The rhythmic, swooshing sound of the heartbeat continued to fill the small clinic room, but the warmth completely drained from the doctor’s face. She stared at her secondary monitor, her brow furrowing into a tight, severe knot. She turned to the ultrasound technician standing in the corner. “Step outside for a moment, please.”
A cold dread, sharp and metallic, coiled in my gut. My pulse began hammering against my windpipe. “Is something wrong with my baby?” I choked out, grabbing the edges of my paper gown.
“No,” Dr. Petrova answered far too quickly. “The baby is structurally perfect.” She aggressively peeled off her latex gloves, throwing them into the biohazard bin with a loud snap. “Meline, I need to speak with you in my private office. Immediately.”
I wiped the sticky blue gel from my skin with violently trembling hands, tied the thin strings of my gown, and padded barefoot down the hallway.
Dr. Petrova shut her heavy oak door, clicked the lock, and sat behind her desk. She folded her hands so tightly together that her knuckles blanched.
“I could easily lose my medical license for what I am about to show you,” she began, her voice a low, urgent whisper. She swiveled her large computer monitor toward my chair. “Your husband is Garrett Mercer. Same emergency contact phone number. Same residential address.”
I nodded, unable to summon enough oxygen to form a word. My vocal cords had temporarily abandoned my body.
“He is also currently listed as the primary emergency contact on another patient’s active file. A woman named Tanya Burch. She is thirty-one years old. And she is twenty-six weeks pregnant.”
I stared at her. The syllables hit my chest like hurled cobblestones, heavy and jagged. “That is mathematically impossible.”
Dr. Petrova didn’t argue. She simply clicked her mouse. A security check-in photograph expanded across the screen.
There was Garrett. He was sitting in the exact beige waiting room chair I had occupied less than an hour ago. His muscular arm was wrapped fiercely, protectively around a dark-haired woman sporting a prominent, undeniable third-trimester belly. He was grinning—flashing the exact same radiant, dimpled smile he had given me when I came out of the bathroom sobbing with my positive pregnancy test.
My husband. The man who had kissed my forehead at 6:00 AM this very morning, apologizing profusely that a sudden “route emergency” at his beverage distribution job meant he couldn’t hold my hand during my twelve-week scan.
I stared at the glowing pixels until my vision blurred into a watery smear. The air in the room grew suffocatingly thin.
Dr. Petrova leaned over her desk, her dark eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity. “He is scheduled to pick you up in the lobby in exactly twenty minutes, Meline. I think you need to gather your things and leave this building. Right now.”
