Chapter 5
Urgent care smelled like cold plastic and coffee. Too bright. Too white. My shoes squeaked on linoleum when nurse called my name.
I didn't want to stand. My cheek throbbed. My neck felt hot where his hand had been. Baby pressed low and hard against my ribs and I kept one hand on belly without thinking.
Dad stood with Maya on his hip. She'd fallen asleep against his coat, yellow dress wrinkled, curls damp on her forehead.
"You got her?" I asked.
Dad nodded. "I got her. Go on. I'll be right here."
He sat in orange chairs by vending machine. Maya's head dropped to his shoulder. I watched them one second too long, then followed nurse down hall.
Exam room was small. Paper-covered table, sink, poster of handwashing steps, blood pressure cuff hanging on wall. Warm air hummed from vent. I sat on edge of table and swung legs. Flat shoes didn't reach floor.
Nurse was woman about forty, dark hair pulled back, soft voice. Name tag said Carla, RN.
"How far along?" she asked.
"Thirty-one weeks," I said.
"Any bleeding, fluid, contractions?"
"No. Just pressure. And pain here." I touched cheek. Then neck.
She didn't rush. She washed hands, pulled stool close, took blood pressure, checked pulse. Cuff squeezed. Machine beeped.
"Blood pressure a little high," she said. "Understandable. You had rough morning. Doctor will be in soon. I'm going to ask standard questions, okay?"
I nodded. My throat dry.
She charted on computer. Keyboard clicks fast.
"Any dizziness, headache, vision changes?"
"No."
"Any hits, pushes, grabs?"
Pause caught me. My breath shallow.
I looked at sink. At paper towel dispenser. My voice small.
"He grabbed my face," I said. "Forced me onto sofa. Held neck. Not choking. Just holding. Hard."
Carla didn't flinch. She typed. Then stood, gloved hands gentle.
"May I look?" she asked.
I tilted chin. Her fingers light on jaw, turned my face toward lamp.
She measured with small paper ruler. Marked on diagram.
"Redness and tenderness both cheeks, fingertip bruising left cheek, faint linear marks under jaw and front of neck, consistent with grip," she said, half to me, half into recorder. "No open skin. Movement okay. Swallow okay? Any trouble breathing?"
"No."
"Any pain when I press here?"
She pressed lightly along jaw. I winced.
"Yeah, there," I said.
She nodded, removed gloves, typed again.
Doctor came in soon after. Young man, calm, introduced himself as Dr. Patel. He asked same questions different way, listened to my story without interrupting, then pressed hands to belly.
"Let's check baby," he said.
He wheeled over machine, squeezed cold gel on skin. Blue gel shocked me. Probe moved. Room filled with fast thumping. Strong. Steady.
My eyes filled before I could stop.
"That's nice heart rate," Dr. Patel said. "One-forty eight. Baby moving well. See here?"
He turned screen. Gray shape, spine, small moving hand. I held breath.
"Looks stable," he said. "No signs distress today, but stress and trauma matter late pregnancy. Need rest, no lifting, follow up with OB within forty-eight hours. If contractions, bleeding, fluid, less movement, come back immediately."
He wiped gel, pulled curtain while Carla helped me adjust dress.
Then Carla pulled stool close again. Her voice lower.
"We ask everyone this," she said. "Do you feel safe at home?"
I stared at marble floor pattern. In penthouse it was polished and cold. Here it was speckled linoleum. My phone sat in my coat pocket, heavy with photos Dad took in parking lot.
My first answer automatic. "Yes."
She waited. No pressure. Hands folded. Eyes kind.
Second passed. My breathing audible.
"No," I said. "I don't."
She nodded like she'd heard that tone before.
"Are you afraid of partner?"
Pause. I swallowed.
"Yes," I whispered.
She typed. Simple clicks, but they felt permanent.
"Thank you for telling me," she said. "You deserve to be safe. That answer becomes part of record. Helps protect you and baby."
She asked if photos could be taken for medical record. I said yes.
She used hospital tablet, not my phone. Took three close-ups with ruler beside marks — left cheek, right cheek, neck — and one wider shot of my face looking straight ahead. Flash bright. She showed me each before saving.
"These stay in medical record," she said. "Timestamp today. You can request copies anytime."
She also scanned my phone photos into record with my permission. Dad's parking lot shots — my face in daylight, clearer bruises — now backed up somewhere I couldn't delete if he took phone.
Dr. Patel returned with discharge papers. Two pages.
"Medical records and photos exist now," he said. "Baby stable today but ordered rest. Instructions here. We documented injuries and fetal check. No police report filed from here unless you request or we must for child safety — I don't see reason to call automatically today, but resources on back page if you want them."
He handed papers. Aftercare instructions circled: rest, hydrate, prenatal follow-up, return precautions. Stapled behind them, photos printed small, bruise diagram, heart rate strip.
Carla handed me hospital socks in plastic because my flats pinched. My feet swollen.
"Anything else you need before you go?" she asked.
I folded papers, slid them into coat. Hand rested again on belly where baby kicked, steady.
"Just want to go back to my dad," I said.
She opened door. Hall light brighter. Dad stood when he saw me, Maya still asleep on shoulder, mouth open. He looked at papers in my hand, then at my face, and didn't ask questions in front of Maya.
Carla touched my arm once, light.
May you like
"You're doing right thing," she said.
I walked toward Dad, each step slower, papers crinkling against belly.
