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My obstetrician, Dr. Alder, leans against the edge of his desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. He’s a handsome man in his late fifties. He has an easy confidence about him that put me at ease the first time I met him. Now, the familiar nerves that have been plaguing me for just under two months are bubbling up again. “We’ve reviewed your file from the hospital in Milan and are happy to monitor your condition for the next three to five weeks. As you know, we won’t be able to start any further treatment until you enter your second trimester.”
I nod. I do know this. I probably have three or four or ten brochures shoved in one of my kitchen drawers that say something to that effect.
I found out I was pregnant six weeks ago. The first day of my last menstrual period was three weeks before that, which means I’m nine weeks along. I found out about the second big bombshell in my life four and a half weeks ago and ran back to Heart’s Cove a few days later.
So, here I am. Surrounded by loving family, feeling isolated in my own personal midnight snowstorm.
“Now, with geriatric pregnancies there are a host of added risks.” Dr. Alder looks at me with his warm brown eyes, his voice soft and understanding. “Not to mention the treatment plan we’ve put together for your—”
Before he can finish his sentence—and before he can jump into the even longer laundry list of things that might go wrong with me—I sit up. “Can we call it something else?”
Dr. Alder frowns. “Pardon?”
“‘Geriatric pregnancy,’” I explain. “I’m turning forty next week. That’s hardly geriatric, and I feel old enough as it is.” I spread my hands. “Maybe, ‘mature?’ Or, um… ‘sunset?’ ‘Grown-up pregnancy?’”
Dr. Alder gives me a patient, kind smile that makes me want to throttle him. “It’s just the term used for pregnancies in women over the age of thirty-five. Some doctors use it for women over thirty. It doesn’t mean you’re geriatric.”
“No, only my womb.” I suck in a breath and shake my head. “Sorry. I guess ‘sunset pregnancy’ sounds ridiculous.”
Dr. Alder studies me for a moment, then stands up as he inhales sharply. “I’m going to give you a referral to Dr. Melissa Gardner. She’s a psychiatrist who specializes in fertility, pregnancy, miscarriage, and postpartum depression and anxiety.”
“You think I need a shrink?” My voice comes out shriller than I’d intended. I haven’t even told my mother about this, and he wants me to spill my guts to a stranger.
Dr. Alder flicks through dozens of business cards until he finds the right one, then hands it to me. “I think a woman going through as much as you should take advantage of all the support she can get.” His face grows serious, and he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Iliana, this will only get more difficult. You’ll need help.”
The use of my full name sends an involuntary dart of tension spearing through me. Most people call me Lily—have done since Candice came up with the nickname when I was a baby. My full name was reserved for times when I was in trouble.
Which…I am, I guess.
I take the card and read it. Another piece of paperwork for my ever-growing collection. Gulping, I nod and wave the card in a small circle. “Thanks.”
“Mention my name and Dr. Gardner will slot you in as soon as she can.”
“Name-drop you. Got it. Does that work for other things? Exclusive clubs? Discounts at local restaurants? Do I get a senior discount card now that I’m officially geriatric?”
Dr. Alder starts typing on his computer and completely ignores my irreverence. “Make the call, Iliana.”
Knowing when I’m dismissed, I gather my purse and bid him goodbye. After a quick stop at the reception desk to make my next appointment, I step outside into the mid-July sunshine. Northern California has never been my home, but I think I might have liked it here if my life wasn’t a complete mess.
How can it feel like a snowstorm in the middle of summer? How can the sun soak into my skin, yet all I feel is cold?
The edges of the business card cut into my palm, and in some dark corner of my mind, I know Dr. Alder is right. I need to talk to someone. A professional someone.
My phone dings, pulling me away from my thoughts. I fish it out of my purse and look at the screen, heart jumping.
It’s Rudy, the thirty-four-year-old who has been adding to my growing to-be-read list for the past couple of weeks. He works part-time at his grandmother’s bookstore, and he’s just about the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.
Then again, I’m a hormonal, emotional wreck, and he happens to have a nice smile. I might be overstating his attractiveness.
I’ve gone to the bookstore twice since I arrived in Heart’s Cove last month, and both times left me hot and bothered as I trundled back to my car with an armload of new books. I’m fairly sure he’s been flirting, but…you know. Hormonal, emotional, et cetera. He could just be friendly.
How did he get my number?
I swipe to unlock my phone and read his message.
Rudy: Hey Lily. Rudy here. Got your number from Candice. We just got the newest Lee Child book in stock and I set one aside for you. I’ll be here until the end of the day if you wanted to grab it.
I’ve got my phone in one hand, and Dr. Gardner’s card in the other. I glance at both hands, eyes shifting from one to the other. It would be easy to dial the number on the card and make an appointment. Maybe it would be easier to talk to a stranger about everything that’s going on.
