“It’s medically sound.”
The doctor removes the probe, finishes what must be finished, and gives me a moment behind the screen.
A moment. Very generous. How long should one need to assemble oneself after learning one’s body has become a major political event?
I dress carefully. Hands steady. Good hands. Reliable hands. The rest of me can catch up later.
When I step out, she’s writing on a clean sheet.
“No names,” I remind her. “Or copies. I don’t want any records of this.”
She looks up. “You’re asking me to erase medical care.”
“I’m asking you to practice discretion.”
“That can kill women.”
“So can records.”
She hears the truth of my words. “How much danger are you in?”
“That depends on who knows.”
“Does the father?”
“No.”
“Will you tell him?”
“Not yet.”
“Is that safe?”
I almost smile. “Doctor, nothing about this is safe.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then tears the sheet in half. Starts writing again on plain paper.
“No identifying details,” she says. “Supplements. Food. What symptoms require attention. You need another scan in two weeks.”
“No.”
“Twins increase risk.”
Of course. As if being biologically tied to Alessandro Vitale required any additional complications.
“I’ll consider it.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll decide based on danger, not health.”
“Efficient diagnosis.”
“I’ve seen women like you before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
A pause. “Perhaps not.”
She hands me the paper. I fold it shut without reading.
