Chapter 46: Nice Guys Love Two Girls At The Same Time

Adam

"You ok?" Mac asks me again as I rinse my mouth with water and spit.

"Better now," I grin, although the nausea I feel hasn't completely gone away after barfing on the side of the road. "Maybe I'm having sympathy morning sickness."

She frowns. "Maybe you drank too much whiskey."

"Maybe you blaspheme," I tease. "Say that too loud and someone will show up and escort me to the border because if I'm puking due to three shots of Jack, I damn sure don't belong in Tennessee."

She laughs. "Okay, maybe you are having food poisoning from those sketch nachos you got at the gas station."

"You right," I agree, waving off Mac's hovering hands. "Really, I'm okay. Let's go. Utopia or bust."

"Want me to drive?" she asks.

"Shorty, when is the last time you actually drove a car?"

She considers. I snort. "Yeah, the fact that you can't remember, should be all the answer you need."

"God, you're such a man," she hisses in irritation.

I push her up against the car, thrusting my hips close to hers, although to be honest, for once I'm not flash-hard at contact with her body. Only because it's a distinct possibility I might puke again in the near future, and that feeling is taking up the space inside. "I am a man." I say. "A gentleman. One who drives, because his lady doesn't like to." I lean down to kiss her bare shoulder, and open the passenger door for her.

"I don't mind driving here. LA just gives me road rage and I want to ram people. Adam, if you don't feel well, please," she wheedles.

"You don't feel well a lot of times lately. You pack and travel and unpack and soundcheck and sing and dance like a champ and never let on. I think I can manage to drive a car with mild nausea. You, on the other hand, like to drive fast but you haven't operated a car in three years. Driving on a twisting backroad at 2am in pitch black where a deer is liable to attack us at any second doesn't sound like fun for my gut. I'll puke again—this time from nerves. You can drive to the farm tomorrow if you want. I'm driving tonight."

She slaps me hard on the arm, but she slides into the passenger seat as I insist, "I'm fine, really." I am. Just a sour stomach. Probably was the nachos.

We're close to Utopia, and Mac talks as we drive, filling me in on the cast of characters there. The names and descriptions float by like a hazy dream. I doubt in the time we will be here I will meet any of them, but I try to pay attention as she describes eccentric writers, various painters, musicians and other creatives, physicists and philosophers, ex-cons, and two former European circus performers that apparently made up the Utopia of her childhood.

"So how many of these colorful characters would you consider close family?" I ask, trying to drill down to the important ones.

"Not many," Mac says casually. "They're good people. Eccentric as hell, but most of them have a code, you know? And I guess the lifestyle influenced Lead and me. But we never fit in. We were part-timers, and we came here with all the materialistic and shallow concerns of teenagers in the outside world. We were...kindly tolerated. But we didn't get that close with anyone. Except Sydney—Samantha's sometimes partner. They don't live together, but Sydney is why Samantha came to Utopia. Why she stopped drinking too much. Why she became a midwife. At first, I guess they were just friends, but then my mom decided...you love who you love. They've been together on and off for twenty years now. But she still liked men, too. When I was growing up, at least. I think maybe she and Sydney are more on than off these days, but I'm not sure. That's just what Leed says."

The fact that Mac's mom is bisexual is not new information to me. I never thought much about it before, but I wonder if it's part of the reason that Mac seems to struggle with a relationship with her. Having a bisexual mom could possibly have been a bit of a head trip to a young girl, trying to carve out her own identity. "So you call your mom by her first name? Samantha?" I ask gently. This is the most I've ever heard Mac speak about her mom.

"Yeah. She never really felt like a mom." Mac shrugs. "She did her best. I try not to pass judgment on the job she did. She doesn't pass judgment on me. I was quite the...hellion here, you know. Tested even the limits of hippies."

"Yeah? So you did like those shrooms, huh?" I tease.

"That was more Leed's department. I pushed the limits of free love very early," she said quietly.

I don't ask. I'm not sure right now is the best time to have this conversation. Then again, maybe it's not so great to roll into Utopia, unaware of the way Mac feels about her past.

When Mac abruptly asks, "How old were you when you lost your virginity?" she confirms my suspicions about what she might be thinking and feeling right now.

"Seventeen. Summer before my senior year in high school."

"I was thirteen. Summer before my eight grade year."

"Okay," I say, my voice even. I have no judgment, only a little sorrow for that revelation, because Mac obviously doesn't feel good about that.

"Thirteen is the same age as your niece."

"Yeah."

Mac is looking out into the darkness. "Looking at her, she seems like a child to me."

"Gwennie is pretty sheltered. You probably didn't feel like a child when you were thirteen," I say slowly.

"No, but maybe someone else should have felt like I was," she says quietly. "My mom wasn't worried about where I went here, or with whom. She never asked about...experiences like that. She was totally open about her sexuality and nonjudgmental, so I think she assumed, if I needed her, I would come to her. I never did."

"Need her or go to her?"

She shrugs.

"What about Leed?" I ask. I have a hard time seeing sixteen/seventeen year old Leed unconcerned about thirteen year old Mac.

"Back in Atlanta, Leed was very protective. Here...it was different. " she shrugs. "Oddly enough, Leed was not having the same experiences as me in Utopia, He was into the drugs and music and more of a late-bloomer when it came to sex. Not just that...there are not that many families here—so there weren't many teenage girls at that time, except me and a couple of girls that were pretty set for boyfriends, and another two girls who were together. Leed didn't have the opportunities here that I did, so I don't think he realized I got started so young."

"I see." I wonder how "peaceful" Utopia would have been if Leed had realized some punk was banging his thirteen year old baby sister in a field of wildflowers somewhere. The Leed I know would have waged World War III to blow up that shit.

Suddenly she turns to me. "My first...he doesn't live here anymore. His family moved on after that summer. I have no idea where."

I nod. I pull her chin up so she has to look me in the eyes. Thirteen is very young. I have to know. "Was he good to you? Was it what you wanted?"

She nods. "Yeah. He was just a kid, like me. Sweet. Inexperienced."

"And after him? It was still all good, here?"

"Yes. These people," she struggles to explain. "They are good people. No one here would hurt me, or try to talk me into doing something I didn't want to do. I had no fear, no reservations about that kind of stuff. Some of the guys were probably too old for me—like Trace thought he was for Kat, but it didn't matter here. I was always in control of what I wanted, never put out of my own power. It's a closed community. It's a different world. It's not my world, though. I never wanted to live like this, not really. I want...what we have. Or what would could have, one day."

"What we will have," I say, squeezing her hand. I'm quiet, but finally I add, "For a minute, you had me worried."

"Worried?" she searches my face.

I press my lips while I search for words. "That maybe you had other traumas."

"No, not like that. Maybe...sometimes I don't feel so good about all the meaningless sex I've had, and it all started here...but it was not like that. Nothing to worry about here," she says as we pull up to a rusty. leaning gate and a small sign that says, Beyond this gate we strive for Utopia. All are welcome in peace and love. "There's only peace and love," she echoes.

The gate is unlocked, Mac gets out and pulls it open and then closed behind us. She directs me slowly down a series of dirt roads. The Utopian property is large, but mostly farmland or natural terrain. We pass two small but institutional buildings on the way in. "That's the midwife school and birthing house. And the abortion clinic is around back," she adds nonchalantly.

"The midwives do that too?" I ask.

"No, a licensed physician. She's run this clinic for as long as I can remember. You know there's rarely a stable abortion clinic in Nashville, right? They get too much publicity, too many protesters, and they shut down because of the difficulties. Lots of times over the years, this clinic has been the only option for women seeking abortion for more than a hundred miles."

"I had no idea."

Mac changes the subject as she directs me down a narrower dirt road. We begin to pass small, run-down houses and some structures that look more like barns than living space, but Mac says they are houses, too. There are also trailers, with porches and sheds cobbled on. This kind of living is not unusual in Tennessee, and it's nothing new to me to see poverty, but this is different. From what Mac says, a lot of these people are highly educated or skilled. They choose to live with minimal resources. Their focus is on things other than fine homes or creature comforts.

It's 2 am, but many of the houses down this lane are lit brightly, and people are strolling around outside in the dark. Mac rolls down the window. Music and marijuana are on the wind. I see a group of little kids—they don't even look school age—racing around each other in a large space near a porch littered with adults.

"Shouldn't they been in bed?" I murmur, as my headlights pan across their sweet, surprised little faces.

"Most people don't use AC in Utopia. They try to minimize their footprint, you know. In the heat of the summer, they work in the early mornings, siesta during the hot parts of the day, and most of the living happens in the cool dark. Not so different than Rock Stars," she smiles.

I laugh. She's got me there. Seems like every third night or so, we are up all night.

We crunch to a stop in front of a small house with flaking wood siding. The interior is dark. No one appears to be home. "You told her we were coming, right?"

"Yeah," Mac says tolerantly. The house is unlocked. She walks through, calling her mother's cell phone as she flips on lights. I trail behind, taking it in. It's clean, neat and decently decorated with random but handsome pieces of furniture. Bright colors and live plants abound. The kitchen is large for the size of the house and currently strewn with piles and piles of washed and drying green beans, and neat rows of unused mason jars and fresh lids. Large pots partially filled with water sit on the stove. It's a very familiar set-up to me. I've helped my own mother lay up canned goods many many times.

"Hey," she says. "We're here. Where are you?" There's a pause. "I get it, but can you get another midwife for the aftercare? I didn't just come to say hi. It's important. No, it will keep til morning." She listens, her face impassive. "Okay. No problem."

She hangs up. "Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, she got interrupted during all this," she gestures at the stalled canning procedure, "by a birth. Good news, it's a Utopian resident, and the baby will be here in a few hours, so she'll be home by morning."

To my complete shock, Mac lights the burners on the stove and begins to load the jars into the pots. "Might as well get started," she murmurs. "Sam will want to do this before she examines me in the morning. We'll be here all day, if I don't take care of this."

"You know about this kind of stuff, Shorty?" I ask with a grin.

"Canning?" Mac asks. "Of course. Nearly everything eaten in Utopia is grown in Utopia. It's a pain in the ass, but I could do this in my sleep."

To be honest, I pictured a lot of things that could potentially happen in Utopia. Drama and drugs, as a backdrop, I expected. Perhaps a distracted or even a disappointing Samantha Adair? I don't know what to expect there. Possibly strain between Mac and her mother? A tearful reunion maybe? More PTSD symptoms as we try to move forward with Mac's prenatal care?

I've prepared for all that.

But Mac, emotionless in the face of her absent mother, calmly preparing to can green beans?

Not so much.

Never in a million years would I have pictured her walking into her mother's kitchen and taking up an abandoned and laborsome chore like it's second nature, without making the slightest fuss. I've never seen Mac use anything in a kitchen except a refrigerator, a microwave, and a corkscrew. Mac is short-tempered about most everything, unless it involves the band, the music, or the business. And yet here she is, not making one peep of protest about the turn of events, her agile fingers already flying over a pile of green beans, snapping the ends as she quickly moves through the pile.

I don't know what to make of it, but obviously I move to help. We work in silence, but I keep stealing looks at her. I can't help the grin on my face. She's humming softly. She looks...easy. The expression of complete contentment on her face tells me she's not hating this.

Without looking at me, she says, "Don't get any ideas, Preacher."

"Ideas?" I ask.

"Just because I find this weirdly satisfying, don't even think about keeping me barefoot and pregnant and cooking in a country kitchen for you."

I look at her feet. She's wearing cute little wedge-heeled sandals that probably cost more than some people's entire wardrobe. "Nah, not barefoot. I like you in pretty shoes."

She throws a green bean at me. I gather her in my arms. "I told you. I don't expect anything from you. Well, except like the guy at the concert said. Head would be nice. It is my birthday." I joke.

She jabs me with her elbow. It's startlingly painful and another wave of nausea hits me. "Shit," I hiss, releasing her, my hand automatically going to my stomach.

"What's the matter?" she turns, her face full of concern as I let out a slow breath.

"Just...don't suckerpunch me in the gut unless you want me to puke all over you," I say. "Those nachos fucked me over."

"You want to lie down?" she asks.

"Like I'm missing the one time I'm ever going to see you in the kitchen," I laugh. I pull out my phone and start snapping pictures of her. "Now, these I should put on Instagram."

"Don't you dare," she snarls.

We finish the canning as the sun is coming up, arguing over the proper amount of time to boil the jarred beans, and letting the internet decide for us. Mac looks tired as I pull the last jars from the pressure pot. She sits down at the kitchen table, her chin in her hands. "Want that head now?" she stifles a yawn.

No way is that happening. Mac is dead on her feet. Honestly, I'm feeling pretty unsexy myself, between the damn nachos and the all-nighter.

"Raincheck after we both get some sleep. My birthday's over anyway," I say.

"Your birthday has just begun," she yawns again. "We are celebrating all weekend. I haven't even given you your present yet."

"You got me a present?" I ask.

"A little something fun," she shrugs. "I had it sent to your parent's house. It'll be there when we get there."

We've never done that before...given each other gifts. We both have more money than we could spend in a lifetime, and we buy what we want when we want it. Still, the idea of gifting each other, I like it.

"You know, I hate that I haven't bought you a gift since we've been dating, Shorty. It's just been frantic with the tour. I'm real sorry about that."

"You bought me a nice gift. Not your fault I ruined it," she smiles.

"You didn't ruin it," I promise her. "When I finally put that ring on your finger—"

"If—" she corrects.

"When," I growl, "it's going to feel like a birthday, Christmas and the fucking Fourth of July all rolled into one. For me, at least."

Mac takes a long cleansing breath "I think we should just focus on today," her voice has changed and she's looking past me. I turn to see Mac's mother standing in the doorway, a sad smile as her eyes roam her daughter.

Samantha Adair is about the same height as Mac, with about the same auburn, warm coloring as Leed. She looks young—so much younger than my own mother. I realize with a shock that she is...I think she's only about four or five years older than my oldest sister, Alex.

Samantha's eyes leave her daughter and flit to me briefly. Then around the kitchen.

She smiles at Mac. "Thank you. You didn't have to do the beans."

"I know," Mac said, "It was mostly self-serving. I didn't want you to spend the morning doing it, because...because..."

Samantha sighs. "I know why you are here. There's only one reason you would come. How far along are you?" she asks softly.

Mac rises. "Almost twelve weeks." She flattens her loose tank tunic and runs a hand down her baby swell. Her mother only nods, her face expressionless. She turns to me.

"You're Adam, right?" I dry my hands, preparing to shake hers but she comes forward and gives me a familiar hug. Which is weird, because she hasn't even gone near Mac. It's like there's some magnetic repulsion between them. "I'm Mac's mother. Nice to meet you."

"You too. Should I call you..."

"Samantha, please. Sam's fine, too."

She steps back, looks to Mac again. She laces her fingers together and presses them in front of her mouth, like she doesn't exactly know what to say. Mac just stares coolly at her, but I see a flare of sadness pulsing there. I cross to her and wrap my arms around her from behind. To Sam, I say, "No offense, but your reaction isn't quite what we were expecting, I think."

Sam smiles. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you need from me. You aren't giving me much to go on."

Mac's hands come up to my forearms like she's expecting me to tense. I'm not angry, I'm just sad that Samantha seems to have no emotion whatsoever when it comes to Mac or the news she's going to be a grandmother.

"Wow," I mutter. Mac wasn't kidding about not being close to her mom.

"Adam, it's okay," Mac says. "I think what Sam means is...she doesn't know if we are here to tell her she's going to be a grandmother or if we are here to terminate." Samantha gives an incline of her head.

"Samantha, I'm happy about the pregnancy. It was unplanned—the condom broke— but we decided not to use emergency contraception. We chose this baby. We want this baby," Mac says.

Sam stares at Mac for a minute like that wasn't the answer she was expecting. But then she smiles gently and nods. "Congratulations, I'm happy for you." She steps forward tentatively. Mac slips out of my arms into her mother's, but it's awkward. I've seen Mac hug fans, strangers, more easily.

"Thanks." Mac steps back. "We're not just here to tell you the news. I was hoping you and Sydney would be my birth team."

Sam's eyes go wide. That's the first real emotion she's had—surprise at that request. "You want to have the baby here? At Utopia?"

"Well," Mac looks at me. "I'm...we're not sure on that exactly. Either here, or a home birth. Adam's from Nashville. His whole family is there, and you're here. I thought maybe we might get a small place or something..." she falters, looking at me.

"It's whatever Mac wants," I say. "Where she's comfortable. We don't have to decide the location right this minute, do we?"

"Of course not," Sam says. She drops down at the table, like the news is really sinking in. "Sydney will be happy to care for you. She's always been really fond of you. Mac, it's maybe not the best idea for me to be on your team. You don't need to have me there. Sydney would provide your care without me, you know that, right?"

I watch Mac's face pale. "Do you not want to be on the birth team?"

Sam stares up an Mac, the emotionless mask still in place. It's so easy to see where the killer in Mac comes from. I have no idea what her mother is thinking behind that stone wall.

"I want it to be a positive experience for you, Mac. That's what is most important. We don't always work well together. I don't want to create undue tension for you."

Beside me, Mac bows her head, and I feel nauseous all over again. I can't believe what I'm hearing, what I'm seeing here. Mac is telling her mother that she's pregnant, asking her mom to care for her during pregnancy and to help deliver her own grandchild, and this woman is rejecting her. Mac is more vulnerable than she's ever been, and her mother doesn't even see it. I can't understand this.

"Maybe this is not a good idea after all," Mac says. I see that look in her eyes...the one I've seen so many times. The one I didn't think I would see again. The desperate need to flee. Only this time, it's not me she wants to run from. It's her own mother.

Something in me is screaming that if Mac walks out that door, she may never walk through it again. I don't want that for her. I want my Shorty to be whole and happy, and I don't think she can be if she leaves things like this with her mother. I don't know what to do about it. I have a random thought that Marley would know. But Marley isn't here, and I sure as hell can't call a time-out to call her up and ask. My dad, maybe, would also know what to do. What would he do? What would he say?

Suddenly, I can hear him in my mind. I don't know if the words came from a Sunday sermon long ago, or just some advice he gave me about getting along with my sisters or friends. But I can hear him saying: Sometimes when people freeze up, eyeing something too big coming at them, you can get them moving again toward something smaller.

I pull out a chair for Mac at the table, "Please, sit, Sweetheart." She gives me a look like she wants to do anything else, but she sits. I sit down, too.

"I have something I want to say. Can I do that?" I look between these two women.

They both nod.

I take my time, and go slow. "Your mother-daughter relationship, your history, your struggle—I don't know about all that. I don't pretend to. But I do know that Mac is having trouble finding a prenatal care provider. Hospitals, doctor's offices, all those clinical places trigger flashbacks from her hospitalization after her assault."

I let that sink in. Sam's stone face softens a little. She watches Mac, whose eyes are on her own hands, splayed flat on the table. I continue.

"I also know, just being here four hours...Mac is comfortable here, Sam. In your kitchen. In your home. I get that family relationships are hard, but the fact that she is so...easy here...has to say something. It can't be all bad, between you."

"It wasn't all bad, was it, MacKenna?" Sam asks softly.

A single tear spill down Mac's paling face. She scrubs it away, but she also shakes her head 'no' at the same time.

I take Mac's hand in mine. "I also know, Mac needs to start prenatal care. She's almost twelve weeks pregnant, and she's been taking care of herself and taking prenatal vitamins, but she and the baby need to start their checkups right?"

"Yes," Sam agrees.

"Mac, is that what you want to do? Get a check-up today?"

"Yes," she says.

"Here? With your mom?"

"Yes."

I look at Samantha. "So can we just focus on that one thing—a check-up—today? After that, we can talk about what's next."

Sam reaches out towards Mac's other hand. "We can do it here, in your room. Would that be easier for you?"

Mac lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "Really? But don't you need the equipment at the birth house?"

"No, I can do everything in your room that I could do at the birth house. I'll just have to run over and get a few supplies."

Mac is smiling at me. "Adam? Does that sound good?" she asks.

"If it sounds good to you, it sounds great to me."

Sam rises. "Mac, you look really tired. Why don't you rest a bit while I call Sydney? I'm sure she'll want to be here from the beginning. We'll start an official record and then, like Adam said, we can go from there."

Mac shows me to her old room. It's small, like every room in the house, with an old iron full-sized bed that takes up most of it, topped with a worn but well-constructed quilt and tons of smooshy pillows. I ease myself slowly onto the bed, just to take a moment's rest. I'm still not feeling so hot. I take a look around. There's not much personal stuff left from Mac's childhood, except a couple of boxes of old clothes at the bottom of the closet that she's currently digging through. She pulls out a pair of black jeans.

"Ha, I bet these would fit me again!" she says happily and tosses more clothes out of the box, rummaging around. "Oh my god, Adam—look!" She holds up an old faded black t-shirt—The Strokes.

"Nice. Bring that with, I'd really like to fuck you in that t-shirt," I tease her.

She throws it at me. "Hey, can you bring my bag in? I want to take a quick shower before my exam..."

I have no idea how Mac can be so suddenly energetic. The girl is twelve weeks pregnant, we played a show last night, and we've been standing on our feet in the kitchen for four solid hours. I feel like I'm going to pass out from exhaustion, but I haul myself to my feet and dutifully get the bags, then toss myself back down on the bed as Mac dances down the hall to the house's single bathroom.

Sometime later, Mac is shaking me gently, "Hey, Adam." She's kneeling beside me, barelegged in The Strokes T-shirt, her hair damp and piled on her head. "Wake up, baby. They've already done my history, vitals and lab stuff. We're ready for the ob exam," she says, gesturing behind her to where her mom and another woman in a tye-dye t-shirt stand.

"Oh, shit, I didn't mean to fall asleep," I hastily rise from her old daybed, and a sharp pain stabs my lower right side. I grunt, bending double, grabbing onto the iron bed-knob for support.

"What's going on with you?" Mac says, as I straighten, slowly.

"Just my stomach still." I murmur. "Fine."

"Adam thinks he has food poisoning," Mac explains to her mom. "He vomited on the way up here."

I meet the lively eyes of the unfamiliar woman with short gray hair and the brightly dyed shirt, coming forward suddenly. She moves my hand away, where I'm still holding my belly, and presses sharply. She pokes hard, it hurts like hell. I grimace.

"You have pain there?" she asks.

"Just stomach cramps," I protest automatically, a little taken aback by this stranger poking me.

"Just so you know, that's where your appendix is. So if you are having pain there, with nausea and vomiting..."

"Do you think he has appendicitis?" Mac asks.

The older lady cocks her head. "Possibly, but not necessarily. Maybe he has stomach flu. I doubt it's food poisoning. Food poisoning is usually worse than one brief episode of vomiting. If the symptoms persist more than 48 hours and he develops a fever, he should see a doctor."

"You're a doctor," Mac says with a smile.

"You're a doctor?" I ask. I've never seen a doctor in tye-dye before.

"Not one that rips out appendixes," the lady says with a smile. She holds out her hand to me. "Dr. Sydney Crane, ob-gyn. I run the midwife school here. And the clinic."

"Cool. Adam Heartley," I shake her hand. "I run the rhythm for Soundcrush."

"I hear you've put a baby in our little Macaroni," she winks at Mac. "Why don't we check that out? Unless you need me to call you an ambulance?" she laughs as I slowly straighten to my full height, still wincing at my unhappy stomach.

"No, I'm okay." Even if I weren't, this is about Mac and Babycakes, not about my weird food poisoning/stomach bug whatever.

"Since Sam and Mac are family, Sam can't technically be her care-provider. I'll help out. Does that sound good?" She looks between me and Mac.

Mac beams, "Thank you, Syd."

Sydney pats Mac's back. "Of course. We're practically family, aren't we? Or we would be, if your mother weren't so stubborn?" Sydney winks at Samantha. Samantha rolls her eyes, and I choke on a laugh. She looks just like Mac does when I tease her.

Mac sits on the bed, and I sit beside her, holding her hand. Samantha brings a large case over and flips down some legs, turning the case into a portable table. She unlatches it and flips it open. It's a portable ultrasound.

"Wait," I look between the women, "We're going to get to see the baby? Already?"

"That's the plan," Sydney smiles.

My heart slows, then thuds to catch up. I look at Mac, whose watching my face, her eyes dancing. "Did you know that?" I grin.

Her cheeks are appled with a smile as she whispers, "Yeah, but I was pretty sure you didn't. It's another one of your birthday surprises."

I lace my fingers in Mac's, a silent prayer spiraling out of my brain as Sidney and Samantha ready the equipment.

God, please let everything be ok. Let the baby be healthy. Let Mac be healthy.

Sidney instructs Mac to lie back. She takes some measurements of Mac's tiny swell between her pubic bone and belly button and logs them in the laptop. She dons gloves and performs a quick internal exam, gently checking Mac's uterus, cervix, all that stuff, I guess.

I keep my eyes on Mac's face. She looks at me, perfectly calm, but her lips are tight. "Okay?" I ask her.

She nods, "Yeah. More fun when you are down there, though."

I snort. Mac grins. I swear, she'll probably be giving me shit with sex jokes while she's in labor.

"No offense, Syd," she adds.

"None taken," the doctor smiles, snapping off her gloves and dropping them in a wastebasket, typing with one hand. "Everything seems normal for a 12 week pregnancy. Let's see what we can see on the ultrasound, ok? Sam?" Syd steps back, and Mac's mom quirts gel on Mac's stomach and presses the ultrasound detector into it, smooshing it around as all of us turn our attention to the screen. Within a couple of seconds, Samantha has resolved the blur into a picture of Babycakes.

There she is--all pretty babyhead and pretty babybelly with tiny fragile limbs. A swooshing, relentless rhythm fills the room, and on the screen we can see our baby's heart squeezing, growing by imperceptible fractions with each pulse.

My whole world aligns to that amazing beat. No rhythm, no rhyme, no sound has ever rung so sweet in my ears. A true Godsend, that's what our baby is. A tiny heart not planned, but meant to be. Meant to show her mama and me what love is all about, meant to twine our own wild and terrified hearts into her sweet and sure pace. Meant to make us whole.

Mac is squeezing my hand. "Oh god, Adam. That's your baby. Right there. Inside me."

I bring her fingers to my lips and kiss them. "Little Mama, you are growing us a miracle," I murmur.

Mac's mom is moving the ultrasound detector and clicking the computer mouse and murmuring assurances. The heartbeats per minute are on track. The limb lengths, the head measurements, all the ratios are right. The placenta is where it should be...or not where it shouldn't be, I guess. Babycakes is healthy and growing normally.

"Adam," Mac breathes my name, "Oh my god, Adam, he's real. He's so real and so alive and so perfect."

All the sure and wonderful things I know about this baby, but the thing I say to the woman that I love? "He? Are you serious? You think Babycakes is a he?"

"Look at him!" she gasps.

I laugh, somewhere between joy and disbelief. Yeah,Babycakes is real and alive and perfect. But Babycakes is so not a boy. Babycakes is so obviously a girl...I mean...look at her.

Just then, her itty-bitty arms flail and the miniature bones of her fingers flash in relief. So beautiful, so elegant, like Mac's talented hands.

"Adam, look! He's moving his arms!"

"She's definitely going to play the keys," I whisper, spreading Mac's fingers against mine.

"She? He's not a she," Mac whispers, but then Babycakes arches her back and pushes off from the thick walls surrounding her. She bucks fiercely and rolls on her side to face us, then squirms again, rocking back to face upward again.

"Oh my god," Mac touches her stomach, looking down at her belly with shock. "Should I be able to feel that--feel him moving? Why can't I feel that?"

"You will soon," her mother says. "The first movements—the quickening, you might be able to feel in a few weeks. Maybe earlier, but everyone is different. It will be a little longer before Adam will be able to feel movements from the outside. Sorry, Dad," she grins.

Dad. Fuck. I'm going to be a dad. Not just somebody's dad. This little girl's  dad. It's tremendous and real. I feel a little sick but I think that's just from the stomach bug, because I'm sure about this. Watching Mac's face alight with amazement and joy, and watching Babycake's tiny fingers flicker just like her mama's on the keys, I'm sure.

I'm madly in love with both my girls, and I'll be the man I have to be, to keep them happy, safe, and thriving, just like they are right now.

Awww. Happy Birthday Adam...I thought you deserved something special.  Thoughts? Were you surprised at Adam and Mac's reactions to Babycake's Ultrasound? Whose right? Is Babycakes a boy or a girl.  Will Mac' intuition prove true again or is the dream Adam had after the condom broke --of carrying a daughter on his shoulders showing him the truth this time?

What about  Adam's birthday weekend ? Will they ride the high of this experience and have a great weekend with Adam's family ? Or will things take a turn for the worse?