7. A Viable Angle
Chapter seven
A Viable Angle
The high-end fertility clinic smelled of expensive antiseptic and rubbing alcohol.
Overhead, a row of fluorescent tubes emitted a constant, low drone.
I sat in the corner of the small exam room, forced into a rigid plastic visitor’s chair.
The stiff material dug into my spine, offering zero support for my aching back.
Marcus maneuvered his bulky camera tripod past the steel examination table, trying to find a viable angle in the claustrophobic space.
“I need to wedge this right up against the sink basin,” Marcus said, dragging the rubber feet of the tripod across the linoleum. “Try not to swing your legs out too far, or you’ll kick the stand.”
Naomi perched on the edge of the examination bed, a premium paper gown draped over her shoulders.
The abrasive material crinkled every time she shifted her weight.
She ignored Marcus’s instructions, pulling her cell phone from her purse instead.
She held it up, using the blank screen’s reflection to check her blonde hair.
She smoothed down a flyaway strand near her temple. Her diagnosis was genuine, but watching her twist that grief into a calculated performance made my stomach turn.
“Marcus, make sure you don’t catch me from a low angle,” Naomi commanded, dropping her phone back into her bag. “The lighting in here is doing absolutely no favors for my skin.”
She flattened the paper edges of her gown, preparing to play the tragic, hopeful mother-in-waiting.
I released my tight grip on the plastic armrests.
She wants the world to pity her empty womb.
She wants them to cry for her, right up until the moment she kills me and takes my child to cure her own grief.
I lifted my hands and placed them flat against the curve of my stomach, trying to shield my baby from the woman across the room.
Marcus leaned over the viewfinder, twisting the lens focus ring. “I’ve got the aperture stopped down to cut the glare. Just look naturally toward the door when the nurse comes in, and pretend I’m not here.”
Naomi took a shallow breath, hunching her shoulders slightly to make herself look small and sympathetic. The red recording light blinked to life.
I forced a warm, encouraging smile onto my face, staring into the eyes of the woman plotting my murder.
“You look beautiful, Naomi,” I said. “Just take a deep breath. We’re going to capture exactly how strong you are.”
The heavy wooden door swung inward, dragging a draft of frigid air into the stifling room. A clinic nurse walked in pushing a vitals cart, carrying a digital tablet under one arm. Marcus gripped the panning handle of his tripod, tracking her entrance with the camera lens.
“Good morning, Ms. Mercer,” the nurse said, stepping up to the edge of the steel table. “Go ahead and extend your left arm for me.”
Naomi complied, shifting the paper gown to expose her upper arm.
The nurse wrapped the dark fabric around it.
The Velcro fastener crunched into place, the harsh noise echoing against the sterile walls.
The machine hummed to life on the rolling cart, pumping air into the cuff.
The material expanded, compressing her skin.
While the machine took its reading, the nurse lifted a digital thermometer and brought it toward Naomi’s forehead. A faint beep signaled the temperature. The nurse tapped the screen of her tablet, reviewing the vitals.
“Your blood pressure is perfect today, Ms. Mercer,” the nurse said, hooking the deflated cuff back onto the cart. “Dr. Evans will be in shortly to review your chart and discuss the options for your next cycle. How are you holding up?”
The nurse spoke with genuine, professional warmth.
She had no idea she was serving as an unwitting extra in a documentary.
Recognizing the opening, Naomi adjusted her posture.
Her shoulders slumped just a fraction of an inch to look utterly defeated, and her face fell into a perfect picture of brave, wounded hope, ensuring the camera caught the subtle downturn of her lips.
“I’m just trying to stay positive,” Naomi said, her voice dropping into a fragile tremble. “It’s been such a long, exhausting road, but I know it will all be worth it when I finally get to hold my baby.”
I slid my hands away from the curve of my stomach. My fingers found the hem of my wool cardigan. I rubbed the fibers between my thumb and index finger, twisting the fabric together.
I stared at the side of Naomi’s face. She is manipulating this woman without a second thought. She weaponizes the empathy of strangers. She’s probably been doing this our entire lives, and I was just too blind to see the predator hiding behind the tears.
The nurse smiled, placing a comforting hand over Naomi’s knee, oblivious to the monster sitting in front of her.
“That’s the right attitude to have,” she said. “We are going to do everything we can to make it happen for you this round.”
She gave Naomi a polite nod and stepped out.
The solid wooden door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the chill from the hallway.
The room immediately felt dimmer without the spill of light from the corridor.
Marcus straightened up behind his tripod.
His fingers dialed the iris ring on the lens, adjusting the aperture to compensate.
“Hold your mark for a second, Naomi,” Marcus said. “Let me dial the exposure back up now that the door is shut.”
Naomi didn’t blink. She remained on the edge of the steel examination table. The sharp rustle of her gown filled the sterile quiet of the room as she adjusted her posture. She waited for the lens to acclimate to the new shadows.
Once Marcus gave her a subtle nod, Naomi slid off the edge of the metal table.
She walked across the cramped space toward the wall-mounted tissue dispenser.
She reached up and pulled a single tissue from the plastic slot.
The soft rustle of the paper was the only sound over the low hum of the fluorescent ceiling tubes.
She folded the square into a precise triangle. Turning to face the sink, she brought the pointed edge to the corner of her right eye. She carefully dabbed at the skin, faking the swipe of a tear without smudging her expensive mascara. Dropping her hand, she looked into the camera lens.
“There are days when the grief is just so heavy, you know?” Naomi said, her voice wavering with a practiced tremor. “When you look around and everyone else has the one thing you are denied.”
You are denied nothing. The audacity of her performance repulsed me. I pressed my palms flat against the hard armrests of the visitor’s chair, using the unyielding plastic to keep myself from recoiling. The rough edges ground against my skin.
I had watched her weep for a dozen different slights over the years. I used to believe every single one of those tears.
Marcus tracked her movement, keeping her centered in the frame. Once she stopped, he leaned away from the viewfinder.
“And how has Juniper helped you navigate that grief during this process?” Marcus asked.
Naomi lowered the folded tissue. She turned her head, shifting her gaze away from the lens. She locked her eyes onto mine, forcing a fragile, wounded smile to her lips.
“She’s my rock,” Naomi said. “Seeing her pregnant gives me so much hope. She reminds me that miracles are possible, and she never lets me give up on my dream of a family.”
Her eyes darted downward for a fraction of a second. They fixed on the curve of my stomach before snapping back up to my face. I saw the truth in that brief flash. The fake sorrow vanished, leaving her eyes wide with a raw, festering hunger.
Why do you get everything, when I get nothing?
She didn’t want a miracle. She wanted my child. She believed my baby belonged to her, a cure for her own medical failure, and she was willing to orchestrate my funeral to claim the prize.
Looking past the fake tears, I finally saw the bitter jealousy in her stare.
Naomi crossed the short distance between us. Her fingers clamped around my wrist. She yanked my arm, pulling me forward and out of the rigid plastic chair. I yielded to the momentum, letting her guide me into the center of the room.
“Step into the light, Juniper,” Marcus said. “Let’s get both of you centered in the shot.”
Marcus pivoted the camera rig, keeping the lens trained on us. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Naomi. The heat trapped in the small examination room was stifling. Sweat beaded along my hairline. Naomi’s palm was clammy against my skin.
I wanted to yank my wrist out of her grasp and walk out the door. Instead, I lifted my free hand and settled it over her shoulder. I shifted my stance, sliding my trapped hand down to wrap my fingers around hers. I pressed my thumb against her knuckles.
Keep smiling. I focused all my attention on the feeling of my thumb tracing small, soothing circles against her skin. It was a necessary lie to ensure my baby stayed safe.
“You are the strongest person I know, Naomi,” I said. “You have fought so hard for this, and you deserve a beautiful child more than anyone.”
Naomi leaned into my touch. She rested her head against my shoulder, faking the need for comfort.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Junie,” Naomi said, lowering her voice to a soft, breathy whisper. “I really don’t.”
I squeezed her hand. I stared straight ahead beside the woman planning my death.
“You’ll never have to find out,” I said. “I’m going to be right here with you, every single step of the way.”
Someone rapped three times against the solid wood of the exam room door.
I startled at the sudden noise, grateful for the distraction.
It pushed open, and a rush of sterile, cool air washed over my face.
The attending doctor stepped into the space, navigating his way around Marcus and the tripod.
His rubber soles squeaked loudly against the polished linoleum as he crossed the room.
“Good morning, Ms. Mercer,” the doctor said. He held an electronic tablet against his white coat. “If we’re ready, we can go over the protocol and chart the new hormone injections.”
I let out a breath the second he walked into the room.
The sheer strain of consoling this woman drained my energy.
I stood under the oppressive heat of the camera rig, smiling at a monster.
She wanted to steal my baby, and I had to pretend I wanted her to have a child of her own.
My jaw ached from holding the serene expression.
I forced myself to trace one final gentle circle over Naomi’s knuckles.
Her skin felt damp and wrong against mine, and it took everything I had not to flinch.
I gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze before slipping my trapped hand out of her grasp.
The sudden absence of her touch cleared my head.
I stepped back, placing my hands protectively over my pregnant stomach to shield it from her line of sight.
“I’ll let you two discuss the medical details in private,” I said. I kept my voice gentle and supportive for the microphone. “I’m going to step out to the hallway and grab a cup of water.”
Naomi adjusted the crinkling paper gown over her shoulders. She looked up at me, angling a practiced look of grief perfectly for the lens.
“Thank you, Junie,” Naomi said. She let her voice fall into a soft tremor. “I’ll be out in just a few minutes.”
I turned my back on the unblinking red recording light.
Marcus shifted his stance behind the tripod, tracking Naomi as she readied herself for the camera.
I walked across the clinical room, fighting every urge I had to sprint for the exit.
My boots tapped a steady rhythm against the floor.
I reached the door and gripped the cold metal handle.
I pulled it open and slipped into the empty corridor.
I eased the heavy wood shut behind me, putting a solid wall between my baby and the woman inside.
The metal latch caught with a loud click, finally leaving me alone.
The abrupt release of tension left a faint ringing in my ears.
I welcomed the unmonitored quiet of the hallway.
With the door secured, the exhaustion caught up to me.
My legs shook. I backed up, pressing my spine flush against the hallway wall.
I let the solid surface take my weight, trying to keep my knees from buckling entirely.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I drew in a long, shaky breath, desperate to ignore how my skin still crawled where she had touched me.