Chapter 3 - The Sixth Floor
The private wing on the sixth floor of Prentice Women’s Hospital did not look like a medical facility. It looked like the lobby of a discreet, high-end Swiss bank. The floors were covered in thick, ivory-colored wool carpets that swallowed the sound of footsteps, the walls were paneled in light maple wood, and the air smelled faintly of fresh lilies and expensive lavender soap.
There were no waiting rooms filled with anxious patients holding paper tickets. There was only a single, large desk made of polished marble, behind which sat a middle-aged woman in a crisp white linen suit.
"Mr. Vale," the woman said, standing up the moment Adrian walked through the glass doors with Naomi slightly behind him. "Dr. Vance is in Exam Room Three. Everything has been cleared."
"Thank you, Sarah," Adrian said without stopping.
He held Naomi’s elbow—not tightly enough to hurt, but with a firm, constant pressure that guided her down the quiet corridor.
Naomi felt like an intruder in her own body. The luxury of the clinic only heightened her sense of absurd unreality. Less than an hour ago, she had been standing in the dirt outside a municipal court building preparing to divide their joint bank accounts, their cars, and their Lake Forest house. Now, she was being escorted down a silent hallway toward an examination room that cost more per hour than her first apartment’s monthly rent.
Dr. Helen Vance was a tall, elegant woman in her late fifties with sharp gray hair cut into a precise bob and gold-rimmed reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She looked remarkably like her brother, the family court judge, but her eyes possessed a warmth that was entirely absent from the judicial bench.
"Naomi," Dr. Vance said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "It’s been a while. Please, sit down."
Naomi took the doctor’s hand mechanically. "Dr. Vance... I’m sorry about this. My husband... Adrian... forced this appointment."
Dr. Vance shot a quick, sharp look at Adrian, who was standing near the heavy door with his arms crossed over his chest, his broad back blocking the tiny glass window set into the panel.
"Adrian has a habit of managing situations with the subtlety of a tugboat," Dr. Vance said smoothly, gesturing toward the padded examination table covered in fresh white paper. "But given what he told me on the phone three minutes ago, I think a preliminary workup is entirely appropriate. How are you feeling?"
Naomi sat on the edge of the table, the paper crinkling loudly beneath her thighs. "Dizzy. My stomach feels like it’s full of hot lead. And I’m tired... I’ve been tired for three weeks."
"Any lightheadedness when you stand up?"
"Yes. This morning was the worst."
Dr. Vance nodded, taking a silver pen from her pocket and making a quick note on an iPad. "And your cycle? When was the last first day of your period?"
Naomi looked at Adrian. He hadn't moved. His blue eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that felt almost physical, as if he could force the answer out of her by sheer strength of will.
"I... I don't know exactly," Naomi admitted, her voice dropping. "It was supposed to start about... three weeks ago. But my schedule has been unpredictable since May. I thought it was just the stress."
"Stress can certainly delay things," Dr. Vance said neutrally. She turned toward a small, stainless-steel cart sitting in the corner. "We’re going to do three things. First, a blood draw for a full metabolic panel and human chorionic gonadotropin—hCG. Second, a rapid urine test. And third, if the urine test shows what I suspect it will, we’ll do a quick bedside ultrasound."
Naomi felt her heart leap into her throat. "An ultrasound?"
"It’s the fastest way to confirm," Dr. Vance said softly. She picked up a small plastic cup and handed it to Naomi along with a sealed wipe. "The restroom is right through that door. Take your time."
Naomi held the small plastic cup in her hand. Her fingers were trembling so hard the plastic rattled against her fingernails.
She stood up, her knees swaying slightly, and walked toward the small side door. As her hand touched the stainless-steel handle, she looked back over her shoulder.
Adrian was still standing by the entrance door, his broad shoulders squared, his face pale and set in lines of hard, rigid tension. For the first time in three years, she noticed a faint shadow of grey in the dark hair above his left ear.
"Adrian," she whispered.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "Yes?"
"If... if it's positive," she said, her voice shaking, "this doesn't change what you did. It doesn't fix us."
May you like
Adrian stared at her for two long, agonizing seconds. The silence in the room was so thick Naomi could hear the faint, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock near the sink.
"I know," Adrian said softly. "Just go in the room, Naomi."
