Blonde Ivory

#30: Macha Levay-Fitzgilbert

Macha Levay-Fitzgilbert (Bassist of Blonde Ivory)

Goosebumps form on my skin when the first dollop of ultrasound gel touches my skin. The pediatrician, a woman who introduced herself while I was deep in thought so now I can't remember her name, places the probe against my skin and directs my attention to the monitor across from me. The room stays silent aside from my heavy breathing before a wave-like noise interrupts.

She points at the screen. "See that small, itty-bitty dot right there?" I have to squint my eyes to see it, but I nod nonetheless. "That's your baby." My breath hitches in my throat.

"Is that how small it's supposed to be? Is it doing okay?" Countless questions leave my lips, and she belts out a loud laugh. I flinch at the volume, but my eyes remain locked on the small dot. My small dot.

"Well, if I had to take a guess, I'd say you're around six or seven weeks. It appears to be quite healthy and everything is developing nicely." She explains.

I sigh. My hands make their way to my face before they cover my mouth. My breath heats up my frigid fingers. I wish they kept it warm in here during the winter because with my shirt up, a cold gel on my skin, and the temperature being negative one hundred degrees, I'm a little cold to say the least.

"I'm just going to take a picture really quick." She murmurs so low that I think she's walking herself through what she's going to do. "Will I need to make two copies for you and the father or...?"

My eyes glitch to her, but she's to focused to notice my annoyed expression. "Sure, yeah. Two pictures, please." She nods. The monitor goes off with a click. She passes me a paper towel and tells me that I can pull my shirt down now. I take my time wiping my skin clean once the woman leaves me alone in the room.

So this is it, huh? This is what makes this all real now? This is what knocks some reality into me? This is the consequence I get for not being responsible and thinking through my actions? A baby that I have to be responsible for until it turns eighteen... A baby that isn't even the biological child of the man I'm in love with.

How is that fair?

"Okay," The woman prances back in with a bright smile and holds out the pictures, "Here you go. Have you got any questions that weren't answered in your last visit?"

I nod slowly. "Yeah... What are my options?" She raises an eyebrow.

"I beg your pardon?" Her voice rises a few noticeable octaves. My lips press against each other in a tight line. Her expression of shock doesn't leave her face until my blank expression disappears.

"I already explained everything to you during my first visit. I don't want a baby and, quite frankly, haven't got the time for one." She laughs weakly.

"Macha... That's how every young mother feels. Once you get farther along and you form a genuine bond with your baby, your feelings will change. You'll want to be a good mother, and you'll try your hardest to make time to be one." I lay all the way down and stare up at the ceiling. My breath comes out even more shakily.

Me... Being a mother at eighteen? That's not how this is supposed to play out. I was supposed to go on our world tour without puking every morning and making time for ultrasounds. I was supposed to focus on not forgetting the lyrics to our songs, not what crib I'm going to get.