Chapter 9 - The Paper Gown Was Cold Against My Back
The car smelled like peppermint and old leather. She drove with both hands at ten and two, the way people who learned a long time ago still did, and she didn't turn on the radio. I watched the strip malls go by on Route 9, the diner with its neon still on at ten in the morning, a church parking lot half empty.
"You didn't have to come in with me," I said.
She glanced over, then back at the road. "I'm coming in."
I rested my hand low on my belly. The baby had been quiet since last night, or maybe I had just been too wired to notice movement. That scared me more than I wanted to admit. I kept my coat pulled closed over the sweater I'd slept in.
The clinic was in a low brick building next to a dentist's office. Inside, it was too bright, the air humming with air conditioning. A nurse at the front desk handed me a clipboard. I filled in the date without thinking, then had to cross it out and write it again.
In the waiting room, a toddler played with plastic blocks while his mother scrolled on her phone. I tried to breathe the way I'd practiced in the ballroom bathroom, in through my nose, out slow. My hands were shaking. She reached over and put her hand over mine, just for a second, and didn't say anything.
"Emily?" the nurse called, and I stood too fast and felt lightheaded.
She stood with me. "You want me —"
"Please," I said. It came out smaller than I meant.
The exam room was narrow with a poster of fetal development on the wall and a paper-covered table. The nurse took my blood pressure twice, frowning a little the second time. "Been stressed lately?" she asked, not unkindly.
I nodded. My gown gaped at the shoulder and I kept pulling it closed.
Dr. Patel came in with my chart on a tablet. She was younger than I'd expected, hair pulled back, quick eyes. She asked about sleep, headaches, swelling, movement. I answered honestly because lying there felt stupid.
"Can we check the heartbeat?" I asked. "I've been... I haven't felt much this morning."
"Of course," she said. She warmed the gel between her hands first. That small kindness almost made me cry.
The sound filled the room, fast and steady, like a horse galloping far off. My shoulders dropped. She smiled at me. "There. Strong."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Behind the curtain, I heard her chair creak as she leaned forward.
"Your pressure's up a little," Dr. Patel said, pulling the paper sheet back down. "No protein in your urine, which is good. No signs I need to send you to triage. But at thirty-one weeks, with this level of tension and lack of sleep, your body is telling you something."
"What do I do?" I asked.
"Rest. Real rest. Feet up, fluids, no marathon days. Cut your stress where you can. No heavy lifting, no long standing. If you get a headache that won't quit, vision changes, less movement, you call us right away. Otherwise I want to see you back in one week instead of two."
She looked at me directly. "I know it's easier said than done. But stress isn't just in your head when you're pregnant. It lives in your blood pressure. It lives in your sleep."
In the car afterward, I sat with the discharge papers folded in my lap. Rest. Hydrate. Follow up in seven days. The words were plain and that made them feel heavier.
She started the engine but didn't pull out of the parking space. "What do you want to do about Mason?"
I stared at the dentist's sign blinking next door. My phone had three texts from him. Can we talk tonight? I can come by after work. Let me know you're okay. Polite. Careful. The same tone he'd used at the gala when he thought people were listening.
"I can't do another late-night talk," I said. "I don't sleep after. My chest gets tight and then I spend all next day trying to calm down."
"So tell him that," she said.
I typed it slow, thumbs clumsy on the screen. I need rest this week per doctor. Blood pressure up. No late visits, no long talks. I'll check in by text. Please respect that. I showed it to her before I hit send.
She nodded once. "Good. Clear."
He wrote back within a minute. Understood. I'm sorry about the stress. I'll respect whatever you need. I stared at the words until they blurred. Part of me wanted him to fight it, and part of me was grateful he didn't.
May you like
"Let's go home," I said. "I want to lie down."
She backed out of the spot, both hands steady on the wheel. The baby moved then, a small roll under my ribs, and I put my hand there and kept it there all the way down Route 9.
