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I’d sent Flux a quick text, telling him I wouldn’t be back to campus the rest of the day, and then put my phone on silent. After not hearing from her since I’d left her asleep after making her come three times over the weekend, I’d been so happy to hear from her I’d stepped out of a meeting to take her call. Now I was even more glad she’d called.
She fidgeted in the bed and her eyelashes fluttered, as if she was deep asleep. I’d shut the curtains because I knew the light had bothered her before, so it meant the room was mostly cast in shadows.
“How’s our patient doing?” A pretty older nurse with curly dark hair named Camille popped in the room with her cart and a clipboard.
“Sleeping,” I say, nodding at her as if it wasn’t obvious.
“Good,” she says, checking the monitor and making notes on her clipboard. “She should get as much rest while she can.” She winks and I chuckle with her. But I feel like I’ve missed something.
“Do you know if she needs to have her wrist x-rayed?” I ask, nodding at her right wrist, which has been wrapped up in an ACE bandage.
Camille shakes her head. “We’ll keep an eye on it, but right now the doctor thinks it’s just a minor sprain. You know, we don’t really like to x-ray patients like her.”
I frown as Megan fidgets under the blankets, wondering what she means by that. I already told them I’d pay for all the medical bills. Camille catches my eye and nods toward the door. I walk outside and wait for her.
“I just have a few questions, but I don’t want to wake her up if I don’t have to.”
“Sure,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do you know if she has any drug allergies?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, feeling helpless. “Not that I know of.”
She nods, making a note and flipping pages on her clipboard. “And do the two of you live together?” she asks.
I frown, wondering whether this will mean I can’t use my insurance or pay for her. “Is that a problem?” I ask.
She tuts her tongue and presses the clipboard to her chest.
“I’m not asking on behalf of registration,” she says meaningfully.
“We don’t,” I say, softly.
She nods and then says, “Do you have any reason to believe she may not be safe at home?”
I frown again and shake my head. “No,” I say. But then again, I found her at home, on the floor, dehydrated, vomiting, and with a sprained wrist. I grit my teeth.
“It’s a question we ask all our patients, nothing personal. I’ll ask her again when she’s awake.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Alright, do you know when the first day of her last cycle was?” She looks up at me, a laugh in her brown eyes, as if we’re sharing a joke.
I chuckle and shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
She smiles and shakes her head as well. “Alright, then can you tell me how far along she is?”
I frown, not understanding the question despite its familiarity. I feel the blood drain from my face and my fingers go cold before I realize why. That my nervous system has muscle memory regarding this very specific question. She looks up at me, but it’s as if I’m looking through her. I’ve heard that question before. I’ve answered it before, at least three times. Always in the emergency room.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Carroll?” she asks, her smile faltering. Her eyes are on me and I pull her back into focus, catching the moment she realizes that she’s said something she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry, I’ve misspoken,” she says, tucking the clipboard away.
“Just,” I start, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing my mouth to make words. “You asked how far along she is?”
She stares up at me with her lips pressed into a firm line.
“You think… this is?” But I don’t finish the sentence. Because I don’t know what she’s saying. Megan’s not bleeding and crying and folded over in half. Or was she? Again, I feel the blood drain from my face and I swallow hard around something that makes my throat tighten.
She steps closer and places a hand on my arm. “She’s okay,” she says. “Some women just experience a severe form of morning sickness. It’s called hyperemesis gravidarum, and now that we know, we can help her.”
