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“… you understand, Ms. Turner?” Dr. Saeder finishes. “Ms. Turner?”
I sigh and open my eyes again. There are three of him in my field of vision, blurred and split up by the unshed tears. When I blink, they coalesce back into one.
And at the sight of him, I get mad.
I don’t get mad often. For all that Rose was the princess of us two Turner girls, she was also the one more likely to melt down into a temper tantrum. And when she did, it was fierce.
“Hurricane Rosie,” my mom used to call it. “The forecast is rain and thunder—lots of it.”
Sure enough, she’d cry and scream like a storm cooked up by the devil himself. Hands pounding the ground, cheeks red and wet, the whole nine yards. She’d let her rage out like that—and when it was gone, it was like it had never even happened. She’d just smile again and go right back to her dolls.
Me, though… I turned my storms inwards. I kept ‘em close and buried ‘em deep. It felt safer that way.
But Hurricane Rosie isn’t ever coming back, is she? And after a lifetime of keeping the hatch closed on my own thunderstorms, I figure I’ve earned the right to let out a clap of lightning or two.
“What I understand, Dr. Saeder, is that you and your staff have made an incredibly serious mistake that is about to change the course of my life irreversibly,” I grit out, my voice wobbling dangerously.
Dr. Saeder’s eyes open wide and he scoots back a bit on his wheely stool like he wants to stay out of arm’s reach. Not a bad idea, honestly. There’s no telling what I might do next. “Now, Ms. Turner, I think ‘irreversibly’ is a bit of a strong word. There is always the option of ab?—”
“Don’t.”
He freezes and the words die on his tongue. The only sound in the room is the irritating fluorescents—my God, I wish they’d just shut up already!—and the sound of his gulp.
“Don’t you dare suggest I get rid of this baby,” I continue. I jab a finger in his direction. “My sister is gone. I buried her, Dr. Saeder. She and her husband are ashes six feet under the ground right now—and you want me to get rid of the only piece of them I have left? You want me to put this baby there, too? I. Don’t. Fucking. Think. So.”
He gulps again. His throat is so scrawny that I can see every inch of the motion. “V-very well, Ms. Turner. I only meant to explain your opt?—”
I hold up a hand and he stops talking once again. My head suddenly hurts so, so badly. And the fluorescent lights just will not stop. “There are no options, okay? I’m having this baby. I just—fuck, my head is pounding—I just want to know one thing. One thing, okay? And you’re going to answer me—because if you don’t, I’m going to leave this clinic and I’m going to go straight to a lawyer’s office and I’m going to drop a lawsuit on your head so heavy that your great-great-great-great-grandchildren will feel the weight of it crushing them flat. Are you ready for the question? Nod if you understand.”
I feel drunk. I feel high. I feel asleep. I feel insane.
Dr. Saeder nods.
“Wonderful. Tell me this: Whose. Baby. Am. I. Carrying?”
He gulps one last time. “I’m afraid you are not going to like this answer, Ms. Turner.”
2
WREN
I go back to work shaking and nauseous. Despite me subjecting him to my modern-day Spanish Inquisition, Dr. Saeder stood his ground on refusing to divulge the name of the donor whose sperm is currently fertilizing an egg inside my body.
He did, however, agree to communicate an invitation to the man in question to meet me at 5:00 P.M. tonight at Lifelines Bistro, a local bar just down the street from the Egorov Industries skyscraper where I work.
No promises on if the guy will agree—but a girl can dream of actually meeting her own baby daddy, right?
… she said sarcastically.
Jennae at the front desk lets me in with a dazzling smile, just like always. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to return it and swipe my badge at the turnstile. The elevator ride up, clustered with men in suits wearing too much cologne or not enough at all, doesn’t do my stomach any favors.
When the doors open on the twenty-seventh floor, they deposit me into the offices of Egorov Industries. In case any visitors are ever uncertain where they are, there’s a sign over the receptionist area that has EGOROV in absolutely massive letters.
That’s par for the course.
Because the man who lent his name to this company has an ego to match.
Right on cue, when I reach my desk, the door to his office opens… and Dmitri Egorov emerges.
