The nausea is better. Not gone, but the low-grade hum of queasiness that seems to have taken up permanent residence just below my rib cage is manageable.Dr. Martinez said that it should start easing up by the second trimester. Almost there. Just a few more weeks of crackers and ginger tea.
I’m sitting in a waiting room on the Upper West Side, instead of being examined in the privacy—and safety—of the mansion. My OB/GYN’s mobile ultrasound unit is out of commission. Something about water damage to the imaging equipment.
Two of Gabriel’s men stand at opposite ends of the hallway. Marco is by the elevator. He’s tall, quiet, and built like a refrigerator. Enzo is near the stairwell. He’s young and hyperalert, his hand never far from his weapon. They’re trying to blend in but failing miserably.
I’m glad they’re here, guarding all accessibility in and out of the office.
And then there’s Amanda.
She’d literally insisted on coming. She called the mansion this morning and told me—toldme—that she’d be joining us, her tone making it clear that it wasn’t a request.
“You need another woman with you,” she’d said in the car. “For something like this, a female presence is always a good idea. Trust me—you’ll be glad I’m there when you’re sitting in that sterile little room under those horrid fluorescent lights.”
“I could’ve brought Liza,” I replied, mostly to see how she would react.
“Liza? As in the woman who left you to fend for yourself the moment you turned eighteen?” she laughed nervously before looking away.
“Listen, I know we got off on the wrong foot,” she’d added. “But there’s no reason I can’t be one of the few people you trust.” She raised her palm. “Now I know I’ll have to earn that trust. But maybe this can be the first step in that process.”
A peace offering. From the woman who’d called me fat within ten minutes of meeting me for the first time.
Then again, she had kept my secret after finding out I was pregnant.
So here we are. Playing nice, trying on a version of friendship. Maybe she’s right; maybe it can be the first step toward me trusting her.
“This place is tastefully bland,” Amanda says next to me in the waiting room, taking her eyes from her phone just long enough to scan the scene. “I suppose it could be worse.”
Two other women sit in the waiting room besides me—one visibly further along, rubbing her belly absentmindedly while reading something on her phone, the other young and nervous, clutching the hand of the man sitting next to her.
I’m a little envious of both of them. They look like normal women with normal lives that don’t involve armed escorts in the hallway.
In fact, I envy them so fiercely that it surprises me.
Dr. Martinez’s nurse calls me in, breaking up my thoughts.
“I’ll wait out here,” Amanda says. “Hope it’s all good news.”
“Thanks.”
Her eyes are already back on her phone as I turn to head down the hall.
The examination is the routine I’m used to at this point—blood pressure, weight, urine sample, cold gel on my stomach while Dr. Martinez moves the wand with practiced ease. I stare at the grainy black-and-white screen, trying to spot a baby in the static.
“Solid heartbeat, as usual.”
A smile spreads across my face in the way it always does when I see that flicker, hear thatwhoosh-whooshof my baby boy—or girl’s—tiny heart.
My eyes sting.
“Strong and steady,” she says. “Your blood work came back excellent, too.”
She gives me the rundown on my iron levels, thyroid function, and all the rest.
“So far, so good, Thea,” she tells me as she sets down the wand. “Everything looks about as healthy as we could hope for.”
So far, so good.
They’re reassuring words. But Dr. Martinez has no idea about what else is going on in my life, what my baby and I face outside the walls of this clinic.