Royal Wedding (34 page)

Is there no low to which the media won't sink in its quest for hits/ratings?

Oh, we've reached Dr. Delgado's office—

CHAPTER 61

9:55 a.m., Thursday, May 7

Back inside the HELV

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I am in total and complete shock. Such total and complete shock that I can barely even write, my hand is shaking so badly.

But I
have
to write this, because—as Olivia reminded me yesterday—sometimes when you're overwhelmed, the only way you can make sense of what's happening is to write it all down.

So here's what happening:

First of all, the wedding isn't canceled. I think the date is going to have to be moved up, actually.

Also, my foot isn't broken.

Well, we don't know if it's broken, because Dr. Delgado wouldn't give me an X-ray. He said he
couldn't
give me an X-ray. He seemed very surprised I didn't know why. He came bustling into the room where the nurse ushered us, having directed Michael onto a chair and me onto the examination table, and took off his glasses and said, “Oh, there you are. I see you finally got my message.”

I said, “No, what message? I called
you.
”

And then I showed him my foot, holding it in the air as I lay on the examination table (fully clothed, I might add, even though the nurse had told me to undress and gave me a paper gown, which I'd thought was extremely odd. Why would you put on a paper gown when all that was wrong with you was a possible broken foot? Michael had found it odd, too, so obviously, I had not undressed, except for taking off my sock and UGG).

“The message I left for you on your phone days ago,” Dr. Delgado said. “I left a message telling you I'd received the results of the blood and urine tests that I took the last time I examined you.”

“Oh.” I glanced helplessly at Michael, who'd put away his phone and was staring at Dr. Delgado as uncomprehendingly as I was. “Well, I guess I didn't get your message. I get a lot of messages. Like a thousand a day. I have people who are supposed to sort through them, but a lot of stuff has happened since I last saw you. You might have heard about it on the news—”

“News?” Dr. Delgado looked impatient. “I don't have time to follow the news. It's too depressing.”

“I have to agree with you there,” Michael said.

“Well, not all of it,” I said, annoyed. Those two had never met before, and there they were, instantaneously bonding over how the news is so depressing. “Some of the news is good, like that I'm getting married. Dr. Delgado, this is my fiancé, Michael Moscovitz. Remember, I told you about him?”

Dr. Delgado smiled and reached to shake Michael's hand, saying, “Well, that
is
good news. Very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Michael said. “Sorry about missing your message. We went away for the weekend.”

“Well, that's fine,” Dr. Delgado said, still smiling, “just fine. Always good to get out of the city for a bit.” He reached for my medical file and opened it. “Well, I guess it's better this way.”

“What's better this way?” I asked.

“I can tell you in person,” he said, putting his glasses back on so he could read the file.

“Tell me what in person?”

But I knew. Or at least I thought I knew: I had a fatal blood disease.

It made complete sense. Of
course
I would finally get engaged to the love of my life, only to discover I'm dying.

But it was all going to be fine, because my dad had Olivia, so the throne's succession was secure. It wouldn't go to any of my alarmingly odd cousins. I could die knowing I'd given my best for my country.

But it wasn't entirely fair, because there were still so many things I wanted to do, such as dance with Michael under the stars on our wedding night; tour the Greek islands with him on my honeymoon; and possibly have children of my own someday, and teach them to be sane and careful leaders of the country I'd come to love so much.

How could this be happening, especially
now,
when I was finally so close to getting everything I had ever wanted?

“You're pregnant, of course,” Dr. Delgado said, still looking down at my chart. “And according to your HCG levels, you are very, very pregnant indeed.”

I nearly fell off the exam table. In fact, if Michael hadn't reached up and grasped my wrist—he couldn't grab my hand, because I was clutching the white paper lining the exam table too tightly—I probably would have hit the floor.

“Uh,” I said. “No, that is not possible. There has to have been some kind of mistake.”

“Oh, no,” Dr. Delgado said. “There's definitely no mistake. Both urine and blood work confirm it. But we can do an ultrasound right now if you like, just to make sure.”

Dr. Delgado's office is on Eightieth and Park, quite far from any subway, and definitely not on a geological fault.

But I was sure I felt the examination table sway underneath me, anyway, as if there'd been an earthquake, or a train passing beneath me.

“Dr. Delgado, that is impossible, because I am on the pill, and I never miss one. I take them very responsibly.”

“She does,” Michael said somberly. “At the same time, every night, right before she puts in her mouth guard.”

“That's very interesting,” Dr. Delgado said, closing my file. “And you're telling me you're experiencing no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever? No morning sickness?”

“Of course not,” I scoffed.

“No fatigue?”

“Well, I mean, I'm tired all the time, sure, but who wouldn't be with my schedule? It's inhuman.”

“No changes in appetite or unusual food cravings?”

“Well, yes, I'm starving all the time, but that's normal, given all the stress I've been under lately. I love salty things like cheese popcorn, and who doesn't love Butterfingers? Those are very, very delicious. And wasabi peas . . . and chocolate cake frosting.”

I noticed both the doctor and Michael looking at me oddly.

“No nipple tenderness?” the doctor asked. “Bloating?”

“Well, yes, but—” I clamped my mouth shut, beginning to realize why they were looking at me so strangely. “That's completely normal. It's probably just that time of the month.”

“Of course,” the doctor said gently. “Speaking of which, when
did
you have your last period?”

“Well, that's easy. It was . . . um.” Panic began to sweep over me. “Being a busy career woman, I don't have time to mess with things like cramps, so I'm on that extended cycle pill, the one where you get your period only every four months, so it's been a while, and with everything going on, I can't remember off the top of my head, but I know it's been . . .”

“You haven't had it since Christmas,” Michael said firmly. “You should be having it now. But you're not.”

“Well, that's not true,” I said. “How would you even know?”

“Believe me,” he said. “I know.”

“Well, you're mistaken. Let me see, I started my last pill pack on . . .”

And then I realized I had
no idea
.

Which is the worst, most embarrassing thing for a hypochondriac (or any responsible human being who lives in the modern age) to have to admit.

“I would have to go home and check,” I said. “But I'm sure I've taken them all exactly as prescribed. I haven't missed one.”

“Yes,” Dr. Delgado said, in a bored voice, looking at my chart. “So you said. You do realize that most studies show that birth control pills are only ninety-one to ninety-nine percent effective against preventing pregnancy, even when used correctly.”

I swallowed. “Well, I mean, yes, I know that, but—”

“And you are a woman at peak fertility, Ms. Thermopolis,” he went on, “who travels frequently between time zones.”

“Well,” I said. “Yes, but I still always try to take my medication at the same—”

“Plus I would imagine you and your fiancé have frequent intercourse.”

I wanted to die when Michael said, “As frequent as possible.” I don't think the magnitude of what was happening had quite hit him at that point.

“So it is not unreasonable to suppose that there was perhaps a systems failure at some point,” Dr. Delgado said. “Mazel tov. You're going to be parents. Now, what do you say to an ultrasound?”

That's when I realized I'm one of
those
people: One of those women on that show
I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant,
which Tina and I love to watch together and mock. Especially when the women go camping, and then suddenly they're like “I was sitting on the toilet in the outhouse, and then
plop!
Out came a baby!”

Tina and I always swore we'd
never
be one of those women, because who is so out of it that they don't know they're pregnant?

Me! That's who.
I am!
I
am that out of it! I could be on that show!
Hi, I'm Princess Mia of Genovia, and I didn't know I was pregnant.

What kind of monster am I? Think of all the weird things I've been putting into my body lately, such as:

•  Austrian schnaps.

•  Two-hundred-year-old Napoleon brandy stolen from the consulate general's office.

•  Champagne in the Exumas.

•  Tylenol PM!

•  Chocolate-covered strawberries.

•  Bag after bag of cheese popcorn.

•  Eleven billion cups of Genovian tea (which is NOT herbal).

•  Not to mention approximately a million pounds of magnesium, Butterfinger candy bars, wasabi peas, screwdrivers (courtesy of Lana Weinberger Rockefeller), and more.

“I highly doubt you ate a million pounds of anything,” Dr. Delgado said in a calm voice after I'd hysterically confessed my shameful Food-and-Drink-a-Log. “And I have never heard of a developing fetus being harmed by Genovian tea, nor an occasional shot of Austrian schnaps or a few Tylenol PM. Studies show that moderate drinking early in a pregnancy rarely does any harm. In fact, I believe it's safer for a pregnant woman to have a glass of wine now and then than one of those horrible prewashed salads—”

He is clearly deranged.

“Michael,” I said to my fiancé. “I'm sorry. But our baby's going to be born with three heads.”

Dr. Delgado coughed. “I think it's important to remember that people from my generation were born to mothers who drank alcohol and caffeine—and even smoked—while pregnant, and most of us turned out just fine. Not that I in any way advocate that women smoke or consume alcohol while pregnant. I'm only saying that there's no reason to panic just yet. We'll do the ultrasound to be sure your child doesn't have, er, three heads.”

After Dr. Delgado left the room to go get the nurse and the ultrasound machine, Michael patted me on the leg.

“Well,” he said, “you Renaldos are almost as good as the Lannisters at making weddings interesting.”

I turned my tearful gaze upon him, only to find that he was
smiling
.

“Michael,” I cried, shocked. “How can you be laughing at a time like this?”

He shrugged, still smiling. “You have to admit, it's kind of funny.”

“How is any of this funny?”

“Oh, Michael
,
nothing like that could ever happen to me, because I'm so proactive about my health,”
he said, in what I guessed was supposed to be an imitation of my voice, since it was in a falsetto. “That's what you said when I proposed to you.”

I glared at him. “That's mean. And like
you
really helped the situation.”

“Hey,” he said, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs wide. “I'm more than willing to change my last name and give up my citizenship for you. I'll even walk two steps behind you in public after we're married, like a proper prince consort. But the birth control thing is going to have to be up to you, because obviously nothing can contain what these bad boys are packing.”

“Did you seriously just refer to your testicles as ‘bad boys'?”

“I did. It's not as if you didn't have warning, Mia. As has been previously stated—by that bastion of fine reporting,
InTouch,
no less—I
am
the world's greatest lover.”

“More like the world's greatest idiot.”

He got up from his chair, leaned against the exam table, and kissed me.

“Come on.” He pressed his forehead against mine, grinning. “You're happy about this. I can tell. It wasn't exactly what we had planned, but it's a surprise, not a disaster. A surprise is a
good
thing. Right?”

The frustrating thing about being in love with Michael Moscovitz is that it's impossible to stay angry with him, especially when he's got his hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he's resting his forehead against yours and that clean Michael smell of his is filling your senses.

Then all you want to do is throw your arms around him and say, “Oh, all right, I give up, I'll do whatever you want. What does it matter?”

He's very hard to resist.

“If that ultrasound shows that I'm having twins,” I snarled, “I will kill you.”

“If that ultrasound shows that you're having twins”— he grinned back—“you have my permission to kill me.”

And then—as if from our lips to God's ears—that's
exactly
what showed up on the ultrasound.

“I would say you're around eight weeks along,” Dr. Delgado said, looking pleased, as I wavered between wanting to laugh, cry, and throw up (but not because of morning sickness. Because the ultrasound showed that I was having twins). “Everything looks fine . . . times two. Congratulations.”