Chapter 7
The temporary protection order gave me a few days, not a life.
Isaac reminded me of that the next morning in the quiet conference room behind his office. The court papers lay between us, clipped into a thin file. Eleanor sat beside me with her handbag on the floor near her shoes, both hands wrapped around a paper cup she hadn't touched.
“The order keeps Evan away from you and the apartment,” Isaac said. “It also prevents unauthorized access to your medical records. But it doesn't choose your next doctor. That decision has to come from you.”
My fingers rested against the edge of the table. “What if every hospital sees his name and decides I'm difficult?”
“They'll see a court order,” Isaac said. “And they'll see your written instructions.”
Eleanor turned toward me. “You can change them if you want.”
That mattered more than she probably knew. Since leaving the clinic, everyone had been asking what I needed, but most questions arrived with an answer already attached. Where I should stay. Which appointment I should keep. What I should say. Eleanor was trying not to take over, and I could see the effort in the way she waited.
I looked at the list Isaac had prepared. Three hospitals. Three independent obstetric teams. No connection to Evan's clinic.
“I want the first one,” I said. “The hospital near the lake.”
Isaac nodded. “I'll call their administrator.”
“No.” My voice came out thin, but it held. “I want to call.”
The administrator's office transferred me twice before a woman named Denise answered. I explained that I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant and needed a new care team under a protective order. I didn't explain everything. I didn't have to.
When I finished, Denise paused.
“Do you have a copy of the order?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then bring it in. We can review your records and discuss your preferences. You can identify who may speak for you. You can also change that decision at any time.”
My throat tightened. “Eleanor is my delivery advocate.”
“I'll note that.”
“And my husband has no authority to make medical decisions for me.”
“I'll note that too.”
After the call, I wrote both sentences on the authorization form in my own handwriting. My name looked unfamiliar beneath them, as if it belonged to someone more certain.
The appointment was set for that afternoon.
The hospital smelled like coffee, disinfectant, and rain brought in on people's coats. At the intake desk, a clerk scanned my court order and asked for identification. She didn't stare at the bruising near my collar. She didn't lower her voice when she entered Evan's name into the system.
A nurse led us to a consultation room with pale walls and a narrow window. She introduced herself as Marisol and placed a blank care-preference form in front of me.
“Who should receive information about your condition?” she asked.
“Eleanor.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Who may be present during examinations or delivery?”
“Eleanor. Medical staff. No one else unless I say so.”
Marisol looked at me, not at the papers. “You can say no even after saying yes.”
The simple statement made my eyes burn. I looked down and signed.
When the hospital's physician reviewed the available records, she stopped at the psychiatric observation note. The author line was still blank.
“This entry is part of the file you received from the clinic?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who wrote it?”
“No.”
“Did you make these statements?”
“No.”
She didn't argue. She didn't ask why I would deny my own words. She circled the entry and placed a note beside it: patient disputes accuracy; source and authorship require verification.
It was the first time the sentence had been treated as a question instead of a fact.
That evening, Isaac called from his office. His voice had gone careful.
“Evan's counsel filed a motion challenging the protective order,” he said. “They're relying heavily on the psychiatric note.”
My stomach tightened. “They said I was unstable.”
“They've used that word.”
I closed my eyes. The room around me was Eleanor's guest room, with folded baby clothes stacked on a chair and a small lamp glowing beside the bed. Nothing in it belonged to Evan, but his voice still seemed to occupy the corners.
“What happens now?”
“We respond. The court may order an evidentiary review of the note.”
“May?”
“I won't promise an outcome before we have one.”
I appreciated him for saying it plainly.
Eleanor came in carrying a glass of water. She saw my face and set it down without asking.
“I want the review,” I said.
Isaac was silent for half a second. “You understand they may question you about the note.”
“I understand.”
“You'll have to answer directly.”
“I can do that.”
The next morning, I signed the request.
May you like
My hand shook across the signature line, but I didn't stop writing. The protective order had given me space. Choosing my own care team had given me a voice inside that space.
The review would test whether anyone else was willing to hear it.
