Tate blinked. “Do you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.”
There was a gentle rapping on the door and it opened quickly. A middle-aged man with dark hair came in and waved.
“Jimmy Andrews? Our rock star. How ya feeling?” he greeted me. Tate grabbed my tray and pushed the cart away from my bed. I pressed my hands on my belly.
“My stomach hurts, all over.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Sounds about right. Well, we had to remove your appendix after you were stabbed. The knife punctured it and it was leaking all over inside you. We did three incisions, which is standard. Can I take a look?” He had me lay down and he lifted my gown to look at my stomach. He pressed on the wounds and I grimaced.
“Pain level, one to ten?”
“Six? Maybe?” I grimaced as he helped me sit back up. “I mean, it’s nothing like being stabbed,” I attempted humor and he actually laughed.
“Fair enough. Six is manageable. We’ll get you some more pain medicine. Now, I want to talk to you about the other thing. How are you feeling?”
“What other thing?” I turned to Tate in confusion, but his eyes were planted firmly on the floor. I looked back up at the doctor in panic. “Am I not going to be able to tour?”
“When is your tour?”
“In four weeks,” Tate answered for me when I was so confused to answer. The doctor considered it and then nodded.
“You should be good to go, although probably take it easy that first week or so. Maybe see if they’ll let you take a two-week extension. Six weeks total would be ideal.”
“For my appendix?” I eyed him skeptically. “I know plenty of people who are up in less time than that.”
Tate and the doctor exchanged a glance. The doctor nodded and smiled kindly.
“Yes, usually. But the other issue needs more time.”
“Okay, so what’s the other issue?” I demanded. The room was quiet for a moment before the doctor’s face fell and his smile fell off of his face.
“Mrs. Whitlock, you had a miscarriage. There was nothing we could do.”
What? Miscarriage? That meant that I had… been pregnant. My eyes went glossy instantly and I shook my head. Tate reached for my hand and squeezed it.
“No, that’s not right. I can’t be. I have birth control. I was only a few days late. They put a pad in my underwear!” I pointed down to my groin and he shook his head.
“I checked your medical history. You were due for a new implant months ago. Almost a year. And a miscarriage this early in the pregnancy often looks and feels like a heavy menstrual cycle. If this had happened at home, you probably wouldn’t have even known you were pregnant.”
I ripped my hand from Tate’s and put both of them over my ears.
“Stop saying that word!” I cried out as the tears started down my face.
“I’m sorry. There wasn’t anything that could be done. Things like this happen all the time. You did nothing wrong.”
I glared at him and my lips trembled to the point that my voice came out shaky.
“No shit I didn’t do anything wrong,” I spat. “I was fucking stabbed.”
The doctor crossed his arms and stared down at me in sympathy. I fucking hated him in that instant.
“Is that all? You came in here to tell me that? How long am I going to be like this?” I motioned to my lower half.
“A few days. But based on your medical history I think you’ll make a full recovery with that as well. You should have no issue getting pregnant and carrying a child to term in the future.”
“Fuck the future!” I snapped. “Get out.”
