Page 56 of Boardroom Ties
No, I can’t do it. I want to, so badly, because the burden of this teensy little secret is actually killing me. But I can’t do it like this. This rinky-dink phone cannot contain the vast terror of the tiny bean in my belly.
I’ll do it this weekend. Once it’s done, I’ll tell him. I don’t know what’ll happen after that, but hey, that’s a problem for future Cass, right?
One thing at a time.
Murders first.
Babies second.
I lock the screen, unplug the phone, and tuck it back behind the hatbox. In bed, I lie on my back next to my husband and stare at the ceiling, my hands pressed flat between my hip bones.
Soon,I whisper, to the ceiling, to Matvei, and to the blueberry in my womb.Soon, soon, soon.
The OB I found runs a private practice on the Upper East Side. She’s discreet. Cash pay accepted. The receptionist on the phone has the velvet voice of someone who handles affairs, secrets, and women with reasons for keeping their business nameless.
Or at least, that’s what I was told. Now, though, the whole name thing seems to be a stumbling block.
“Eight A.M. tomorrow, Mrs.— I’m sorry, what was the last name?”
I almost saySnyder. The word is in my mouth, on the tip of my tongue, and halfway out before I swallow it and bury it deep in the shadowy recesses of my colon.
“Madden,” I say instead. “Cassandra Madden.”
That name has been retired for four years now, but it feels a bit like reclaiming the old me to say it out loud again.
“Got it. Eight A.M., Ms. Madden. Please bring a photo ID and a method of payment.” Just before I hang up, I hear her blurt:“Oh, and I forgot to ask: Would you like to add anyone else’s contact info to your appointment?”
“No. Just me.”
“Ms. Madden?”
I look up from the crossword puzzle I’m pretending to do to see a nurse waiting at the entryway to the exam rooms. I’m looking beyond ridiculous with big sunglasses and this ball cap pulled low over my face—TMZ is probably gonna assume I’m someone important and sell unflattering paparazzi shots of my cellulite-clad ass—but I couldn’t care less.
“That’s me.” I slouch toward her and follow her down a corridor that reeks of so much rubbing alcohol that I almost wonder if I’m singeing off my nose hairs. She leads me into a room with a paper-covered table and a computer screen on a swing arm.
“First visit?” she asks as we both get situated.
“Yes.”
“Any idea how far along?”
“Um… early. Like, three weeks since— um. Yeah. Early.”
“Okay. We’ll get a look and see what’s what. Pee in the cup first, if you could be so kind. Then strip from the waist down, drape the sheet over your lap, and Dr. Todd will be in shortly.”
I do as I’m told, then return to my seat on the crinkly paper. While I wait, I educate myself on all the variously importantnooks and crannies of the human uterus throughout the pregnancy journey. Lots to learn. Who’s excited? Not me.
Dr. Todd is fifty-something, gray-haired, brisk. She doesn’t ask about a husband. Her questions focus solely on my last period, my cycle, my history, my medications. She asks if I feel safe at home.
I know better than to answer that one honestly. “Who, me? Oh, yeah. Yep. Uh-huh. Of course.”
“Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got.” She nods toward a long, slim wand on the tray beside her, a thing that looks like it belongs at a sci-fi convention, not in my body. “It’s a little early for an abdominal scan, so we’ll be going transvaginal today. You’ll feel some pressure, but it shouldn’t hurt. Scoot down for me, heels in the stirrups.”
Lovely. I do as instructed and try not to panic.
The screen flickers to life. Dr. Todd watches it more than she watches me, her hand steady, her face neutral. “Okay. There’s your uterus. And… there we go. See that little dark circle? That’s your gestational sac.”
I follow her finger to a tiny, lopsided black blot, no bigger than a pencil eraser, suspended in a sea of grainy gray static.
