Shortly is fifteen minutes later.
Dr. Raposo asks similar questions and then says, "Follow my finger with your eyes, please."
I track his movements while he watches my eye response. Next comes the reflex test, then a series of cognitive questions: my name, the date, the current president. He has me stand to do a few balance tests.
"Balance seems fine," he notes. "Memory and cognition intact. When was your last menstrual cycle?"
The question surprises me. Is that standard? "I... about four or five weeks ago?” Wait, what? Then I consider all I’ve been through. “I've been stressed with work, so..."
Something shifts in his expression. "I'd like to run a few more tests, Ms. Ricci."
My stomach tightens with dread. "You think it's serious?" God. Do I have a tumor? From a fall? Maybe it’s a clot or aneurysm.
“We just need to rule out a few things, including pregnancy."
"Pregnancy?" I nearly laugh at the absurdity. "That's not possible."
Dr. Raposo's expression remains neutral as he types something on his computer. "You mentioned nausea primarily in the mornings, plus fatigue. These symptoms overlap with concussion, yes, but also with early pregnancy. Are you sexually active?"
"I'm on birth control.”
"Birth control isn't foolproof," Dr. Raposo says gently. "And stress, antibiotics, even certain foods can reduce effectiveness."
Antibiotics?
“I see in your EMR that you had a sinus infection for which you were prescribed antibiotics.”
The room suddenly feels like it’s about to spin. "I can't be pregnant."
"Let's find out for certain." He retrieves a small package from a cabinet. "A simple urine test will give us an answer."
My hands shake as I take the test kit from him. This can't be happening. Not now. Not with Dom Vitale of all people.
He leads me to a sterile bathroom where I deposit a sample into the little cup.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Raposo returns. “It seems we have an answer. You’re pregnant. Four or five weeks, judging by your last period."
I feel the blood drain from my face, my fingertips going numb. "That's not... I can't..." I can't form a coherent thought.
"Deep breaths," Dr. Raposo instructs, his voice coming from what seems like miles away. "I take it this isn’t planned?"
Planned. Nothing I’ve done the last six weeks has been planned. Especially sleeping with Dom.
“It’s normal to feel shocked at first during an unplanned pregnancy.”
Normal. Nothing about this situation is normal. I'm an FBI agent carrying the child of a mafia don I'm supposed to put in jail.
“We can discuss options. You have time to make decisions, Olivia."
A child. Dom's child. Growing inside me right now.
When I leave the clinic, I’ve got a sample of prenatal vitamins and a pamphlet about pregnancy. I arrive home, and to my spot on the couch, hands instinctively moving to my still-flat stomach.
A baby. Dom's baby. Our baby.
The reality starts to crash into me. I'll need a crib. Diapers. A car seat. I'll need to childproof everything. Find daycare. Or quit my job? The practical considerations pile up.
I close my eyes, and an image forms. A dark-haired little boy with Dom's intensity and my stubbornness. Will he have Dom's smile? My eyes? Will he grow up calling a criminal "Daddy"? Or will he never know his father at all?
