Page 12 of What Goes Around

“You’re at Riverton General Hospital,” she said. “You were brought in early this morning. Someone found you passed out near your car and called an ambulance. You were dehydrated, exhausted, and—”

Her eyes flicked down to the chart in her hands, then back to me. Her voice softened even more.

“You’d been bleeding quite a bit when the paramedics got there.”

Bleeding?

My mind felt sluggish, like I was dragging thoughts through mud.

“Bleeding from what?”

Before she could answer, the door opened and a doctor stepped in, a man in his forties, kind eyes, silver at his temples.

“Miss Richards,” he said quietly, pulling up a chair. “I’m Dr. Langford. You’ve had quite a scare.”

I nodded, not really understanding. My mouth was dry. “What happened?”

He took a slow breath, setting the chart aside. “You were about seven weeks along.”

The words barely registered. “Seven weeks?”

“You were pregnant, Miss Richards.”

Were.

The single word hit me like a physical blow.

“When you arrived, you were already miscarrying. We did everything we could to stop the bleeding and stabilize you. But… the pregnancy couldn’t be saved.”

For a long time, I just stared at him.

He must’ve seen the confusion, or maybe the disbelief, because he went on gently, “There’s no sign of lasting complications, but your body went through a lot. You’ll need rest. And support.”

Support.

Right. From who?

“When you were brought in, we tried to reach your next of kin. The number listed didn’t answer through the night, but we managed to get through this morning. Your mother said she’s on her way now.”

My chest tightened. “My mother?”

He nodded. “Yes. She should be here within the hour.”

He said a few more things about medication and follow-up appointments, but I barely heard him. My hands trembled under the blanket, fingers curling over the thin fabric that now felt like it weighed a ton.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, even though I didn’t mean it.

He offered a sympathetic nod before leaving the room.

Before she left, the nurse asked if I needed anything. I just shook my head, my hand drifting to my stomach.

Empty.

The door opened a few hours later. I didn’t need to look up to know it was her.

The soft clack of expensive heels on tile, the faint scent of her signature perfume, gardenia and something sharp, filled the sterile air.

“Ashley,” my mother said in that carefully composed tone she used when she didn’t know what else to say. “You look pale, sweetheart.”