“Awesome.”
I asked her about her diet, recommended prenatal yoga and some guided meditation for pregnant women, told her to get plenty of exercise. “Um . . . is it still okay to have sex?” she asked. She was a newlywed, and she blushed as she asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” I said. “Sex won’t hurt the baby. Feeling friskier these days?”
“Yeah,” she admitted, turning pinker.
“It’s the hormones. Totally natural. I bet your husband isn’t complaining.”
“He’s not,” she said, laughing.
I took out the fetal doppler and listened to the baby’s heartbeat. Annie’s eyes filled. “I love that sound,” she whispered.
“She can hear your heartbeat, too,” I said.
“Really? Sure, that makes sense. Oh.” The tears spilled over, and I held the doppler there a minute longer.
Pregnancy was truly miraculous.
When she was cleaned up from the gel and dressed again, we scheduled her next appointment. She hugged me before leaving.
At least I’ll have this, I thought. When Dylan was 2,662 miles away, I’d still have my job. The best job in the world.
The last patient of the day was a walk-in. “She won’t tell me why she’s here,” Carol said, clearly irked. “She wants to talk to a doctor or nurse. I guess I’m not good enough for her.”
“Don’t take it personally, Carol,” I said. I poked my head into the waiting room. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Lillie Silva, the nurse-midwife. Come on in.”
The girl—young woman—was blond, tanned and silent. “Hop on the scale,” I said, and she obliged. We went into an exam room. Each one was a different color of a soothing shade—gentle gray, sage green, slate blue—with abstract paintings on the walls and a mobile hanging from the ceiling. Hey. If you had to put your feet in the stirrups, you may as well have a pretty room for it. Another of my redecorating projects.
“What can I do for you, Bonnie?” I asked. “Cute name, by the way.”
“It’s fake,” she said.
“Okay.” This happened—clients came in for Plan B after a night of unprotected sex to prevent conception, or needed a pregnancy test, or wanted to go on birth control. “How can I help you today?” She wasn’t much older than Dylan, but I didn’t know her. A summer person, maybe, or someone who had driven here for anonymity’s sake.
“I need to get tested for STDs,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “My boyfriend cheated on me and then dumped me.” She sobbed once, and my heart clenched for her.
I squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry. That’s so hard.”
“It is! I really feel like my heart is breaking in half!”
I handed her a box of tissues—the good kind, with lotion, not the scratchy kind. It’s the little things, and we had a lot of tears in this office, happy, sad, terrified. “A few questions first. Did you use birth control, and if so, what kind?”
They had used condoms （thank God）。 I went through the slew of questions, holding her hand when she cried. Sent her to pee in a cup, did a cheek swab, drew some blood. We had a quick HIV test here, so it would only take twenty minutes or so to get results. Then I told her to put on an exam robe （they were cotton . . . again, the little things）， and had her put her feet in the stirrups. Her legs were shaking, poor baby.
In went the prewarmed speculum, and I did my thing. “Everything looks completely normal,” I said. “Go ahead and sit up. It’ll take about five days for us to get the results back. Okay if I leave a voice message on your phone?”
“Sure. Do you think I have anything?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I had that vaccine. For HPV.”
“Excellent. I can’t guarantee anything, but your odds are definitely lower because you used condoms. Every time, right?”
“Right. The last thing I wanted to do was get pregnant.”
“Smart girl.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Try not to worry until you have something to worry about, okay? Everything is treatable.”
“Except herpes. Herpes is forever.”
“But still treatable.” My phone dinged with a text from Carol. HIV test negative. “No HIV,” I said.
“Thank God!” She closed her eyes with relief.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed. If you need to talk, call us, okay? The service will put you through if it’s after hours.”