I Watched Him Sip Whiskey While He Said My Wife Carried His Child...

I drove Lauren to county OB clinic Tuesday morning. Rain left parking lot slick. She held purse on lap like shield. Neither of us spoke for first ten minutes.

Highway 31 north, past gas station, past high school. Radio off. Her hand rested near seatbelt buckle. Not touching me. Not pulling away either. I kept eyes on road. Turn signal clicked too loud.

"You don't have to come inside," she said at stoplight.

"I do," I said.

She nodded. Didn't argue.

Clinic sat behind church, low brick building with faded awning. County Health Center sign. Waiting room smelled like coffee and disinfectant. Plastic chairs, kids' toys in corner, number dispenser like DMV. Receptionist slid clipboard across.

Lauren filled intake form. Pen shook. I watched from chair beside her.

Name, birthdate, insurance. Last menstrual period: she paused. Looked at me, then wrote 8/12. I stared at that date. Today was 9/24. Six weeks. My chest tightened. 8/12 placed conception right inside window she'd admitted to last night — late July through early September. She'd said affair started in July, tried to end it twice in August. August 12th sat square in middle.

She handed clipboard back. Receptionist typed, didn't look up. Gave us number 14. We sat under string of fluorescent lights. Different lights than Whitaker ballroom. Same exposed waiting.

Lauren whispered, "Two weeks late. I counted but didn't want to know."

I didn't answer. Held number slip. Paper soft from sweat.

Nurse called fourteen after twenty minutes. We followed her down narrow hall. Scale, blood pressure cuff, questions asked flat and kind. No judgment. When nurse asked reason for visit, Lauren said, "Pregnancy verification and dating." Voice thin.

Nurse nodded. Left us in exam room.

OB clinician came in, Dr. Patel, mid-forties, gray cardigan over scrubs. She asked last period date again, confirmed medication list, asked if pregnancy wanted. Lauren said, "We need to know how far along."

Dr. Patel nodded. "We'll do ultrasound for dating. Then talk options."

Lauren lay back on table. Paper gown rustled. I stood near wall by sink, hands in pockets. Didn't know where to look. Monitor glowed gray. Gel cold. Lauren flinched.

Probe moved. Image grainy, then steadied. Dr. Patel measured quiet. Click, click.

"There," she said, turning screen. Small flicker inside sac. "Heartbeat present. Crown-rump length measures 6 weeks 5 days. That fits last period date. So 6 to 7 weeks. Due date around late April."

Lauren stared at screen. Tears slipped to temples. I felt air leave room. 6 weeks 5 days meant conception mid-August. Inside affair window, not outside it. Not proof against me, not proof against Ethan. Exactly overlap.

I asked, "Margin of error?"

Dr. Patel answered, "Plus or minus four days at this stage. Still early first trimester."

She wiped gel. Lauren sat up slow, held gown closed.

Back at desk, Dr. Patel closed chart. Said labs next, prenatal panel, then discussion I knew was coming.

"You mentioned paternity concern on intake," she said. Looked at both of us. "We can order noninvasive prenatal paternity test. Maternal blood draw plus cheek swab from potential father. Fetal DNA in your bloodstream. Lab compares."

Lauren looked at me.

I said, "How soon?"

"Draw today. Send to lab in Ohio. Results take seven days. Sometimes eight if weekend. No earlier," Dr. Patel said. "I can't guess father from ultrasound. Only DNA tells. Test accurate after seven weeks."

Lauren whispered, "Seven days."

Dr. Patel printed orders, handed consent forms. Two signatures needed — Lauren's for blood, mine for swab. Lauren signed fast. I hesitated half second, then signed. Swab kit came out. I opened mouth. Cotton brushed cheek. Nurse labeled tube, Lauren's arm bled into three vials.

Dr. Patel put papers in envelope. "Call Friday week. Don't read online forums. Wait for lab."

We walked out past waiting room again. Number 27 now called. Rain still falling on parking lot. I held clinic door for Lauren. She didn't take my hand. We reached car. She stopped before passenger seat.

"Six weeks," she said. "It's inside window. I know."