Chapter 34 Quinn #2
Her eyebrows lift slightly. She types something else.
"Bowel movements normal?"
"Yes."
"Urination?"
"More frequent, actually, because I am drinking more water."
"Any fever? Chills?"
"No."
She sets the tablet on the counter and pulls her stethoscope from around her neck. The metal is cold against my back as she listens.
"Deep breath."
I breathe.
"Again."
I breathe again.
She moves to my front, pressing the stethoscope to my chest. Her face remains neutral, giving nothing away. After a moment, she steps back.
"I'm going to palpate your abdomen. Let me know if anything hurts."
I lie back on the table. Her hands press gently against my lower stomach, moving in a slow pattern. The pressure is uncomfortable but not painful.
"Any tenderness here?"
"A little."
She makes a small sound of acknowledgment and helps me sit up.
"When was your last menstrual cycle?"
The question lands plainly. Clinically. I open my mouth to answer, and then I stop.
When was it?
I think back. The investigation was consuming everything. The nights with Keller. The breakup. Work. I track the weeks in my head, counting backward from today.
"Gosh, I don't even know. My periods are so light. Maybe six or seven weeks ago." The words come out steady.
Dr. Nevins's expression doesn't change. She picks up her tablet again.
"Are your cycles usually regular?"
"Stress throws them off, but I guess for the most part."
"Are you sexually active?"
I used to be.
"Yes."
"Birth control?"
"IUD."
She nods, typing. "IUDs are highly effective, but no method is perfect. Given your symptoms, I'd like to run some standard bloodwork and have you provide a urine sample. We'll check for infection, thyroid function, and a few other things. Then we can decide if we should do some imaging."
The phrase "a few other things" hangs in the air between us. I know what she is not saying directly. I don't have it in me to ask, so I go along.
"Okay."
"The lab is down the hall to the left. They'll draw blood first, then give you a cup for the sample. Results should be back within twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
I slide off the table. The paper crinkles one last time.
"Any questions?"
"Are you concerned? I mean, does this seem pretty routine, or—?"
"Let's get the test results back first, before we start jumping to conclusions. If anything changes, call the office. We will regroup after I see what we're looking like. Okay? Try not to worry."
Try not to worry. Sure. Have you met me?
I walk to the lab with my shoulders straight and my mind carefully blank.
It's been a full day since I went to see Dr. Nevins. My work day today was useless. Waiting for her call is the only thing I can think of. It's even been overshadowing my spiral over Keller.
The parking garage sits nearly empty at this hour.
Concrete pillars stretch toward the low ceiling, their shadows long under the fluorescent strips that hum overhead.
My car occupies a corner spot on the third level, far from the elevator bank where the last few employees trickle out toward their own vehicles.
I sit behind the wheel with the engine off. The silence presses against my ears.
My phone vibrates against the center console. The screen lights up with an unfamiliar number, but the area code matches the medical complex.
I answer on the second ring.
"Ms. Mercer?"
"Yes."
"This is Sarah from Dr. Nevins's office. I'm calling with your lab results."
"Okay."
Papers shuffle on the other end. The sound is small and distant, filtered through the phone's speaker.
"Your bloodwork came back within normal ranges. No signs of infection or inflammation. Thyroid function looks good. White cell count is normal."
I breathe. Thank you, Jesus.
"Great."
The long tube light above my car flickers once, then steadies.
"One additional result." The nurse's voice remains even, almost casual. "Your pregnancy test came back positive."
The words land somewhere outside my body. I hear them. I understand what they mean individually. But they refuse to assemble into anything coherent.
"Ms. Mercer?"
"Yes. I'm here."
"Do you have any questions?"
"No."
"Dr. Nevins would like to schedule a follow-up appointment to discuss next steps and confirm gestational age with an ultrasound. Would sometime next week work for you?"
"Yes. That's fine."
"I'll transfer you to scheduling. Hold, please."
Music fills the line. It might as well be nails on a chalkboard.
I set the phone down on my thigh without disconnecting. The tinny hold music continues. A woman's voice eventually replaces it, asking about my availability. I answer the questions and I confirm Thursday at ten. I say thank you and end the call.
The phone screen goes dark.
My hands rest on the steering wheel. Ten and two, like driving school taught me. My knuckles are pale against the black leather.
A car passes behind me, its headlights sweeping across my rearview mirror before disappearing down the ramp. The garage returns to stillness.
Positive.
My breathing stays even. The air inside the car closes in on me as I think I'm going into shock.
The world has not changed. The concrete walls remain solid. The fluorescent lights continue their low hum. Somewhere below, an engine starts and fades as another person leaves for the night.
But everything is different now.
There is a line. Before the phone call and after the phone call. I sit on the border between them, suspended in a moment that refuses to move forward.