16. Winnie
WINNIE
Knox waited at the far end of the prenatal-clinic corridor. He had arrived before me and chosen a chair angled away from the reception desk. No assistant stood nearby. No driver waited at the door.
I had invited him because access was mine to grant, not because obedience earned a reward.
He had removed Tabitha’s access, issued the family correction, and followed the amended limits for nearly two weeks.
The throne counted against him; taking it down without another plea kept that failure from becoming a new argument.
I still wanted him to hear the heartbeat.
Written conditions let me choose that without reopening every door.
I checked in under my own name and completed the privacy form.
Dr. Verrall’s receptionist confirmed Gilda remained my authorized medical contact.
I gave her the topics Knox could hear that day: general progress, the heartbeat, and routine screening already completed.
No dates, records, portal access, or future plans. Only then did I text Knox.
You may come to reception.
He approached in a dark coat with both hands visible. “May I sit here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He took the chair beside mine without moving it closer. A woman across from us bounced a sleeping toddler against her shoulder. The television played a home-renovation show with captions.
“How are you feeling?” Knox asked.
“That is outside the permission.”
“Understood.” I had wanted him to ask. I had also needed him to accept that my answer could be no. A nurse called, “Winnie Ames?”
I stood. Knox remained seated.
“You may come to the hall,” I said.
The nurse directed him toward the family-information tablet.
“You can create a new companion account there if the patient gives written authorization,” she said.
Knox folded his hands in his lap. “Only if Winnie authorizes it.”
“The patient can revoke it later, but the account cannot begin without her approval.”
“Then she can choose it later.”
I asked the nurse to note that no companion portal was permitted. The exchange took less than a minute. It closed a digital door Knox once would have called practical.
I followed the nurse into the restroom, gave the required sample, and stared at my pale face beneath fluorescent light. I wanted the visit to be tender. I also needed every staff member to understand that marriage did not equal consent.
He followed two steps behind. At the exam-room door, he stopped.
“May I enter?”
“Yes.”
The room smelled of paper and disinfectant. A fetal-development poster showed fruit-sized comparisons along one wall. I climbed onto the table while Knox took the visitor chair. The nurse checked my blood pressure and weight. Every question came to me.
“Any bleeding or severe pain?”
“No.”
“Nausea improving?”
“Somewhat. Salmon remains my enemy.”
The nurse smiled. Knox let it stand without adding the story about the dinner I once abandoned because he ordered salmon during our first month of trying.
“Support person?” she asked, indicating him.
“The baby’s father. Limited permission for today.”
She entered that wording into the chart. Knox looked at me before looking toward the computer. “May I see the general measurements if Dr. Verrall shows them?”
“You may look at the screen only when I say.”
“Thank you.”
Dr. Verrall entered with my chart and greeted us separately. She reviewed the routine results with me. Everything remained reassuring.
“We can listen with the Doppler today,” she said. “Would you like that?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward Knox. “And would you like your support person present?” Knox waited.
“He may hear it.”
Dr. Verrall lowered the lights and placed gel on my abdomen. The curve beneath my sweater was visible to me because I knew my body. Knox stared at the floor.
“You may look,” I said.
His gaze lifted. He left his phone in his coat. The Doppler found a rushing pulse, lost it, then caught the fast steady rhythm. Knox’s eyes closed. His mouth trembled once.
The heartbeat filled the room. I still could not feel the baby move, yet the sound was clear and fast. My fingers curled into the paper beneath me. I remembered the first heartbeat and Knox’s tear on my knuckle so vividly that my chest hurt.
I let the memory hurt without turning toward him.
Thirteen weeks of a life we had wanted for three years filled the room.
Dr. Verrall checked the rate and smiled. “Exactly where it should be.”
Knox opened his eyes. “May I ask one medical question?”
“Ask me first,” I said.
He nodded. “May I ask whether everything is proceeding normally?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Verrall answered with the facts I had approved.
No new concern. Routine follow-up. She did not provide dates or portal access.
She discussed optional screening results already in my chart.
Knox waited until I finished asking questions.
He watched me instead of the page when she turned it on the desk.
“Would you like to know anything else?” Dr. Verrall asked me.
“Can I continue normal clinic work?”
“Yes. Avoid lifting beyond your comfortable range and delegate unpredictable animals.”
Knox’s gaze moved toward me, then stopped. He had no authority to translate medical guidance into limits at my job.
“I already delegate,” I said.
The nurse offered water after the Doppler. Knox watched me twist the cap myself. I drank while the heartbeat gradually stopped echoing through the room.
When she wiped away the gel, Knox looked at my hand resting beside my hip.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
My body remembered his palm over mine at nine weeks. Wanting the touch did not make it safe.
“No.”
He lowered his gaze. “All right.”
The wanting in me did not disappear because he obeyed. It stayed hot and humiliating until Dr. Verrall offered me the printed visit summary and I had something else to hold.
I folded it into my purse.
“Would the father like a copy?” the nurse asked from the doorway.
Knox looked at me instead of answering.
“No copy,” I said.
“No copy,” he repeated.
The visit ended without a scan image. I dressed behind the curtain while Knox waited in the hall after asking permission to leave the room. At reception, he redirected the billing form to me and stood back while I scheduled the next visit privately. He did not ask for the date.
When I returned, he asked only whether I was ready to leave.
Outside, winter sunlight flashed on the parking-lot snow. My car stood three spaces from his.
“Thank you,” he said. “For letting me hear our baby.”
“You followed the conditions.”
“They were clear.”
“They were clear at Christmas too.”
“Yes,” he said. “They were.”
He walked to his car and pulled out first.
I sat behind my steering wheel and held the folded summary against my coat. The heartbeat remained in my ears. I wanted to call Knox back and tell him how afraid I had been before the first scan.
I called Gilda instead.
“Everything is normal,” I said.
“And him?”
“He asked every time.”
“How annoying of him to behave correctly.”
I laughed. “Extremely.”
“Did he ask about coming back?”
“No.”
“Did that disappoint you?”
I watched Knox’s car turn onto the main road. “A little.”
“That disappointment belongs to you. It does not require you to reward him.”
“You have become unbearable since inventing mugs.”
“I’m expanding into tote bags.”
I stayed in my car until the tenderness settled into something I could carry without obeying. At the clinic that afternoon, Lacey handed me the first draft of her maternity-coverage training list. My interim title appeared at the top of the page.
I corrected two vendor duties and added emergency-call authority.
The work steadied the part of me that wanted one good hour to erase four bad years.
Dr. Salazar joined me with the draft contract calendar.
Her attorney needed three weeks for the equity framework.
My interim salary and authority remained active during review.
“You seem distracted,” she said.
“Routine medical appointment.”
She waited without requesting details.
“Everything is fine,” I said because I chose to.
“Good. Lacey needs two training blocks before next Monday.”
We scheduled them. The storm reconciliation had also cleared that morning: each practice’s shared medication was settled at invoice cost, as agreed.
My pregnancy could exist at work without becoming public property or an argument against permanence. At five, Gilda sent a screenshot from the county events page.
The winter market had announced a two-hour extension for the following Monday evening.
Admission during the extension would be free through an unnamed sponsor.
Mr. Han’s dumpling stall would remain open, and two musicians from the old quartet would play with two current performers beneath the clock.
Below the notice, a vendor had posted a photograph of Knox standing there in my red knitted scarf. The image did not show or name me.