “Ceara . . . um . . . well, we have been drinking of an evening. Not a lot, really. Ceara usually had, oh, say, four to six ounces. Only wine or champagne, never any hard stuff. But Saturday before last—she didn’t know she was pregnant, you understand—she drank at least a full bottle of wine, maybe a little more than that.” Quincy’s throat had gone scratchy. “I know drinking is bad for the fetus. Should we be worried about our baby?”
Ceara gasped and clamped a protective hand over her stomach. “Wine, ’tis bad for me babe?”
Dr. Stevenson smiled. “Countless women drink before they realize they’re pregnant.” She directed her gaze at Quincy. “And many overindulge before they know. I won’t say that’s good for the baby. Alcohol the mother takes in goes straight to the fetus, and the fetus metabolizes the alcohol much more slowly than the mother does, meaning the alcohol content of its blood remains high for a much longer period of time, with the propensity to cause harm.”