2: one heartbeat stops; another one starts; yours shatters somewhere precisely in between.
Whoever designed hospital gowns hates women.
The misogyny is just so obvious. It’s literally baked into the design. It is structurally impossible for anyone with even slightly more curves than a plank of plywood to cover all your bits and bobs at once.
And that’s when you can see well enough to tug it all into something approaching modest. Given what I’m working with in the vision department, this endeavor was doomed from the start.
I squirm on the exam table uncomfortably. Once the less-than-kind nurse left, I peed and got into the gown she left behind, then sat and waited. Now, I’ve been waiting in this Siberian-temperature exam room for more than thirty minutes and my butt cheeks are each taking turns falling asleep.
I press my palms against my thighs, trying to warm them up. The gown is gapping somewhere around my lower back, but reaching around to fix it would probably just make things worse. Besides, what’s the point of protecting your dignity when you’re about to have a stranger poking around your cervix?
The television in the corner has been murmuring softly this whole time, some news program I’ve been only half-aware of while I sit here freezing my tits off. It’s white noise, mostly—traffic updates and weather reports and advertisements for medications with side effects exponentially worse than the conditions they’re supposed to treat.
Then I hear his name.
“Bastian Hale…”
Just like that, the cold from the A/C vent disappears. The discomfort of the gown vanishes. Everything narrows down to that voice coming from the television.
“… was found dead late last night in a warehouse on Chicago’s South Side. The renowned restaurateur and CEO of Hale Hospitality was apparently the victim of what police are calling a targeted hit with suspected ties to organized crime.”
The words don’t make sense at first. They’re just sounds. Gibberish syllables strung together in an order my brain refuses to process.Bastian. Dead. Warehouse. Organized crime.Those things don’t go together, do they? It’s like zucchini brownies. The ingredients just don’t mix, no matter how much someone tries to insist they do.
“Hale, thirty-five, was best known for his revolutionary approach to high-end dining and his recent Project Olympus development, which has been generating significant buzz inthe culinary world. Police say he was discovered by a security guard making rounds shortly after midnight. The investigation is ongoing, and no suspects are currently in custody.”
My hand finds my stomach automatically, fingers splaying across the thin cotton of the hospital gown.
Bastian is dead.
The father of my child is dead.
“—shocking loss to Chicago’s culinary community,” the anchor continues. “Hale’s restaurants have been credited with revitalizing several neighborhoods and?—”
The door opens. I flinch so hard I nearly fall off the exam table.
“Ms. Hunter?” It’s a woman’s voice, warm and sultry. “I’m Dr. Enriquez. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
I can’t speak. My throat has closed up completely, sealed tight around the words I can’t say:He’s dead. Bastian is dead. I watched him become a monster and now, he’s dead and I’m carrying his child and he’s dead and I’m all alone and he’s dead, he’s dead, he’sdead?—
“Are you alright?” I can hear her frown. “You look very pale. Do you need some water?”
I shake my head. Then, because she probably can’t tell if I’m responding or just trembling, I force out a weak, unconvincing “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? We can reschedule if you’re not feeling well?—”
“No. No, I’m okay. Let’s just… let’s get this over with.”
Dr. Enriquez’s coat swishes as she moves around the room. “Okay. Well, today, we’re going to do your first ultrasound. It’s pretty routine, nothing to worry about whatsoever. We’ll check to make sure everything’s developing properly, get some measurements, and maybe even hear the heartbeat if the little one is in a cooperative mood.”
Heartbeat. Last night, Bastian’s heartbeat stopped forever in some dingy, rat-infested warehouse on the South Side. And now, I’m supposed to listen to the heartbeat of the child he’ll never meet?
My fingers dig into the edge of the exam table.
“I’m going to have you lie back and lift your gown just above your pubic bone,” Dr. Enriquez continues, oblivious to the fact that my entire world just imploded on live television. “The probe will be a little uncomfy, I’m afraid. Everyone says that, but it never stops being true.”
I lie back mechanically. My hands shake as I fumble with the gown, trying to expose just the right amount of stomach.
“Perfect,” she says. “Just relax for me, okay?”
