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…
She doesn’t need a pregnancy test to confirm her suspicions. Though it's been several years, she’s intimately familiar with the only reason why her stomach has ever lurched like this—acid roiling when she moves too fast; after even the smallest bite of anything but the crackers she’s had stashed in her bag for the last three days.
The lack of need for confirmation doesn’t stop Amanda Rollins from FaceTiming her husband, Dominick Carisi between her 10 am freshman psychology course and a lecture series on the history of sexual deviance in America she gives at noon on Mondays with a simple request.
“Can we bypass falafel night,” she pleads almost immediately as the call connects.
He’s at his desk, sitting behind a stack of trial notes and struggling to get one AirPod seated firmly in his ear. She watches in amusement as he fidgets with the offending device, a scowl etched deep on his handsome face. She knows he’s already on his lunch break and that he likes to keep his conversations private from the hustle and bustle of the courthouse, despite his office being mostly tucked away. His forehead wrinkles in lines of both confusion and annoyance over her request and the stubborn earbud.
“Please, no chickpeas,” she begs again once he’s done struggling and his attention is solely on her. He brushes back the loose gray hairs that fall across his forehead with a sigh when he notes her face is twisted in disgust.
She feels bad. She knows it’s their new routine that helps them make it through the work week while juggling both hectic schedules and restaurant quality dinners. She knows he’s considering this week’s carefully planned meal rotation and the fact that he’d already chopped and prepped for all five nights. He already has the dried chickpeas soaking at home, but her stomach is flip flopping at just the thought of the once desired dish.
She suspects when he knows the reason for her sudden Mediterranean aversion, he won’t mind the change in plans at all. Just in case, she bats her eyelashes for good measure while she waits for his reply. She knows he’s usually powerless to tell her no, regardless.
“I thought you said it’s been too long since I made the fresh tzatziki.”
She shuffles her weight carefully in her seat as she cuts him off. The movement, albeit slight, has her resisting the urge to lunge for the trash can next to her desk before she gets out what she needs to say.
“Now, I'm just dying for Serafina’s gnocchi and that super soft bread from Tarantalla’s down in the Village,” she explains, her free hand falling across her forehead in a dramatic woe-is-me gesture.
He lifts his brows, confused, but doesn’t notice the paleness of her cheeks or the small smile she tries to keep from painting across her face. It doesn’t give away the reason—she’s not usually so fickle when it comes to his cooking.
“I need that cheese sauce, Sonny,” she drawls, ducking her head shyly.
There’s a lightness to her voice that he can’t quite read. “And those little baby broccoli.”
“Broccolini,” Carisi corrects with a slight laugh, his features softening as he purses the fingers of his right hand, waving them in front of his iPhone camera in her direction—Italian through and through.
“Same thing,” she shrugs, teasingly.
He frowns in mock disappointment over her still apparent lack of cooking knowledge, causing her to burst out in laughter. It’s light and it’s flirty and it makes it hard for them both not to miss the days when they could do this across his desk or hers without their phones and without the physical distance her leaving SVU has put between them during the work day.
“Tarantalla’s is gonna take at least half an hour in rush hour,” he points out, though she can tell by his voice he’s only moderately bothered by her request. “Do I have time ta get there and still scoop Billie before the daycare closes?”
“I’ll get both girls, if you get me two loaves,” she bargains.
He agrees easily despite the hassle he knows awaits.
“Let me get back to it then, babe,” he says and she knows that despite his calm demeanor, his mind is already frantically re-planning his afternoon to accommodate her request. It doesn’t stop her from slowing him down long enough to throw in another request—the one she really called him to make.
“Before you go,” she says, stopping him just before the call disconnects, her voice barely above a whisper. He has to strain to hear her, pushing the earbud deeper into his ear.
“There’s a CVS on the corner there, too, right? By Tarantalla’s?”
“Might be a Duane Reade, but yeah it’s New York, you know there’s a pharmacy on damn near every corner,” he says, scratching his head.
She laughs—he’s not wrong, and she easily could have made this stop herself, but that’s not the point. He looks moderately irritated by the possibility of another delay, but doesn’t realize the weight of what is about to become the rest of the request.
“I think you’re low on antacids,” Rollins explains. “And—” She hesitates, biting her lip.
Carisi stops his movements and looks up at her in question. Their eyes meet and she realizes there is no reason to hesitate—not with him.
“And I need a pregnancy test.”
She doesn’t need one of course. Not really. But he deserves this—the incredulous look of surprise that crosses his face, the way he momentarily drops the phone and picks it back up with shaky hands and his signature crooked toothed grin that still makes her weak in the knees.
“You need a pregnancy test,” he parrots back, his shock evident by the expression on his face and the nervous squeak of his voice.
“Yup,” she says easily, the smile she’s been holding back finally splitting wide. “You heard me. I do.”
What follows is several moments of silence.
“Amanda, are you pregnant?” The words finally escape his mouth along with a low, incredulous belly laugh that makes her heart almost beat clear out of her chest in joy, though her response is non-committal and overly coy.
“Maybe.”
The look he sends back her way is one of pure awe and adoration—one of years worth of unspoken dreams, one she’s seen so many times as of late, but still has her wondering ‘why me’ in the best way possible.
She wishes she could freeze this moment in time to enjoy the wonder on his face for just a few seconds longer, but her stomach is roiling and she has to get ready for class.
Instead, she hurries out a short, “gotta go, hon. Don’t forget the baby broccoli.”
“Broccolini,” he shouts back playfully, waving goodbye.
Her stomach learchs again as she takes in his excited face for a final second before disconnecting the call. Moments after she tosses her phone on the desk, she gives in to the nausea and heaves into the trash can.
“Definitely baby,” she smiles, her hands on her still flat stomach, though there’s no one but the tiny new life that’s apparently growing in her womb to hear her.
No, she doesn’t need that pregnancy test to confirm her suspicions at all. But, she thinks as she wipes the corners of her mouth, reaching for another cracker from her purse, she sure could use a ginger ale.
…
Carisi sprints anxiously through the door, juggling a fist full of reusable grocery bags in one hand and his briefcase in the other, just minutes after she’s finished walking Frannie with the help of both girls. She knows there’s no way he stayed in the office until the end of afternoon arraignments and hadn’t broken at least a few traffic laws to make it to Tarantalla’s and the pharmacy and still damn near beat them home.
“Hi,” he smiles softly. A tender kiss barely glosses the side of Rollins’ smirked lips before his eyes shift to her belly.
“Not now,” she remarks, shooing him away, playfully. She motions instead to Jesse who sits quietly at the table nearby scrawling out her math homework.
“Hi, daddy,” Jesse calls out, her attention barely drawn away from the subtraction worksheet she already has laid out in front of her. “I’m studyin’ for my math test tomorrow.”
“Hi, Daaaa-deeeeee,” Billie interrupts, copying her older sister, only with an undistracted enthusiasm. Unlike Jesse, Billie doesn’t hesitate to drop the book she’s holding to launch herself on long legs across the room.
“Hi, Jess. Hi, Silly Billie Baloo Bear,” Carisi greets as Billie latches eagerly to his leg. He sets the packages somewhat ungracefully onto the counter, attempting not to let the pre-schooler knock him over.
Rollins tries to warn Billie to give her daddy some space so he can unpack the bags and get settled, but neither father nor daughter seems to pay her any mind. Rollins is not sure which one enjoys their closeness more, but she knows Carisi’s a saint the way he navigates evenings doing all he does while still paying equal time and attention to doting on both girls.
“Two loaves,” he smiles, holding up two familiar white wax lined paper bread bags. “They made a second batch this afternoon. Super fresh,” he explains, depositing the bread on the counter. He scoops Billie up into his arms and props her on his hip, her long legs dangling as he spins her around the tiny kitchen.
“Love you, baby girl.”
He gives their youngest daughter a series of Eskimo kisses, enjoying the shrieks of laughter that peal from her lips before depositing her on the island in front of him.
He realizes the weight of his words then, when Amanda clears her throat, staring at him. His heart flutters at the thought—their baby girl, the one that should have been his from the start, might not be the baby of the family much longer.
Clueless to the looming question of the evening, Billie rifles curiously through the bags, producing a six pack of ginger ale in her small hands. Carisi quickly grabs it from her and holds it out for Rollins, hung from his index finger by the plastic loops that bind them together.
“The fizz,” he grins in a throwback to her first and second pregnancies, “it’s better in the cans—figured you might need ‘em, ya know, if—”
He knows her so well.
“And the other thing,” he adds, tilting his chin to the last bag which holds a bottle of Tums, some Pepto, and what appears to be not one, but at least three pregnancy tests. “I’ll tuck em up in the medicine cabinet until—”
“Tonight, Dominick,” she promises, placing her hand softly on his, reassuring and calm. She can practically feel the jitters radiating off of him—a nervous excitement she never expected she’d see coming from the father of one of her babies. Not the way things were—not before.
He spins Billie back to the ground and deposits a kiss on the top of Jesse’s head on the way to the back of the apartment. His lips graze Rollins’ again on his way past her, and he can’t help but whisper in her ear. “For the record,” he says, waving the bag of tests in his hand, “regardless of this, I’m happy, so happy. With everything.”
Once he’s out of sight, she flops herself to the sofa, laying back, totally exhausted but completely relaxed. For the first time, she knows she’s newly pregnant and she doesn’t feel anxious or scared or disappointed. She doesn’t need to consider options or worry about being judged.
She’s content—happy, with everything, too. “How did we get so lucky,” she asks, her voice low. She realizes, yet again, she’s talking to the stowaway she already knows is snuggled safely in her belly. She lets herself the enjoy the moment, picturing how her belly will soon begin to swell and how she can’t wait until she can feel their baby moving inside of her.
Carisi emerges from the bedroom minutes later, sans suit and tie. Instead he’s got a pair of joggers riding low on his hips, bare feet and an old faded Fordham T-shirt. He looks relaxed, but still with the same blissed out, nervous energy that makes Rollins’ heart sing.
“Still studying,” he asks, stopping to place yet another kiss on the crown of Jesse’s head. “You’re gonna do great, Jess,” he reassures.
“I know,” Jesse smiles back, her eyes wide. She pushes her workbook aside and talks eagerly with Carisi. “I’m ready! Momma showed me the easy way ta do this and she’s a teacher now—of BIG kids.”
“A professor,” he reminds, proudly.
“Same thing,” she reasons, providing her explanation with her hands on her hips. “But I'm a little kid and little kids call ‘um teachers.”
“Duh,” Rollins mouths from the couch, looking at her husband pointedly from behind Jesse’s back, her hands on her hips in imitation, looking very much like a grown version of the first baby girl to steal his heart.
“First grade today, Fordham Law tomorrow,” Carisi plays, ruffling Jesse’s hair.
“Only if I ace my math test,” she smiles back proudly.
“She’s so your kid,” Rollins remarks, and though he’s heard it before, it never gets old—being reminded that the girls are his daughters in all the ways that matter.
He wishes they could turn the clocks back sometimes, just long enough that someone could whisper in his ear the little secret about how this would all turn out. He doesn’t miss the days of longing, though he appreciates the journey for what it’s been—wouldn’t trade a moment of it for anything, not with the way things have unfolded since that solitary night on the Hudson when they finally kissed for the very first time.
He’s been around the sun enough times to know that what they have now wouldn’t exist just like this if any part of their journey—especially the most difficult legs—had taken a different path. He has absolutely everything he ever could have wanted out of life, and more, and yet, Amanda’s news has him wondering, has him dreaming, about just how much more amazing this life actually might keep on getting for them.
Ananda watches on as Carisi cooks the way he always does. He narrates to Billie, and eventually to Jesse too once her math book is tucked snuggly away in her backpack and she joins them in the kitchen. Amanda adores how much he loves every minute with his mini sous chefs.
Carisi’s stomach flip flops, flooding with warmth every time he mentions the broccoli and Rollins hollers “baby broccoli” back at him from the sofa.
Despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to keep his mind off the baby they vowed they didn’t need. He can’t help but picture three sets of little eyes looking up at him instead of two. He can't help but keep staring back at his wife either. He knows it's probably the product of wishful thinking, but he swears she's glowing.
He’s so distracted by it all that the water pot boils over not once, but twice while the gnocchi cooks. The girls laugh and squeal in delight as the water sizzles, hitting the stovetop. He hates to admit it, but the béchamel he pours over the gnocchi and baby broccoli is more separated than Serafina would ever have approved of.
But they still sit together, like they do every night, listening to the giggles of the girls as they swap stories of their days at school and daycare. Rollins tells Carisi about her latest lesson plans and he picks her brain about SVU’s latest cases, bemoaning the lack of experience amongst the current squad as they eat.
She lets him dote over her, dishing out the food for her and the girls. She doesn’t even hesitate to stay put when he says, “stay, I got it,” after an extra slice of soft French bread with butter has been passed out to everyone but her. She claims it’s making her belly bubbly despite the can of ginger ale she sips slowly with one of the girls’ curly straws.
“Just nerves or something else,” he asks curiously as he collects the dishes and the last of the gnocchi is scraped into Tupperware for tomorrow’s lunch. The girls are off brushing their teeth and he’s bursting with curiosity over her news.
She supposes she should be nervous. After all, they’ve only just barely gotten married and she’s still learning how to navigate a normal family life and a new job that, for once, doesn’t have her facing peril at every turn. They are still living in the tiny two bedroom apartment that holds way too much stuff but also feels like home and holds Billie’s entire lifetime full of memories.
They haven’t been trying for another child, but they haven’t exactly been not trying either. They’d discussed it prior to tying the knot, and again after her physical therapist and OB-GYN had both mentioned her remarkable lack of scar tissue, all things considered.
The doctor had mentioned her age and she’d lamented during PT how much harder it was chasing after kids with both a bum knee and a bullet wound to the stomach. There was something to the idea, though that they really both liked and they’d stayed up late one night weighing a well mapped out list of the pros and cons.
In the end, they’d mutually decided that their family was already perfect and didn't need anything more. Liife, as much as they’d tried to fight it before, had a remarkable way of leading them to just exactly how things were meant to be.
But apparently, this is what life has in store, she thinks after she’s already snuck off twice, head over the toilet, revisiting the gnocchi and broccolini.
It’s not until after the girls have had three stories and are tucked snuggly in their beds that they finally sit together on the edge of the tiny bathroom’s tub. Carisi unfolds what seems like a million squares of the instructional pamphlet with shaky hands and starts carefully reading each word as if he’s preparing an important legal document.
“Is this even real,” he asks, his heart thumping as he studies the diagram figures.
She knows, of course, what the answer will be and that the process to getting there is little more than just sitting, peeing on the dang stick and waiting for the inevitable double lines to appear. She’s been here before, but this is new territory for him and she’s still not about to cheat him of a single second of this experience.
It’s new territory for her too—having someone standing close, rubbing her lower back in support as she sets the test down on the cool Formica of the bathroom counter. She finds her hands are trembling too as they wait silently in the narrow hall, the timer on his phone counting down to what she knows is bound to be the next chapter of their life together.
When the timer goes off, they both freeze like statues, breaths held, clinging to each other with clenched hands. He’s a nervous wreck and she can’t help but have a brief moment of panic.
What if she was wrong? What if it’s the stress of the new job that has her stomach lurching? Her age or the damage from being shot in the stomach and not something more joyful.
She steps nervously back into the bathroom first, and he’s immediately behind her, his hand once again making circles on her back though neither reaches for the test to take a peek. She takes a deep breath and she can hear him struggling to regulate his own breathing, feeling the hot puffs of air on her neck as he stands behind her.
Their eyes meet over the vanity mirror and they gather their courage.
“Close your eyes and we’ll open them and look at the count of three,” she offers, and they immediately reach for each other’s hands again, closing their eyes tight.
“One…two…”
She makes it to shaky two and a half before his eyes fly open and a, “ohhhhh—you’re pregnant, Amanda,” slips through his lips in excitement.
She snatches the test from his hands and looks, her expression blank.
“No,” she says, shaking her head quietly, and his smile quickly disappears.
She pulls the test closer to her face and inspects it closely, while he reaches for the folded pamphlet, quizzically looking for the diagrams yet again. “I swear, two lines means—”
She pauses for a beat, long enough to see the fleeting disappointment he tries to push aside.
“No, this time,we’re pregnant, Carisi,” she says finally, letting out the breath she’s been holding, a joyous smile overtaking her face.
“We’re pregnant,” he repeats, nodding his head incredulously.
It seems almost impossible—this reality. It's different in so many ways from the other times he’d found out she was with child.
She nods her head vigorously in return and doesn’t even try to stop the tears that are quickly escaping the corners of her eyes. They mirror the happy tears welling in his own.
“We are, finally,” she confesses, nodding her head. This time, it's so easy to let the words fall from her tongue.
Though he doesn’t need the validation, all she can think of are the other times he’d felt so perfectly tailor-made to be on this road with her. “It’s always been you, Sonny,” she admits. “You’ve always been my kids’ dad. You've always been the one, even when you weren’t, yet.”
It’s not the same though she knows.
Not this time.
Tomorrow she’ll call her doctor. Next week, they’ll go to her first appointment together and he’ll join her for all the appointments after that.
He’ll squeeze her hand while they anxiously wait to hear their baby’s heartbeat. Afterwards, he’ll stand by her side when they make a stop at SVU on the way home so she can tell Olivia Benson, not as a subordinate facing uncertain fears, but as friends, together sharing in their greatest joy.
They’ll get to tell the girls and the grandparents and a myriad of aunts and uncles and cousins, biological and otherwise.
He’ll pass out during the first sonogram, just seconds after telling the nurse he’s “fine” when she asks, “how ya holding up, papa,” but will still refuse to get a drink of water or see the doctor, because he’s not going anywhere. He’s not leaving her side this time.
They’ll pose in matching t-shirts labeled Mommy, Daddy, Big Sister #1, and Big Sister #2, all together in front of his camera. It will be set on a tripod with a timer instead of worn him behind the lense the way he’d done it at Billie’s baptism and at Jesse’s before that. They’ll holler “broccolini,” together on the count of three, all smiles before collapsing into a pile of laughter and love as the shutter clicks away, capturing the moment.
They’ll build a brand new crib together in the nursery on the second floor of their new house on the Island. He’ll playfully lament the fact that it could have been an office, both knowing full well how much he’s looking forward to late nights rocking their newborn baby girl in the same old rocking chair where he’d cradled the other two. It will be the same as before, only this time without having to spend the rest of the night sacked out on Rollins’ cramped old sofa.
He’ll bring her ice chips in the delivery room ‘til her lips her blue. Then he’ll let her squeeze his hand ‘til his fingers are numb and he thinks he might actually need some ice of his own between contractions.
He’ll shout loudly, Italian through and through, about how he can see their newest daughter’s blond head of hair crowning, minutes before Amanda can see it herself. When the delivery room fills with the joyful noise of newborn cries, he’ll cut the cord with shaky hands before placing their newest little princess on her momma’s chest just moments after she enters the world.
He’ll smile an extra smile when Liv shuffles late into their delivery suite asking, “what did I miss?” Because this time, the answer is still, nothing and just us, just family means more than a ragtag patchwork stitched together by circumstances and the job.
It means he’s finally married, finally has children, finally has everything he’s ever wanted and more. All because although this isn’t their first baby, it’s the first time they get to do it like this—together in all ways—the way it was always meant to be.