Guanajuato is beginning to steepen with afternoon when we emerge from the health clinic. The renovated colonial-era building is halfway up the tilt of Calle Chichalpa, a zigzag of cobblestones that climbs the hillside near our hotel. I’m almost stunned by the noise and motion of the street, by the sweet smell of spring. Orange lilies blooming against a dirty white wall shock me with their brightness. Through my Nikes I can feel the dull rumble of a subterranean road, little earthquakes that shiver up my legs. All my senses are overloaded with beauty and wonder, turning the world into unbearable poignancy, and me with it. I’m pregnant and transformed in time-lapse. Belly swelling. Getting boobs — actual boobs, yaayyy! Stretching and slowing and waddling. And finally having a baby.

Nick is saying gentle things beneath his Kangol hat, smiling at me — a little nervously, but that’s okay — and seeking my hand as we descend the sidewalk. Together we’re a pair of elongated shadows that burst across alleys and intersections. My shadow is even more rail-thin than his. But not for long, according to Dr. Alvarez, the obstetrician/gynecologist I saw. When I asked the doctor how big I could expect to get, he looped his hairy hands over an invisible beachball resting on his stomach.

The appointment was anticlimactic. I was expecting to find myself starring in a dubbed episode of House M.D. that I watch on Mexican TV. I’d be laid flat in a hospital bed. A horde of white-coated doctors and technicians would loom over me. Exams would be conducted, obscure tests would be done, lab reports would be generated. And oh by the way, can I have an ultrasound and see the baby?

Dr. Alvarez kept smothering laughs. Ditto for Nick behind him. And not just because I was star-struck and clueless that an ultrasound can’t see a tiny fetus. I used terms like nadadora — slang for a girl with no boobs — when asking if I could actually breastfeed with these bumps, instead of taking the time to find a more ladylike word. I also mis-converted my weight on the kilogram scale, erring so badly in pounds that I freaked myself out. And I asked a lot of ignorant embarrassing questions about sex during pregnancy.

Mostly Dr. Alvarez was a source of reassurance. Pregnancy is natural. My body knows what to do. And other practical wisdoms like that, which I remember hearing from my aunts when Nasrin was pregnant. Then the ob/gyn filled my arms with pamphlets in Spanish and medical diagrams, and sent me on my way. I’m young and in perfect health, so I’m just supposed to let nature take its course for the first trimester. Once I get to the second trimester, then I’ll need regular prenatal checkups.

“This is the best private health care system in the world — if you’ve got twenty bucks,” Nick is saying. “Too bad most Mexicans don’t. They’re stuck with the national health care system.”

“At least they have a national health care system,” I say dreamily, drifting through the afternoon in a bubble of contentment.

My purse begins playing a tune. Basement Jaxx’s “Oh My Gosh”. I thought that ringtone was perfect for this world of incipient motherhood that I suddenly inhabit.

But Nick’s hand beats mine into the purse. He yanks out my cellphone and scowls at its caller ID. Then he scowls at me. “I knew you called your family. I just fucking knew it. Why do you do this to yourself?”

I barely catch the cellphone when he tosses it at me. A tremble is emanating from my right eyesocket and echoing through the rest of my body. He’s right, of course. He’s always right. But I’m not strong like him, a clamp-jawed figure who wraps himself in aloofness. I want to share this joy with my family. No wait, that’s not right. I need to share this joy with my family. They deserve to know a baby is coming, even if the timing and the father couldn’t be worse.

“You called?” Nasrin’s voice, tempered with a distinct chill. In the background are cooking noises and my niece and nephew rioting. I picture her in the tiled expanse of the kitchen, hourglass figure bustling around, phone pinched to her shoulder. An Iranian-American domestic goddess, emphasis on the Iranian part.

“Hi sis. Yeah, I tried you earlier. Thanks for calling me back. I hope you and Farid and the kids are doing alright. Me, I — I’m, um…” My courage is failing. Maybe I shouldn’t tell my family after all.

“What’s going on? Where are you? Still somewhere in Mexico with…him?” She can’t bring herself to utter Nick’s name.

“Yeah. I’m still with him. And…” I bite my lip to stop myself from saying it, but then I say it anyway. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’re WHAT?!?” Nasrin almost screams, loud enough for Nick to overhear. The brim of his hat jerks toward me.

“That’s right. I’m pregnant.” I’m glowing all the way to her condo in San Diego. The condo purchased with my mahr — the bride price paid by Saman’s family. “Nick and I are pregnant.”

An indecipherable noise fills my ear. Like sobbing, or maybe low wracked groans.

“Nasrin? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” she says tearfully.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re ruining us, Nooshin. You’re ruining our family’s name, our reputation, with this humiliation! Leaving your husband — and for another man, who isn’t even Persian?” She blows her nose loudly. “But that’s nothing compared to this. Nothing, do you hear me? What you’ve done now, this, this is…unforgivable!”

Static swirls around the word. Unforgivable. I try to think of the Farsi translation, but discover I don’t remember it anymore.

Nasrin is back in my ear, whispering with urgency. “I thought you were making a mistake by leaving Saman. We all did. Me, Dad and Mom, our aunts. But we understand that you want a divorce, and we’ve accepted that. Only God can judge you for it.” Her whispering quickens even more. “Nooshin, listen to me. You have to get an abortion. It’s the only way you can remain a member of this family. Surely you realize that. I’ll never tell another soul, I promise you. As far as the rest of the family is concerned, it’ll be like it never happened.”

I take a deep breath and blow it into the warm afternoon. “You’re the one who’s always preaching about obeying the Qur’an — and now you want me to get an abortion? I can’t go against God like that. I’m having this baby.” A hopeful angle occurs to me. “And Nick supports my decision. He even came with me to the ob/gyn today.”

Next to me, Nick’s icy blue eyes are turning into slits.

“I know you think he walks on water, but ever since he came into your life, you’ve been, uh…” She fumes audibly, groping for words. “Under his spell! You’ve been under his spell. He’s turning you into a different person. He’s taking you away from us, and away from God. Why can’t you see that?”

I sag in my sundress, wanting to laugh. Wanting to cry. “Under his spell? How can you even say that? I finally find someone who makes me happy, who likes me for me — ”

“What happens when he leaves you? Huh? Have you even thought that far ahead yet?”

“He’s not going to leave me. We’re having this baby together. He loves me. And I’m not just imagining it. He said so! He said he loves me, and — ”

Nasrin goes HA HA HA! like an evil stepmother. “He’ll say anything right now. But what happens when you start to show? That’s when it becomes real to a man. He can’t feel what you’re feeling right now. But he’ll see it, and when he does — ”

Nick yanks the phone away from me, stabs the Off button, and stashes it in his pocket. Then he cups my face in his palms, his thumbs rubbing gently across my cheeks. I’m surprised to feel their slippery friction. I didn’t realize I’d succumbed to tears. I stare into him, into the intent roiling oceans of his eyes, and then he’s kissing me in reassurance. Despite myself I shiver inwardly, fascinated by the flashlight beam of Nasrin’s anger and the way she illuminated a dark aspect of his masculinity — the ability to leave me…with a child.