by Nina Lane
“Okay. Everything’s fine here.”
After I hang up the phone, I watch a few more news reports about the “big blizzard hitting the Midwest,” then go downstairs. With Dean gone, I’m more aware of the sounds in the West house. I hear the slightest noise—footsteps on the stairs, the front door opening, the low murmur of voices. And even the silence is strange, like a thin layer of ice stretched over waters still churning with waves.
Everything is quiet downstairs. Joanna West is sitting alone at the kitchen table. She is holding a cup of tea and looking out the front window at the driveway.
I pause in the doorway. Joanna usually has a rigidity to her, as if she’s holding herself together tightly, but now her expression is unguarded. I wonder for a second if I should leave her alone, but she turns to look at me. A coolness veils her eyes.
“Hello, Olivia.”
I step into the kitchen. I’ve spent very little time in Joanna West’s company without Dean there. I’m sure Joanna still blames me for taking Dean away, or at least for being the final reason he broke from his family.
I’m not all that fond of Joanna either, truth be told. She forced a nine-year-old Dean, her own young son, to bear the burden of a secret that was her damned fault. Then she blamed him when the truth came to light. She’s punished Dean for the last twenty-five years because he told Archer the truth.
The only thing that keeps me from hating her is the fact that she is Dean’s mother. For all the West family’s troubles, Dean became a man of integrity and honor. Not only did he know that he and I could change our lives, he knew how to make it happen. He taught me about love, trust, passion, and forgiveness. About hope.
Whatever Joanna West did wrong, her eldest son turned out astonishingly right.
I put the box of chocolates I bought on the kitchen counter. “I got these for you when I was out the other day.”
“Thank you.”
A movement out the kitchen window catches my eye. Archer is in the driveway, tossing a basketball into the hoop hanging on the garage. If I didn’t know it was him, he’d look like any other unkempt, lanky young man out on a pleasant morning. He shoots and misses.
“He’s always struggled,” Joanna says.
I watch Archer shoot again. The ball bounces off the backboard.
“Not like Dean,” she continues. “Dean was meant to be successful. Everything came so easily to him.”
Disbelief floods me. “I don’t think Dean would agree.”
“Oh, he’s worked hard. I know that. But I also know he has a natural facility. Both with people and complicated matters. Archer is far less self-assured.”
Considering this family’s history, that’s hardly a wonder. I look out at Archer, experiencing an unexpected sense of kinship with him. When you spend a great deal of your life unstable, the black sheep of your family… it’s not easy to feel as if you belong anywhere. I only did after I met Dean.
“He never knew.”
I look at Joanna. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Archer’s father.
“Oh.”
“He left town before I found out.” She’s still staring out the window at Archer. “I later realized that was a good thing. He might very well have made things messy if he’d known. Especially during the election when Richard was running to retain his seat.”
I don’t know what to say. It occurs to me that Archer might have no idea where his biological father is. Or even who he is.
“I’m sure everyone is glad Archer came back for a few days,” I say.
Joanna is looking at her son as if he were a stranger, or some exotic zoo creature separated from her by a pane of glass.
“So I enjoyed downtown Los Gatos,” I remark, aware of the forced brightness of my voice. “I was thinking of going back today. There are some really nice art galleries there, and I love that kitchen store.”
Joanna rises to put her mug in the sink. “Did you go to the History Museum? Dean told me you work at the one in Mirror Lake, so you might enjoy visiting ours.”
“I haven’t been yet.”
“Use Richard’s car, if you’d like. The keys are hanging by the front door.” Joanna glances at her watch and says she needs to leave for a charity board meeting.
After she’s gone, I wash the dishes and mugs left in the sink and set them to dry before heading upstairs. I decide that it would be nice to spend a couple of hours at the Los Gatos History Museum. Maybe I can talk with one of the curators and exchange exhibition ideas.
I go into the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief when I unbutton my jeans. Definitely time to start wearing the maternity clothes.
The instant I pull down my underwear, I freeze.
Blood?
No.
I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing on the white cotton that was just between my legs. My vision fades in and out as I stare at the brown stains. It can’t possibly be…
My heart stutters, as if it stopped and is trying to start again. Panic swells in my chest so fast, so hard, that I collapse onto the toilet. I press my hands against my face and squeeze my eyes closed.
No. No way.
Gripping the edge of the counter, I open my eyes and stare at my underwear. The stains look rusty, dried. With an unsteady hand, I take a wad of toilet paper and swipe it between my legs. Red smears the paper.
Oh, God.
I yank open the bathroom cabinet and search through the rolls of toilet paper and bottles of shampoo and lotion. At the very back, there’s a half-opened box of panty liners. I rip one open and affix it to my underwear, then yank my jeans back up.
I’m shaking so much I can barely turn the faucet on. Reminding myself to breathe, I splash water on my face. My reflection is white, shocked.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell anyone. No one knows I’m pregnant.
I find my cell phone in my bag and place a call to Dr. Nolan. The receptionist says she’ll have the doctor return my call as soon as possible.
I press a hand to my stomach. My heart is beating too fast. I’m scared. I go into the bathroom again and, with a trembling hand, wipe another tissue between my legs.
Red blood.
Holy fuck.
My phone rings. I hurry to answer it.
“Liv? It’s Dr. Nolan.” Her voice is calm and serious. “You’re having some spotting?”
“I… it’s blood.” Inhale. Exhale.
“How much is there?” Dr. Nolan asks.
“Um… a few drops.”
“Was there any on the tissue?”
“Yes.”
“Bright red or brown?”
“Um… brown on my underwear, I guess, but then bright red on the tissue and the panty liner I put on.” I sink onto the bed, cold all over.
“Any clots?” she asks.
Jesus. Clots?
“No,” I manage to say.
“Are you having any pain? Cramps?”
“No.”
“Are you nauseous? Any vomiting? Fever?”
“No, nothing.”
“When did you last have intercourse?”
I have to think. Dean and I have fooled around a few times, but the last time we had actual intercourse was when I’d woken from a nap and found him on the bed with me. “Uh, about a week ago.”
“Have you been doing anything else that’s strenuous? Any change in physical activity?”
“No, not at all.”
“Okay,” Dr. Nolan says. “Some women do have spotting in early pregnancy. It’s not unusual.”
I hate that phrase. Not unusual does not mean common. It does not mean don’t worry about it.
“But,” the doctor continues, “you do need to be prepared for something more serious. I want you to wait a few hours first and see if the bleeding worsens.”
Something more serious? A few hours?
“I… okay.”
“If you soak through a pad in half an hour or if you start having pain, then go to the emerg
ency room,” Dr. Nolan says. “Do you have someone with you?”
Dean. Oh, dear God.
“Y-yes.”
“You’re still in California?” There’s the sound of computer keys clicking.
“Yes. San Jose area. Los Gatos.”
“Here’s the address and number of the nearest hospital. Your insurance will approve an emergency visit there, if one is necessary. Try to stay calm, Liv, okay?”
“Okay.” I fumble for a pen on the nightstand and write down the address.
“I’m on call for the next twelve hours, so don’t hesitate to call if you need to.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I end the call and toss the phone onto the bed. Wrap my arms around myself. My teeth chatter. I close my eyes and inhale a breath, counting to three as I exhale. Can’t panic. Not now. Have to stay calm.
Stay calm.
Stay calm.
Tears burn my eyes.
The phone rings. My heart lurches as I look at the caller ID. Dean West.
I throw the phone back onto the bed, letting it ring until voicemail picks up.
How can I tell him? What can he do, two thousand miles away, except worry and agonize? Knowing him, he’d battle the dangerous, icy roads and snow to get to the airport or a train station. All in a desperate effort to get back to me.
I go into the bathroom again and splash more water on my hot face, trying to stave off the terror.
I can’t wait for a few hours to see if things get worse. If they do get worse, I really will panic, and then I won’t be able to drive myself anywhere, much less the emergency room. Certainly I can’t cause a commotion at the West house by calling 911.
Okay, good. I have a plan. If I have to wait, I can at least wait at the hospital.
I grab my phone and satchel before going downstairs. My stomach twists at the sight of Archer coming in the front door. His gaze scans me without expression.
“Hey.”
I nod, my hand tightening on my satchel strap. I have to pass him to get through the door.
“I’m just… just going out for a couple of hours,” I stammer.
“Where to?”
“Downtown. Just to… to look around. Joanna said I could use Richard’s car for the time being.”
I slip past him in the doorway, jerking away when the sleeve of his sweatshirt brushes my arm. He frowns, turning to watch me go out to the driveway.
“Hey,” he calls.
I stop.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look… I dunno.”
“Yeah, I… just have a migraine. I get them sometimes. I took a few aspirin, so I should be okay soon.”
I fumble with the keys and manage to get into the car. I inhale a rush of air and close my eyes, forcing my breath back under control. I try to fit the key into the ignition, but my hand is shaking too hard.
There’s a knock on the window. Archer is standing outside the car. He indicates that I should open the door.
“You need a ride?” he asks.
“I’m…” I swallow hard, then confess, “I need to go to the hospital.”
“Oh. To visit my father?”
“N-no. I have a… an emergency.”
He looks stunned. “Oh. You’re… should I call 911?”
“No.” I try to push the key into the ignition again. “I just have to go now.”
“Shove over, Liv. I’ll drive.”
Since I can’t even start the goddamn car, I get out and go around to the passenger side. Archer climbs into the driver’s seat and backs out of the driveway. I’m suddenly glad he’s there, since I realize I have no idea how to get to the hospital. After fifteen minutes, he drives into the hospital parking lot and up to the front of the building.
“I’ll go park,” he says.
“You don’t have to stay. I don’t even know how long I’ll be.” I get out my cell phone. “Would you give me your number? I can call when I’m done.”
He recites his number. I program it into my phone, then hurry inside as he pulls away from the curb.
I follow the signs to the emergency room and tell the front desk receptionist why I’m here. She hands me a clipboard of forms and indicates where I should wait. I sit down, wishing I’d brought a sweater because I’m freezing cold. There are a couple of other people in the waiting area, though no one seems to be in serious distress.
I feel a little calmer being at the hospital. I fill out the forms and return them, then try to distract myself by leafing through an entertainment magazine.
A cramp tugs at the left side of my abdomen.
No. Just a pulled muscle.
The print and pictures swim before my eyes. My lower back aches. The nurse calls one of the other people in. I stare at a page of movie reviews. A recipe for chocolate-chip cookies. An article about a TV show actress. An ad for baby shampoo.
The cramp spreads tight across my belly. No.
“Mrs. West?”
I look up. A nurse holding a clipboard gestures me forward.
“Come in,” she says. “We have a bit of a lull, so the doctor can see you in about ten minutes.”
When I stand up, I feel a gush of blood between my legs. I start to shake again.
Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three… exhale…
“You’re about ten weeks pregnant?” the nurse asks me as she guides me behind an examination curtain. “And you’re having some spotting?”
“It… I think it’s bleeding.”
“Any clots?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
She types all the information into her computer, asks more questions, takes my blood pressure and temperature. Then she tells me to strip from the waist down and cover myself with a paper sheet while I wait for the doctor.
The curtain snaps shut with a whoosh as she leaves. I can hardly make my shaking fingers work to unfasten my jeans and pull them off. A wave of dizziness hits me. The panty liner is soaked through. There’s blood on my inner thighs.
I grab a Kleenex and swipe. A stringy clot clings to the paper.
I know it then. Terror seizes my chest anew.
I’m having a miscarriage.
The doctor arrives. He’s a slender man with a neat moustache and an air of sympathy. He knows too, even before he examines me. I put my feet into the stirrups and stare at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights burning my eyes.
“I’m going to order a blood test, Mrs. West,” Dr. Paulson says as he inserts a speculum inside me and locks it open, “but I’m sorry to tell you that it does look as if you’ve lost the pregnancy. You have quite a bit of bleeding and tissue loss.”
I can’t speak. The doctor and nurse confer in low murmurs. There’s some poking and prodding before the speculum slides out of me.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to stop a miscarriage,” Dr. Paulson tells me as he puts the bloody speculum on a tray and sheds his gloves. “But you should know they’re quite common, and many women do go on to have successful pregnancies. Have you experienced a loss of pregnancy symptoms?”
“I… my nausea went away about a week ago. I still felt like I was pregnant, though.”
“Likely because of hormone levels, though that was probably when the actual loss occurred.” He moves up to prod my abdomen. “As I said, we’ll do a blood test. Any severe pain?”
“Just cramps and some lower back pain.” I struggle to sit up when he indicates he’s finished. “What… what happens now?”
“You’ll bleed for perhaps a week or two.” Dr. Paulson punches a few keys on the computer. “The cramping should stop within a couple of days. You can take ibuprofen for the pain. We’ll also give you a list of grief counselors, since the emotional component can be quite difficult. Your body should take care of things, but in the event that not all the tissue is expelled, a D and C might be necessary.”
God in heaven. Yesterday I was taking our child to Wizard’s Park and the ice-cream parlor. Today I’m expelling tissue.
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br /> “You should schedule a follow-up within about a week,” Dr. Paulson continues. “Of course, call your primary physician sooner if the bleeding increases, you develop a fever, or if you notice an unusual discharge.”
He gives me a list of reminders, and he and the nurse do some more conferring. My cell phone rings inside my satchel.
Dean.
I let voicemail pick it up again.
“Do you have someone to drive you home?” the nurse asks me, after the doctor has expressed his condolences and left.
I nod, even though I told Archer to leave. The nurse hands me a folder of information about dealing with a miscarriage and points out the telephone numbers of grief counselors. She gives me a few extra maxi-pads before going to print a copy of the doctor’s report.
I get back into my stained underwear and jeans. A phlebotomist stops by to draw blood from my arm. The nurse brings me the report, which I put in my satchel. I gather my stuff and return to the reception area.
Archer is sitting in one of the chairs, waiting for me.
“W-what are you doing here?” I stammer.
He pushes to his feet, wary. “Well, I wasn’t just going to leave you alone.”
I press a hand to my cramping stomach. I’m too frozen to feel anything.
“You, uh…” Archer shifts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He glances past me to the doors leading to the exam rooms. “You’re okay now?”
I shake my head. I have nothing left, no strength to lie. “I need to go home.”
I need to be back in Mirror Lake, in our apartment on Avalon Street. I need my old, warm quilt and my padded bathrobe. I need my husband.
My tears spill over. I swipe at my face with my sleeve and try to stop the sobs inching up my throat. Archer takes some Kleenex from the nurse’s station and hands them to me.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll drive you back to the house.”
We leave the hospital and walk out to the car. Shivers are still racking my body. I’m glad he’s driving.
“Can we stop at the drugstore?” I ask.
To my gratitude, Archer doesn’t ask why. He pulls into the parking lot of a Walgreen’s and waits in the car while I go in and buy a box of maxi-pads and some more ibuprofen. We’re both silent on the way back to the West house.
