Chapter 29 #2
Silvia frowns. "What? Why?"
"Because you need to get to work,” I say, walking past her to the bedroom, moving in slow motion to keep the room from spinning. “And I… I need to run some blood tests. Just... a checkup. To be sure."
"To be sure of what?" Silvia follows me, looking confused.
I don't answer.
I can't say it out loud.
If I say it, and I'm wrong, it will break me.
But if I say it, and I'm right...
* * *
The coffee shop across the street from the clinic smells like roasted beans and cookies. I sit at a small table near the window, staring at a cup of herbal tea I haven't touched. I keep my hand clasped round the cup to stop them from shaking.
Don’t do this, I tell myself, pressing a hand to my churning stomach. Don’t build a castle just to watch it crumble.
I look at the ocean in the distance, trying to find the peace I felt in the canyon, but my mind keeps replaying the words of the specialist from five years ago.
Scar tissue. Hostile environment. The chances of natural conception are close to zero.
"Close to zero" isn't zero I dare to hope. But it’s a cruelty to hope for the decimal point.
I check my watch. Almost 10:00 a.m. They said they’ll have the results from the lab around ten.
I take a sip of tea, forcing it down.
I’m here to prove myself wrong and that specialist right. I’m here to get a prescription for whatever meds and a lecture about stress management so I can go back to the equilibrium I just found in my life.
That’s the plan.
My phone buzzes. I smile. A poem from Dorian is exactly what I need now. It usually comes in the morning, and I’ve become addicted to the small anchor it provides.
But it’s not a text. It’s a call from the clinic receptionist.
"Ms. Toma? Dr. Bristol is ready to see you now."
* * *
I sit on the edge of the paper-covered table, my hands gripping the edge so hard my knuckles are white as Dr. Bristol walks in.
She’s a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a tablet in her hand. She doesn’t look worried. She looks... bright.
"Well, Della," she says, closing the door. "We have your blood work back."
My heart hammers against my ribs.
"Is it... am I sick? Is it a virus?"
She smiles, a genuine, crinkling of her eyes. "You're definitely not sick. In fact, your levels look very strong."
I blink, the room tilting slightly.
"I don't understand."
She steps closer, resting a hand on my arm.
"Della, your HCG levels are high. You're pregnant. I'd estimate about five or six weeks along."
The world stops. The air leaves the room. The sound of the ocean outside, the hum of the lights, my own heartbeat—it all goes silent.
"That’s..." I whisper. “I… I was told... I couldn't."
"Medicine is a science, not a prophecy," Dr. Bristol says softly. "And sometimes, the body heals in ways we don't expect. Stress, time, hormonal shifts... or maybe just the right moment."
The right moment.
My mind flashes back. Lake Geneva. The lake, the stars outside, the ruby, the fire inside. The way we clung to each other, desperate and raw, trying to bridge the gap of five years in a single night. The math is perfect. The dates align with terrifying precision.
"We need to do an ultrasound to be sure of the dating and check for viability," she says, moving toward the machine. "But the blood test is definitive. You are pregnant."
I lie back, numb, as she applies the warm gel. I stare at the ceiling tiles, afraid to breathe.
Don’t hope. Not yet.
The screen flickers to life, showing a dark void with a tiny, white sac inside.
"We don't have sound yet," Dr. Bristol says, adjusting the probe, "but watch the center of the gestational sac."
And then, I see it.
A tiny, insistent flicker, like a grain of rice pulsing in the darkness. It’s a rhythmic, relentless spark of light. I can see it.
"There," the Doctor says, pointing to the screen. "That’s your baby."
The dam breaks. A sob rips from my chest, raw and violent.
My hands fly to my face, covering my mouth as the tears come—hot, fast, uncontrollable.
"Is this real?" I choke out.
"It's very real," she laughs softly, handing me a tissue. "Congratulations, Della."
* * *
I walk out of the clinic and into the blinding San Diego sun, toward the boardwalk, dazed, my hand resting protectively over my flat stomach.
A secret. A miracle.
A baby. Our baby.
I stop near a low wall overlooking the restless waves. I close my eyes, picturing Dorian. I see his dark eyes, usually so guarded, softening when I tell him. I imagine the look on his face—the shock, and then... the awe.
"You’d be a wonderful father, Dorian," I remember telling him that night in the park, watching him smile in the dim light beneath the oak trees.
Now, I will get to say it again. And this time, it’s not just a dream. It’s real.
Happy, ridiculous joyful tears run down my cheeks into the salty breeze. I pull out my phone. I can't text this. I need to hear his voice. I need to tell him to come get me, that I’m ready to come home, that… I have news.
Just as my thumb hovers over his name, the screen lights up. Incoming call. Flor.
I smile, wiping my eyes.
"Flor!" I answer, my voice thick with joy.
"Della." Her voice stops me cold. It sounds like she’s been crying.
The smile slides off my face.
"Flor? What is it? What's wrong?"
A sob comes through the line, harsh and terrified.
"Della, you need to come back. Now. David is sending a jet."
My hand tightens on the phone until my fingers ache. My other hand presses harder against my stomach, an instinctive shield.
"Why?" I whisper, though I already know. I can feel the ice spreading through my veins, freezing the miracle, I just found.
"It's Dorian," her voice shattering. "It’s bad, Della. He’s been shot."
One last salty tear of joy sunk forever in the sand.