“I can’t sign the papers.”
“I thought they were signed?” Closing my eyes, I feel the start of a migraine. “And your project in Tokyo was a done deal.”
“I’m not feeling good about it.”
“Noah,” I say, “I can’t do this right now. Last night . . . it brought back so many memories. I can’t always focus on you.”
He looks like I slapped him. “I know. That’s why I came home. I don’t want you to worry.” His hand grazes my chin. “You focus on your body and taking care of yourself and our baby. Let me worry about the rest.”
I soften my tone. “It means a lot that you came back home.”
“I’d die if anything happened to you, Char.” He licks his lips. “I just don’t know what to do about all this upheaval.”
I reach out a hand, the trembling lessened. “We’ll figure it out.” And in unison we say, “We always do.” We sink onto the couch, my position always in the middle, as I lean my shoulder against him, shutting out everything but us.
Noah leaves again the next morning, and I’m suddenly uneasy about leaving the house. I walk out the side door to the garage multiple times, turning back around, my chest tightening in response. It’s like I’m waiting for a surprise attack.
“Don’t stress, Char, it’s not good for you or the baby,” I repeat over and over as my new mantra. But when I stare at the Jeep, I see a dark figure reflected in the paint, and I’m instantly spooked. Noah left his car, and, putting my dark glasses on to shield my eyes from the world, I retrieve his keys. I surprise Elle when I pick her up at school in it.
“Needed a change?”
“Yes, and my gas light is on.” I refuse to admit how the terrifying events of the other night shook me to my core. If she’s part of the problem, I don’t want her to know how she’s affected me. She also seems visibly nervous and quieter than usual, which only adds to the guilt piling up in my mind.
Fidgeting with a bracelet on her arm, she asks, “Are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
“Taking me to the doctor?”
“Of course, Elle. I couldn’t get you into my doctor, so I made you an appointment at another highly recommended obstetrician.” She gives me a small nod. “It sounds like you’re long overdue, and if you’re as far along as you think, it’s important to both the health of the baby and you.”
“Did it hurt when you went?”
“No, you won’t feel pain today. They’re saving up the good stuff for when you give birth.”
She twinges before changing the subject. “Did you get all your cards canceled?”
“Yes.”
“Were there any charges on them, like, fraud?”
“Luckily, no. None had been used.” I try not to read too much into her questions, trying to chalk them up to small talk. My paranoia isn’t going to help either of us right now. I need to focus on Elle and her baby, since I said I would help.
“That’s a relief,” she says.
I nod, my eyes trained on the road ahead.
When we get to the ob-gyn office, the waiting room has a mixed crowd of the expectant and the “already a parent.” You can discern between the two categories, because sheer terror’s present on the pregnant moms with distended bellies and no experience, wading into unfamiliar territory. The ones who have been through childbirth are more relaxed but frazzled, their arms laden with coloring books for a toddler or a diaper bag for a baby.
The men with both sets seem overwhelmed, with glazed expressions on their faces, as if they don’t know why they are here or how this happened.
I watch as one child attempts to color on the walls, much to the dismay of his father, as the other parents chuckle, relieved for once it’s not their kid.
Fidgeting, Elle shifts from foot to foot, which makes me anxious, so I tell her to go ahead and have a seat.
As I check in at the reception desk, I grab the sheaf of papers they give me.
“Three thirty appointment for Charlotte Coburn.”
“Insurance and ID.”
I bring my hand to my forehead. “Shit.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “I mean crap.”
The receptionist tilts her head. “It’s okay, we’ve all said a word or two.”
“I was . . . I have a police report, if you need it, but my wallet was stolen a couple of days ago, including my insurance card and ID.”
Flipping my hands over, I show her the jagged cuts.
“Oh my God, what happened?” the receptionist gasps. “I mean, sorry, you probably don’t want to rehash it.”
“Mugged in a parking lot,” I say, “but that’s the worst of the injuries, so I’m lucky.”
“Is this your first time here?”
“Yes, it’s for my daughter, actually.” I point to Elle.
“This will be a longer appointment, since we typically do an ultrasound first, followed by the doctor’s examination.”
“Okay.”
“Can you just provide us a credit card, and we’ll just charge you the typical copay for your insurance? We can go ahead and work on verifying it.”
“Sure, but same boat with my cards. I have cash, if that’s all right.”
“Yes, no problem. Just bring a printed copy of your insurance next time, if you don’t have a replacement card by then.”
I bring back the clipboard to Elle.
“That is a shit ton of paperwork,” she exclaims as I have a seat next to her. “Is it even more because I don’t have insurance?”
I hand her a pen. “I’ll fill out the address and take care of the insurance portion. You’re going to be Charlotte Coburn, though.”
She gives me an odd stare.
“I want to make sure insurance covers it.”
“Isn’t that, like, fraud?”
“Typically, but I’d like to talk to you after this about something that makes it okay.” She gives me a questioning glance, then writes Charlotte Coburn on the forms.
I watch her chew the pen lid, likely unsure about her family health history. I almost feel bad. It must be unsettling to not know the most basic information about your past.
“Does it have to be exact?”
“Try to be as accurate as possible.”
She slowly writes, her handwriting small and legible. When she’s finished, she looks to me for confirmation. “Go ahead and take it back up.”
The woman barely glances over the forms before she signals for Elle to have a seat again. Absentmindedly flipping through a magazine, she shoves it back in the stack. “Charlotte?”
“Uh-huh?”
“What’s in that room?”
Scrolling through work emails on my phone, made difficult because of the screen, I don’t look up, assuming she means the doctor’s office. “An exam table and a sink.”
“In the room upstairs, the one that’s locked?”
“How do you know it’s locked?” I keep my eyes trained on the screen.
“Because I mistakenly thought it was the guest bedroom.” Elle picks at a hangnail.
“It’s nothing, just storage for now.” I shrug. “It will eventually be the baby’s room.”