Page 65 of His Vivacious Angel
“That so?” Miranda asks, the corners of her eyes crinkling with mirth.
“Yup,” Josephine says, bouncing in her seat. “Daddy fucked up.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, cutting off the impulse to chide her, while the ladies guffaw. “But he’s gonna fix it.”
“How?” Shayla asks when she lifts her frozen margarita glass and clinks it against Eden’s and Miranda’s tocheerswhile Bailey takes a sip from her non-alcoholic version.
Josephine taps the keyboard to begin the presentation.
“Step One,” I say, folding my hands together as if I’m cool, calm, and collected on the inside, when I’m anything but. “Win your approval and help.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Autumn
On the Tuesday leading up to Thanksgiving break, I wait for my name to be called at the doctor’s office. I can no longer grin and bear the worry that’s been gnawing at my gut. No amount of googling or going down dark rabbit holes on Reddit has assuaged it, and I’m only driving myself crazier, convinced of the worst. Since I moved back into our shared office, I’ve been insistent that the door remain open, though I needn’t have. The man who told me he was going to prove himself no longer reaches for me, pleading with me to talk to him. He is the utmost professional at work, having only slipped a handful of times by calling me “angel,” wincing each time.
So much for him being “a wreck” and having changed his mind.
It pisses me off almost as much as it hurts.
I’ve finally decided to see a doctor for real answers, taking a long lunch break after being lucky enough to get this appointment right before most offices shut down for the holiday. Since I’m still on my parents’ health insurance plan, I’vepicked a new private practice and have checked in as a “self-pay” patient. No need to stress my dad with a surprise Explanation of Benefits letter in the mail if this turns out to be nothing.
The door to the right of the busy, brightly lit waiting room opens, and a nurse in pink scrubs to match her pink hair reads from her clipboard. “Ms. Fisker?”
“Fischer,” I correct when I stand, weaving my way around a trio of kids playing at a DUPLO blocks table as they wait for their parents to be called.
“Fischer,” she repeats with an apologetic smile, opening the door wider to let me through. “Second door on the left.”
I follow her into the small, crowded room, where she takes my height, weight, and blood pressure, then asks me a few questions to add to my new patient file.
“So, what brings you in today?”
My stomach caves in when I answer, “I need a pregnancy test.”
“Have you already taken one at home?”
“Yes.” Three, to be exact, having bought each at the corner pharmacy on my way to work. I used their public restroom so there wouldn’t be a chance of the tests being spotted in the trash by my mom at home, or by a coworker at the firm.
“So this is just to confirm?”
The answer is the very reason I’m here today. I take a steadying breath as I keep my tears at bay. “Yes, but I had some bleeding.” Worry about the most dangerous explanation for the blood and positive test—an ectopic pregnancy—makes my heart race with fear. If that’s the case, then I have a ticking time bomb inside my body with devastating results.
“Oh,” the nurse says, pausing her typing on the laptop before she schools her features and asks me follow-up questions pertaining to the color, consistency, and frequency of my bleeding.
I use the restroom, leaving my cup of urine in the drawer with my name written in permanent marker, as instructed, then follow the nurse into an examination room to wait to be seen by the OBGYN. Carefully folding my blouse and skirt to hide my underwear between them, I kick off my heels and dress down in the paper gown the nurse provided. My skin pebbles with goosebumps when I sit on the edge of the padded examination table, loosely wrapping my arms around my stomach. I stare blankly at the empty chair where a supportive partner would normally sit close by, and hardly blink as my vision turns hazy with anxiety.
A knock at the door startles me, and I sit up straighter when an older woman enters the room. Dr. Bautista’s jet-black hair is streaked with glittering silver strands and pulled back in an effortless chignon. “Hello, Ms. Fischer,” she says, shaking my hand, exchanging small talk to get to know each other slightly before proceeding. Wearing a neutral expression, her dark brown eyes are reserved, and her tone is calm and even when she delivers the news: “The results of your test were positive for pregnancy.”
I can’t breathe, even though I expected as such, and I clutch the sides of my gown tighter around my torso.
“Though you had some spotting,” she says, “since you haven’t had any cramping, it’s likely you experienced what is called ‘implantation bleeding’. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes.” It was one of the rabbit holes I went down when I didn’t experience my normal cycle after the initial bleeding. At first, I thought maybe Foresthadbeen too rough with me, though I was never in any pain. But then, the longer I went without getting a full period, the more nervous I became.
Taking a seat on a padded stool and rolling it closer, Dr. Bautista says, “The next step would be to perform an ultrasound to fully rule out ectopic pregnancy, which we can do now.” She hesitates for a moment, studying my tense bodylanguage closely, before she says, “If it’s not ectopic, and this is not a desired pregnancy, there are other options we can discuss.” She waits a beat before continuing. “One such option would require traveling outside of Texas, given the date of your last menstrual cycle and the new laws.” She’s speaking of abortion, which is now all but outlawed in Texas, especially since my pregnancy has passed the six-week mark.
Deeply appreciative of the nonjudgmental and sensitive way she’s approached the conversation, I tell her softly, “I don’t need to discuss options.”
Her neutral expression remains in place when she nods, and I stuff my panic down, contemplating just how much my life is about to change.
