Chapter 8
I didn't go back to the shop. I drove to the clinic.
Not inside — I sat in the parking lot across the street, engine off, watching the entrance. My wife's car was in the second row, next to a silver Tacoma I recognized. Marcus's truck. He was already here for his Tuesday route.
At ten forty a woman came out pushing a stroller, then an older man with a cane. Normal morning. I opened the glove box and took out the folded piece of paper where I'd written dates the night before.
Pregnancy: 10 weeks per wife. Positive test three weeks ago, so around seven weeks then. Affair with Marcus: she hadn't given exact dates, just "a few times in late winter." I needed to stop guessing.
I called the clinic from the parking lot and asked for medical records. The receptionist asked if I was the patient.
"I'm her husband," I said. "I had a question about timeline for prenatal care."
"Due to privacy we can only discuss that with the patient present or with a signed release," she said, voice practiced.
"I understand," I said. "Can you tell me generally when you schedule the first ultrasound if someone is around ten weeks?"
"Generally eight to ten weeks," she said. "But the doctor determines that. The patient would need to call."
I thanked her and hung up. The privacy wall was exactly what I expected. I couldn't get dates without her.
At eleven fifteen Marcus came out carrying a black sample case, laughing with a nurse at the door. He didn't look toward my truck. He loaded the case into his Tacoma and drove off toward the highway. I watched his taillights until they turned.
I texted her: Can you meet on your lunch? 20 minutes. Bench by the lab entrance. Need to understand dates, not fight.
She replied: I get 30 at 12:15. Come then.
I bought two coffees from the gas station and waited on the bench. The wind had come up and the sky was brightening in patches. County road traffic hissed past.
She came out at twelve eighteen, still in scrubs, holding a manila envelope she didn't offer me. She sat a foot away from me on the bench.
"I can't give you my chart," she said immediately. "You know that."
"I know," I said. "I'm not asking you to break a rule. I'm asking you to tell me what you already told the doctor, so we both understand the timeline."
She stared at the envelope. "The first appointment was last Tuesday. Dr. Patel said ten weeks, give or take a few days, based on the ultrasound. Due date late November."
I did the math out loud, slow. "Ten weeks last Tuesday puts conception around mid-January to early February."
She flinched. "Yes."
"When were you with Marcus?" I asked, keeping my voice low and flat.
She breathed in. "January twenty-seventh and February twelfth. Only those two times."
I wrote nothing down. I just listened.
"And with me?" I asked.
"January sixteenth, then again February ninth and the eighteenth," she whispered. "And after."
I nodded. The dates overlapped. No clean answer.
"Did you tell Dr. Patel you weren't sure who the father is?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, eyes filling. "She said we can do a paternity test after the baby is born, or an early test now but it costs a lot and has risks. She said to wait if we can."
"Okay," I said. My hands were tight around the coffee cup. "Thank you for telling me straight."
She looked at me, surprised again that I wasn't yelling. "Are you going to — will you still come to appointments? Even if—"
"I don't know who the father is yet either," I said. "But you are ten weeks pregnant. That's the fact we have. Whether it's mine biologically or not, you shouldn't sit in those rooms alone if you don't want to."
She started to cry, quiet, shoulders shaking. I handed her a napkin from the gas station.
"What does Marcus think?" I asked. "Does he think it's his?"
She wiped her eyes. "He said if it is his, he'd want to be involved, but then at the diner he — you heard what he said on that call. He just wanted me quiet. He told Jeff I was difficult when I tried to end it."
I remembered the bit of audio I'd already heard, the part about Jeff and the contract. "That call where he threatened your job — was that before or after you told him you were pregnant?"
"After," she said. "February twenty-eighth. The day after I told him. He called me at the clinic after hours. I recorded it because I was scared."
I felt cold despite the coffee. "You recorded it?"
She nodded at the envelope. "I started recording after he said Jeff would listen to him. I didn't know what else to do. Your phone has a copy because you took my phone that night and sent it to yourself. That's the 1:52."
I realized then the weight shifted. It wasn't just my copy. She'd been the one who pressed record first.
"Do you still have the original on your phone?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "But Marcus knows I recorded. That's why he was so angry at the diner."
We sat there while a lab courier wheeled a cart past us. The envelope in her lap was her ultrasound printout. She hadn't shown it to me.
"Can I see?" I asked.
She hesitated, then slid one image out. Black and white, grainy, a small bean-shaped smudge in the center.
I looked at it a long time.
"Okay," I said finally, handing it back. "We wait for the test. We don't pretend the dates give us an answer they don't. And we keep both copies of that call safe until a lawyer tells us what it can and can't do."
She tucked the photo back in. "Ryan, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I made this math problem for us."
"It's not a math problem," I said. "It's a kid. When it's here we'll know more. Until then we don't lie about the maybe."
She stood to go back in. "Will you be home tonight?" she asked.
May you like
"Yes," I said. "I'll be home. We can make dinner and not talk about any of this for one hour. Then we call a lawyer tomorrow."
She touched my arm briefly as she passed. I stayed on the bench until my coffee went cold, staring at the clinic doors where she'd gone back inside, the dates I'd just learned settling hard and clear.
