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“No, no, Mom. Don’t stop there. That what, exactly?” I ask, my swollen sandpaper-dry eyes narrowing.
Mom’s shoulders slump. “That man who’s gone. Please, Dani. I know you loved him, but you can’t let yourself wither away like this, not over someone you barely knew.”
“Barely knew?” I hiss. “You know nothing about me and that man.” I can’t bring myself to say his name. I choke every time I try.
“Dani, he wouldn’t want this, would he?” Dad asks gently, resting his hand on my knee.
I drop my eyes to my lap. No. He wouldn’t. He would want me to keep living. I know that much. But how do I live without Efrem?
“Let us get you the help you need,” Dad presses, his blue eyes imploring.
After a long pause, I finally nod.
Getting dressed is a monumental task, even with my mom picking out my outfit and helping me into it. My hair’s a mess. I haven’t washed it in days, but all I do is run a comb through it, unwilling to go to the extra trouble when I’m confident I’ll just end up back in bed.
Then we’re in the car, and on the way to the hospital, me bundled up in blankets my mom insisted upon as I occupy the back seat.
Dad helps me out of the car, and after signing in, followed by an extended wait, I’m finally shown back to an exam room. The doctor is, in a word, pragmatic. He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries or dig into my mental state, which I’m grateful for.
He comes in, introduces himself as Dr. Hartley, runs through the questionnaire I was already forced to fill out, does a quick examination of my eyes, ears, and mouth, then explains that a nurse will be in to run some tests.
He’s gone in a flash, moseying on to his next patient, who I’m sure he cares just as little about. The nurse comes in a short time later. She’s warm and full of smiles, her sunny demeanor putting my lackluster one to shame. But I can’t bring myself to care.
Still, she chats happily to my parents and me as she takes my vitals, draws my blood, and performs several more preliminary tests that feel as though I simply came to be poked and prodded.
Interesting that not one person seems to notice my chest is where the true pain lies.
Then we wait, me reclining on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath me as I stare blankly at the ceiling. It’s another hour at least, and I’m starting to sink into a half-conscious stupor, my vision blurring as my eyelids droop, when the door swings open.
Dr. Hartley strides back in, his eyes on a clipboard before him, his brows furrowed as if something on the paper offends him. “Miss Richelieu. I hope you weren’t kept waiting too long,” he says congenitally. But nothing in his demeanor says he feels the least bit rushed.
“Is Dani alright?” Dad asks, scooting forward in his chair.
Dr. Hartley clears his throat, looking up from his papers for the first time to bounce his gaze between me and my parents. “May I have a moment alone with my patient?” he says more than asks.
I stare in blank surprise at his question.
“Whatever you have to say to Dani, you can say to us. We’re her parents,” Mom says, sounding rather indignant.
He glances in my direction, then back at my parents. “I’m afraid I must insist. Dani is more than welcome to share her medical information with you after.”
“Come, Molly,” Dad says, taking my mom’s arm and guiding her from the room.
Dr. Hartley waits until they go, his expression inscrutable. And despite the cold numbness that has consumed me utterly since I spoke to Pyotr, a tiny sliver of fear needles my belly.
“Miss Richelieu, in your paperwork, you established that you take oral contraception?” he asks.
“Yes,” I confirm, wondering if I’ve developed some sort of allergy to it. Maybe it’s given me an ulcer.
“I would recommend you stop taking it. Your blood work indicates you’re nearly seven weeks pregnant. While it won’t necessarily impact your body to keep taking it, you could cause issues for the baby.”
“Bab… Wait, what?”
Dr. Hartley levels a look at me that says he’s not about to repeat himself. “I can leave you with paperwork regarding your options. Do you know how you would like to handle your pregnancy? I assume you weren’t trying to get pregnant, as you’re on birth control, but perhaps you have thoughts on how you would like to proceed.”
I shake my head mutely, anxiety constricting my chest. I’m pregnant? How is that even possible? I mean, I know how it’s possible. Efrem and I certainly had enough sex. But how can this be happening to me now? What am I supposed to do?
“Do you have any questions for me, then, Miss Richelieu?”
