I.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Reese,” the doctor smiles and she’s confused.

“I’ve been puking for the past two weeks and I feel like crap,” she deadpans and she rubs her head because it’s pounding. “I don’t think your Ph. D entails you congratulating your sick patients.”

“True, but I can offer congratulations when you’re pregnant.”

She chuckles. And then laughs. And laughs some more because she’s forty and really she’s given up on the idea of her son getting a sibling. Pregnant people can’t board airplanes and travel to oversee the mechanics of an art gallery. She needs to travel to work so there’s no possible way she’s pregnant.

“Oh, God,” she wipes a tear while the laughter recedes. “Okay, I have to admit – I owe you the laugh. But seriously, I’m not pregnant. I just reconciled with my husband three months ago and I watched my son turn eighteen in April and go off to college at UC Berkeley. I can’t be pregnant.”

“But you are,” Dr. Harrison flips through her medical history. “According to your urinalysis, the pregnancy hormone has been present for a while.”

Oh, God. Oh God – pregnancy hormones in her pee for a while?

He’s serious.

He’s stone cold serious.

Her nails are nervously tapping against the wooden arm-rest and who the hell is messing with the thermostat? Why the hell is so hot in here? Who took her voice and made her inhale helium?

“You don’t understand,” she says, seriously. “I lost a daughter to SIDS, and I had to go through labour with my son because I was a week past my due date. Dr. Harrison, I can’t be pregnant – my husband’s shooting a movie in Australia right now and I have my art thing. Pregnancy just wasn’t in the cards,” she sighs, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Are you saying I’ve been pregnant before today?”

“Exactly, and according to this – you are about three weeks along. And since it’s September right now, your due date would be about early to mid June,” the doctor sighs, and really her nails are still there – yes, it’s smart for her to get acrylics this week. “I have another patient but I’m willing to sit with you a little longer than usual.”

“Why?”

“Because I just need to know your medical history a little. That way I know how to monitor the pregnancy – you turned forty this year, correct?”

She’s glaring because it’s not fair for her to be reminded that she’s no longer in her thirties.

It’s just…not.

It’s still touchy but she rolls her hazel eyes anyway, glancing sideways because she’s not looking at Dr. Harrison anymore – it just makes everything too real.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Tell me a little about your medical history.”

The medical stuff is easy to rattle off, so are the non-medical stuff but she keeps that to herself. The inside of her cheek is throbbing slightly from her biting it. It’s just not possible. Or maybe it’s denial and a weird sense of stupid complacency.

“Now, I have to have ask this to all my patients.”

“Ask what?”

“It’s just for precautions’ sake, Mrs. Reese.”

She’s carefully wiping her eyes because her eyeliner is going to start smudging.

He’s asking a whole lot of questions, and this doctor is just way too invasive for his own good.

Dr. Harrison looks sympathetically in her direction and hands her a tissue box.

“If you wanted to keep this child.”

Her eyes go slightly wider and if she lets out of those remarks on the tip of her tongue loose, she may start sobbing uncontrollably – and she never loses control of anything. But her hand rests on her abdomen which will inevitably balloon in the coming months.

So, she nods adamantly, “Absolutely. I’ll break the news to my husband, but I’m going to carry this child to term. You can keep the Planned Parenthood pamphlets.”

Dr. Harrison stands and shakes her hand, “Again, I extend my congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Would you like to make an appointment?”

“Uh,” her head’s still spinning and her car is just right there. “I have to run – you know, errands. But we’ll talk about setting up the next appointment.”

She stands, and fishes around her keys because really, it would help slightly if she gets the hell out of there and just drives around.

-

Here’s something Heather Reese-Cacciatore (pronounced: catch-ey-tor-ray; roll the goddamn R!) doesn’t like to remember or refer to but does anyway for posterity’s sake.

While giving birth to Logan, she almost loses him because his birth weight is incredibly large for a boy at nine pounds six ounces but yeah, the umbilical cord almost wraps around his neck and chokes him before he even gets the chance to breathe.

She’s not scared. Heather’s absolutely terrified.

-

The answering machine is blinking when she arrives home – four hours later.

It’s a new house because the old holds too many bad memories and Malcolm is ready to purchase another house anyway.

She closes the door slightly, and her eyes sweep over the front foyer and Chauncey is nowhere to found. Honestly, she’s really indecisive on that but sees the number four digitally blink at her.

Heather presses play.

“Hi, Miss. Heather,” her assistant, Allison’s Southern-accented voice says and she smiles slightly. “I just wanted to check in and tell you that the Van Gogh deal was a success so shipping will handle the entire collection and I’ll make sure it arrives safely at the gallery and speak to the curator on your behalf. Oh, and everyone at the office says get better. I’ll stop by later if that’s okay.”

Oh, Allison – she can definitely stop by. Maybe to stop her from going stark crazy.

.

.

.

“Heather, sweetheart! It’s Mom – I just arrived from Florida about three hours ago and I’m around for a couple of months. Paul picked me up from the airport and I’m staying over at his house. I tried calling you but I was told you weren’t home because you were sick and went to the doctor,” Miranda confirms. “Call me ASAP so I know you’re okay. I love you, dear.”

She sighs, and her stomach feels like there’s the beginning of a boulder in it.

At least her mommy’s here to make it better. Her hot cocoa with extra marshmallow would be nice right about now.

She’ll call later. Much later.

.

.

.

“Hey, Boss Lady. Dad’s not coming back for another two weeks and I really want to start a bonfire with my books because this is so not PCA,” her son says and her heart is all warm and fuzzy. Sometimes, she wishes he reverts to the age of five where Logan thinks she’s super mom and knows everything. “You’re my mom – so you’ll most likely tell me not to. I’ll talk but I don’t do feelings. Hope your thing got…you know, better. You know I love you.”

There’s a pause and then, “Yes, you! The idiot who just merges on a fucking road without signaling! Dumbass!”

And then it cuts off but it’s authentically Logan that she can’t help but sigh and speak to no one in particular, “That’s my boy.”

For the first time in four hours, she laughs.

.

.

.

“Hey, baby sis.”

It’s her older brother, Brad, and she can’t help but frown and slightly glare when envisioning that smarmy, I’m better than you smirk on his face and the whole smooth thing he’s got going.

Heather and Brad’s clashing starts when it clicks in Heather’s three-year-old brain to break the limbs of her six-year-old brother G.I Joe action figure. And Paul is still the peacemaker, but it’s not like he can be helpful because he’s just a newborn about three weeks old.

“Dad needs to see us in the middle of the week – as in me, Paul and you – especially now that Mom’s in town,” Heather’s perfectly plucked eyebrows furrow when she clearly hears a sigh escape her older brother. “It has something to do with his will he said and I just thought you’d like to know.”

There’s bile rising in her throat and an unexplainable onset of warm irritation bubbling in her chest.

“ – since Dad obviously favours you more or something and – ”

The rage isn’t that unexplainable anymore. Heather angrily presses the delete button.

She’ll call her father back on her own terms.

Right now, she needs a bath and some herbal tea.

.

.

.

The phone rings when all of the messages are cleared, and she picks up.

“Hello?”

“It’s eight in the morning here, Heather,” Malcolm tells her, matter-of-factly. “Logan called me – told me you were down with the flu.”

Heather smirks, drawing circular patterns on the mahogany table when she sits. It feels so good after listening to all of those messages on her feet.

Right, she thinks placing her hand on her abdomen. The flu, that’s all it is.

“So, you called to check up on me, didn’t you?”

Malcolm fakes seriousness. “I’ll hang up then if you want that.”

“Don’t you dare,” she warns, and then smiles softly, using her shoulder to hold the black cordless phone to her ear while silently notes that she may need another pedicure. “And I kind of miss you. I went to the doctor today and everything’s okay. When you come back, I’ll give you the full recap.”

“I believe everything’s okay, then,” Malcolm prods. “Keira’s helping me out over here.”

The first words to slip out of her lips are, “I hate her.”

That’s supposed to be an inside thought, and maybe, this baby is making her hormonal three weeks into the pregnancy. Nine months just seems so far away.

He laughs, “As much as your jealousy excites me, it wouldn’t kill you to be cordial.”

She rolls her eyes, good-naturedly, “Just come home and be my husband already. I’m not jealous, but I will clip her in the mouth if being cordial doesn’t work.”

Malcolm sighs. “I have to deal with tired actors and a slightly incompetent crew. They’re not getting where I want to take this film, and it’s frustrating. Call you tomorrow?”

“Okay. I’m tired,” she holds back a yawn. “So, I’m headed for a bubble bath and a snack.”

“Why do you do that and indulge in the fun stuff when I’m not there? A big bubble bath all to yourself and I can’t be there.”

Heather giggles, like a teenager and her cheeks get warm. “You’re such a freak.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“Bye,” Heather says, sincerely. “And call our son, would you? Call him before he gets impulsive and starts a bonfire in UC Berkley’s Center Square.”

“Do I have to? You’re his mom. He doesn’t listen to me as much as he does you. Heather, this is same one who went behind my back and blew three hundred thousand on a car he didn’t even know how to drive,” Malcolm lists. “Then more of my money went to counterfeit coins. Even though I got it back, that’s beside the point. And then I took his credit cards away, and he jumped a pretty high fence to get it back. He gets that temper from you.”

“Hey, he’s quarter Italian – he’s allowed to have somewhat of a temper, but seriously talk to him. You’re his dad. He’ll listen as well as can be expected.”

Malcolm sighs into the phone because she hears the jovial quality in his tone.

“Fine. Goodbye, Heather.”

“Bye Malcolm.”

.

.

.

Heather presses the button and hangs up when she sets it down.

It rings thirty seconds later, and Heather sighs and answers.

“Wait,” Malcolm says. “I think I missed something.”

Heather smiles softly, “You have a whole bunch of actors waiting before they call a mutiny against you.”

“They can wait. Besides, they’re on my payroll, remember?”

“God forbid I forget that fact.”

She really needs that herbal tea so she doesn’t puke. A heartbeat passes.

“I love you, Heather. I missed saying that.”

She grins from ear-to-ear, and green tea with relaxation is just a walk down but her heart skips, and there are butterflies like when they first meet when she’s just a seventeen year old art intern and he’s a twenty year old budding director with his father on the third floor of the same gleaming commercial tower. She marries Malcolm at age nineteen in the middle of her second year at UC Berkeley, becomes pregnant in the same year for the first time but result in Hannah’s death, and gives birth to Logan at age twenty-two.

Her heartbeat slightly speeds up, “I love you too, Malcolm.”

-

Heather sends Chauncey off duty because she actually cares about him and he sometimes has that shadow-like quality and it creeps her out.

Oh, and she cares about the workers. Really.

Heather sends the workers away so they don’t see her slightly unravel and shed a few tears because she’s pregnant and the words just can’t materialize.

-

The green tea is wonderful to enjoy in silence.

In the back of her mind, Heather can’t help but think that that the green tea is a little too perfectly made, the silence makes the ambience a little too warm and the green tea slides down her throat a little too smoothly.

It’s a bunch of inanimate lies.

.

.

.

It’s supposed to be in the morning, hence morning sickness.

Not Whenever-I-Feel-Like-It sickness.

She’s retching up the herbal green tea that goes down with a false smoothness, and then the goddamned endorphins kick in and it’s doesn’t that seem that scary anymore, and Heather can put her hair up, brush her teeth and go to bed with a sense of confidence. But she’s not scared. She’s not scared of anything. Heather’s the daughter of Anthony Cacciatore and her daddy’s fearless – the only fearless man she knows.

Nothing absolutely fazes her. Absolutely nothing, she resolves with minty fresh breath and a small smile when Heather gazes at her reflection’s bare abdomen in her bathroom mirror.

-

Here’s a secret Heather has and realizes when she slips into bed, kisses the frame picture of her boys goodnight and turns the lamp off, plunging the bedroom into nearly tangible darkness:

Nine months is terribly long, and Heather’s excited but she can’t help but shake under warm covers in the inside a little.

-

She’s only forty and three weeks pregnant.

A/N: I had this idea and I think, one of my reviewers (I think it was you, Haley who requested writing about Logan’s Italian family?) requested this.

I have school, and really I’m more inspired to write my Zogan piece. I think I’m a Zogan shipper, but I’m writing Choey. At the same time, Choey doesn’t appeal to me anymore so really, I’m trying to write the best Choey oneshot ever because it will be my last for a while. But I found Zogan challenging, and I LOVE a challenge especially since the plot is really twisted and complex. I can only say that I’m bringing one of my OCs back, but she’s funny as a mortal but really, I think she would be absolutely hilarious in this plot.

In December, I may even write an AU Logan/Nicole. That’s how UC-inspired I am.

But understand that I have a life outside of Fanfiction, and I’m just finding an organization groove in terms of school, so thanks for understanding.

Review and tell me what you think.

I have the entire thing planned – nine chapters & an epilogue to close it.

-Erika