Willow tries for lightness. “Is that…bad?” she asks. Paper crackles under her as she shifts. She’s wearing the soft kind of dress that remembers being a T-shirt. Her hair’s pulled up, theline of her neck bare. She looks like someone who meant to go back to work after a routine check.
Nicole looks up and catches my eye, and for a second, she forgets about the strange tension she picked up on between the three of us and Willow, validated by our recusal. She says out loud, “Doctor—” and then stops herself, saying, “I’ll page Patel.”
But then Willow’s eyes follow Nicole’s and catch mine. Her gaze lingers. Green, sharp, scared. “Can…Dr. Murray come in?” Her voice is gentle, unsure if she’s allowed to ask.
It should be the moment I shake my head, remind her I’m not her physician, and walk away. But her fear is evident in the way her hands are tearing at the paper sheet underneath her and the widening of her big green eyes.
“Is that…would it help if I was here?”
She nods, squeaks, “Please, Declan,” and I step inside but keep my hands to myself, telling myself presence isn’t the same as care.
Numbers don’t lie. They can’t. 148 over 94 blinks up at me, smug as a warning light on a dash. Too high. Not in the red that sets off alarms, but high enough that the gut in me that’s learned to trust patterns goes cold.
Nicole repositions the cuff and hits recheck. The cuff deflates. 150/96.
“Are you getting repeat pressures and labs?” I ask Nicole, concern sharpening my senses.
Willow huffs a laugh that sounds brittle. “It’s one high reading. Please don’t make me do another. I hate the cuff.”
“Everyone hates the cuff,” Nicole drones, nonchalant, a pen in her mouth and her eyes still on the screen.
“Like taxes,” I offer.
“Like men who think they’re funny,” Nicole says, shooting me a look, and I pretend to be offended, clutching my chest.
“I ran from the car. The cuff hurts. I’m nervous,” Willow says, listing the reasons her blood pressure might be high. It almost makes me chuckle.
“All that can certainly push it up,” Nicole says gently. “If that’s the case, let’s wait and see if it settles. If it doesn’t, we’ll move you to observation for a bit.”
Willow’s chin lifts. “I have a shift. I can’t no-show. Not being able to pay my bills isn’t going to lower my blood pressure.”
“You can,” I say, quiet. “And if the numbers stay like that, you should.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “You don’t get to order me around.”
“I’m not ordering you, forfeck’ssake.” I hold her gaze and keep my hands at my sides. “No one here is ordering you or will order you to do anything. But you should know that preeclampsia starts quiet and ends loud.”
Silence, save for the machine. Her hand moves, uninvited, to the small round of her stomach. It’s early, but no one here is pretending we don’t all know what’s at stake. Three. Her fingers splay; something tightens under my ribs in sympathy.
I prod, forcing her to understand my point. “Do you have a headache?”
“No. I’m just…floaty.”
“Dizzy?”
“A little,” she admits, and I can’t help but notice the way her mouth presses into her cheek, twisting as she realizes I’m right. It’s a mannerism I’ve noticed from her a couple of times. I wonder if her children will have it. I haven’t known her long enough to feel like anything she does is familiar, but somehow I do. After a moment, she whispers, “I hate hospitals.”
“So do I,” I answer honestly. “But listen, if it’s nothing, it’ll be quicker. If it’s something, it’s less time spent here if you let them help you now. Let them be careful now so we don’t have to be heroic later. Do you really want to see how a guy like Dr. Byrne acts when he’s the hero?” I smile warmly at her, raising my eyebrows, and she smiles back. Her smile is thinner, more careful.
She looks up at Nicole and nods. Nicole’s smile is easier than both of ours. She says, “I’ll get Dr. Patel and request an observation bay.”
Willow looks up at her and asks, “Are they going to take blood?”
“Just a little,” Nicole replies, clipping her pen into her scrubs pocket.
“They’ll always stop before you run out,” I offer, channeling Sean’s ease even when I don’t feel it. I feel scared for her and the babies. I realize again why the recusal was necessary—this fearwouldimpede my judgment. Willow huffs something like a laugh, and I realize I’ll do anything to hear that sound.
Nicole slips out with her pen still clipped to her pocket, leaving us in the hush of paper sheets and the cuff still squeezing Willow’s arm.
