“I suppose, but I don’t like that as a treatment plan,” she conveys.
“Then I guess we’ll wait and see what the doc suggests,” I comment.
“Have I mentioned I hate doctors and hospitals?”
“You did, but you still haven’t explained why,” I rebut.
“When I was younger, I passed out at school from malnutrition,” she confesses. “My parents were able to convince the emergency room doctor I had an eating disorder no matter how much I protested that I didn’t. I told him that they were withholding food as a form of punishment for one infraction or another, but he didn’t believe me and sent me home with an appointment to see a therapist.” I stop, chuckling. “I thought, yes, that’s my shining light, surely an educated counselor would believe me. They’re taught to see the signs of neglect.”
“Let me guess,” I say, interrupting her. “That’s not what happened.”
“Not at all,” she answers, shaking her head. “That fucker thought I was starving myself for attention and tried to get my parents to commit me.”
“And they couldn’t do that because it could’ve exposed their negligent secrets,” I add, comprehending her parents’ warped way of thinking.
“Got it in one guess,” she replies, snorting. “Some people shouldn’t be parents, and that is my biggest fear. Failing our kid because I don’t have the best example of how a mother should act.”
“You’re going to be a great mom, Britt. I see the way you are with Jersey, you already have those mothering intuitions.”
“That’s different, I didn’t have to raise her,” she argues.
“Flip the coin, darlin’, I bet you’ll see there’s not that much of a difference between heads and tails,” I state as we pull into the parking lot.
“That makes no sense to me,” she harrumphs.
“Dig deep, Britt, and see the bigger picture. One day, you’ll get what I’m trying to say.” Without giving her a chance to rebut, I shut off the motor, hop out, pocket my keys, and round the truck until I’m at the passenger side where I open the door just as she unlatches the seatbelt, helping her down.
“That’s a long drop,” she sputters, embedding her fingernails into my biceps, holding on for dear life as she slides down my body.
“It’s all in your head, baby. Don’t let your fear rule you. Do you honestly think I’d let you fall?”
“I know you wouldn’t,” she insists, as if she believes that with her whole heart.
“Then keep that in mind when you’re in my arms.”
“I’ll try,” she whispers. “But old wounds don’t always get the memo.”
“Then let’s work on stitching those together so they don’t fester.”
Doctor Dennison, who insists we call her Monica, is a hoot and a half. Britton and I both felt comfortable with her from the moment she came into the exam room. She entered with a pregnancy joke that had both of us laughing and putting us at ease.
After she measures Britton’s belly and takes some samples to send off to the lab for analysis, she has her get dressed and asks us to meet her in her office. That part seemed to make Britton nervous and she mutters about never having appointments continue after the examination in a different space.
As we’re escorted down the hallway by a nurse, Britton whispers, “Do you think she’s going to tell us something bad which is why she has us going to a less sterile room?”
The corner of my lip lifts in a quirky smile, finding her rambling question amusing. “No. I think that she wants to go over things with us in a more comfortable setting.”
“Have you ever gone over your diagnosis with a doctor in their personal office, Tanner?”
“Can’t say that I have, but I’ve never been pregnant either,” I respond.
“You think I’m getting special treatment because I’m preggers?”
“Preggers,” I repeat like a parrot, shaking my head. “I thought only teenage girls used that word.”
“Hey, I resent that. I’m young, younger than you, cowboy.”
“Not too young,” I say loud enough for the nurse to hear, which has Britton releasing a giggle. “This is not one of those age gap romances you like to read.”
