Page 55 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Did he think of a clue overnight? A lead he wanted to check before telling me? That’s not like him and yet … Well, he is still the acknowledged junior partner in this detective duo, and it is possible that if he had a wild theory, he might look into it before telling me.
I’m reading too much into this. If he’s gone, though, I have a chance to slip off to April’s without telling him that I need—again—to speak to my sister about my stomach troubles.
I take a few bites of toast, so it’ll look as if I made the effort. Then I put my tea into a thermos and head out. Even the toast has my stomach churning, but I try to ignore it. The fresh air helps, and I gulp it in as I take the forest route to the clinic.
I go up to the back door. April doesn’t like to lock it, and I’ve been asking her to. Now that we have someone in the forest, I definitely want that door kept locked, since it also leads to my sister’s quarters over the clinic.
I ease open the door as I glance at my watch. Still too early for me to interrupt her with a patient. Good, because I’d definitely catch shit for that.
I have the door halfway open when I hear her voice and stop. Early-morning appointment?
Then I catch the second voice.
Dalton.
That’s where he went.
Did he hurt himself this morning and didn’t want to worry me with it? Whatever the answer, any medical appointment—whether it’s with my husband or not—is private, and I start to beat a hasty retreat when a word stops me dead.
“—morning sickness,” Dalton is saying. “I don’t want to mention it to her. I know it’s a loaded subject with her medical issues, but this is the second morning she’s been sick. I think she’s late with her period, but again, I don’t want to ask. Can you bring it up? Get her to test before she has time to worry about it?”
“She’s had plenty of time to worry. She came to me for a test yesterday.”
My heart thuds, and I try to propel myself forward, to stop April before she says more, but I’m frozen in horror, guilt freezing my entire body.
“What?” Dalton says, and it’s a genuine question, as if April can’t be saying what she seems to be.
Again, I try to move. Again, it’s as if some power holds me there, forcing me to bear full witness to Dalton’s bewilderment.
Bear full witness to the consequences of my mistake.
“Casey came to me for a pregnancy test yesterday,” April repeats. “She should have done so as soon as her period was late, but of course she didn’t. Then she went running out of here with Kendra before she could take it.”
“I don’t think you should be telling me this, April,” Dalton says, his voice low.
He’s right, of course. She’s breaching patient confidentiality. But in this moment, she isn’t my doctor. She’s my big sister convinced that I have, once again, proven myself incapable of managing my own affairs. The screwup who needs April to come to my rescue.
I should be furious. Maybe I will be later. But right now, getting angry with April feels like an excuse to absolve myself of guilt, and I deserve every drop of it.
“Casey needs to take the test,” April says. “If it’s positive—as I’m certain it is—she needs to get down south to a proper gynecologist, because we don’t even know whether she can carry a baby to term.”
Silence. Complete silence from Dalton. Tears well in my eyes, but I still cannot move.
“You’re certain she’s pregnant.” His voice sounds hollow, and when I hear that, blood pounds in my ears.
“She missed a few days of her birth control when things were hectic. She confessed it to me, but she’d realized it too late to take a morning-after pill. So there was nothing to be done.”
“You knew she could be pregnant—”
“Missing a few days only reduces effectiveness, and she didn’t seem to be at the time of her cycle to conceive, if she was able to conceive at all. Which she should have known. She should have seen a gynecologist years ago, and if she wouldn’t, then you should have insisted. It was irresponsible of you—”
That’s what releases me. The moment blame shifts Dalton’s way, I’m through the door, saying, “No.”
April blinks at me. “You aren’t pregnant? Did you start your—?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” My voice is nearly a growl. “I mean ‘no’ to what you were saying.”
At first, I think I’ll have to explain it. I don’t. Whatever my sister’s idiosyncrasies, she’s no different than anyone else in sometimes saying things she doesn’t mean, and she flushes.
