Jake is right, less than half an hour later the lovely Doctor Rachael Brown is shown into the room to
examine me. I
tell her there’s no point evicting Jake as he’ll only linger, asking questions, at the closed door every two
minutes distracting her from her job. He has an air of command oozing from him and he’s in a no-
nonsense mood. He’s already hanging at the side of bed with a grim expression on his face, as though
he wants to beat someone.
“Doctor.” He nods her way and watches her like a hawk.
She smiles, indulgently, and gives me a sympathetic look. I guess she’s met a few overprotective men
in her career and looks like she can handle the Carreros of this world.
“So, now, how can I help here?” She smiles sweetly, her voice as smooth as honey, with one perfectly
manicured hand she runs a stray copper hair back into her neat French roll. She looks more like one of
Jake’s top executives than a doctor.
“She’s passed out more than once recently, this morning being the latest and she vomited when we
were out earlier. Something is just off with her. I can feel it. She never gets sick.” Jake’s husky tone and
narrowed gaze is almost impaling her hands. He’s watching intently as she moves a stethoscope
toward me.
“You know she’s not going to stab me with it, right?” I giggle at him and watch his facial expression
soften slightly. He gives me half a smile and the doctor smirks from the corner of her mouth as she
encourages me to pull down the sheets so she can get to my chest and abdomen.
Jake walks over to his wardrobe and comes back with a T-shirt. I’m just wearing underwear right now,
so he holds it out to me as the doctor moves behind me to listen to my back and I slide it on over my
head awkwardly.
“Do you have any other symptoms or concerns?” She’s gazing at me intensely, checking my throat and
glands, generally fluttering around my body while she listens to me. Her hands are surprisingly soft and
warm and completely non-intrusive despite being all over me.
“I want to sleep an awful lot, constantly feel exhausted, a little weak I guess, and I’ve noticed I’m
hungrier than normal.” I sigh and catch Jake’s eyes narrow even further. I know he’s accusing me of
not telling him something important. It’s not like wanting more food and being crazy tired is a symptom
of anything but emotional exhaustion and insomnia. So he can take that glare elsewhere! I narrow my
eyes back at him and I’m met with that stubborn furrow of his brow.
“Hmm, mmm, hmmm.” The doctor pulls something from her bag, a book, and jots some things down.
“Anything else? Tender anywhere? Unusual behaviors or cravings?” She’s not looking at me but
instead rummaging in her bag pulling out some bottles and vials then moving to stand.
“Um … not that I can think of.” I hate being put on
the spot when I haven’t really been paying attention to my own body. “I’ve been distracted with other
things lately, so I’ve not really taken much notice of anything like that,”
I explain, smiling. But then I catch Jake’s glare dissipating, he looks completely guilt ridden and hangs
his head a little. The effect is devastating, and a surge of ache hits me hard.
I want to reach out and cuddle him and make it go away. He looks so forlorn.
“I think some urine and bloods might be a good idea. Then, some more questions and a more thorough
work up. Are you okay with that?” She blinks at me with a professional smile and I nod. I catch Jake in
the corner of my eye; hands in pockets, leaning back against the flat gray paintwork with the air of a
guy who has no will to do anything but wait and watch. He’s obviously mulling things over in his head;
lost in his own regrets and guilt. I want to pull him out of it and wrap myself around him. But the
doctor’s hands jolt me back to what she needs to do right now.
During the next half hour, she examines me thoroughly, questioning me endlessly about my daily
routines and other things that don’t seem to have much relation to tiredness and extreme hunger. She
takes blood and asks me to urinate in a cup which is awkward, given that the act of standing makes me
feel too lightheaded. Jake tries to come to my rescue but there’s no way I want him to watch me peeing
in a cup. I hold him back with a raised palm, hating the look of pain that flashes across his face, he
must think I’m refusing his help because of what has happened this last week. He moves back to his
deflated posturing against the wall, sinking into a quiet somber mood; I hate him this way.
The doctor takes away everything she has collected, all cups and samples and moves to the oak unit
that sits against the bedroom wall. She is spending a long time pouring, dipping, and using other
chemicals and powders in her chemistry kit. It’s fascinating to watch her, and it reminds me of the
scientists in CSI.
She has a very serious expression while she dips and tests and writes down notes, then picks it all up
and takes things to the bathroom to clear it up. No one has said a word in what feels like an eternity,
there are long tense silences and the apartment is eerily quiet; despite Nora being out there
somewhere. We wait patiently while she disposes of things in the trash and washes her hands in the
sink for at least five agonizing minutes.
Jake pushes off the wall and comes to sit on the bedside helping me fix his T-shirt, so I can remove my
uncomfortable bra from underneath. He pulls up my sheets, kissing me lightly on the forehead as
though I am a simple sick child in need of mothering. He plumps the cushions for me wordlessly,
guarding his emotions, his face is set in a blank expression, but his body language betrays his worried
demeanor.
“What’s the verdict, doc?” He watches the doctor as she strolls back into view. She writes something,
studiously, on a medical pad left on the side unit and turns to look at us with a smile. He tenses, then
take a long deep breath very slowly, emanating all kinds of fear. It makes me want to wrap my arms
around his neck to make him feel better. He’s the young boyish version of himself right now and I’m
incapable of withstanding that side of him.
“Emma, are you okay to discuss a diagnosis in front of Mr. Carrero?” She eyes me kindly; a no-
nonsense attitude and raised brow that tells me she has every intention of evicting him if necessary.
Jake stiffens. He either doesn’t like her question and it’s grating on his infamous ego, most likely
bristling with attitude ready to take her on, or he’s worried that the diagnosis is something to be truly
scared about.
“It’s fine. You can tell Jake anything you have to tell me.” I smile, graciously, knowing full well the drama
that would ensue if I dared to try to make him leave. It would be horrific. Jake cuts in instantly.
“So, what is it? What’s wrong with her?” His low growl indicating he’s stressed over the diagnosis, his
caveman aggressive demeanor a show of the scared Jake who has been riled by her attitude. I know
him too well. He’s clasping my hands playing with my fingers in his I’m nervous as hell way; but to
anyone else, he looks terrifyingly pumped and ready to beat someone down.
The doctor isn’t fazed at all, she starts sliding her tools back into her open case, smoothing down her
jacket, in
a show of control and poise that PA Emma would have admired, and smiles widely, turning her full
attention to
my face.
“Nothing eight months of TLC won’t cure, and I’ll have your blood tests checked for low iron.” She
smiles, seemingly pleased with herself. She doesn’t falter at her hidden joke and moves to close the
front part of her case.
“Eight … Months …?” Jake’s face blanks. His voice is suddenly breathy, and all the aggression
evaporates, he repeats it almost numbly, something registering in his head that I’m not getting but his
whole demeanor is stunned.
“Give or take … Here.” She hands me a slip of paper. “It’s a prescription for some folic acid and some
vitamins.” Another bright smile, an air of confidence at thinking I know what she means but I truly don’t.
“Doctor Brown … Why eight months? What’s wrong?” I blink up at her, confused by her manner and
answers. Perplexed at Jake’s instant zombie like state. It’s like I’ve entered the twilight zone.
Why do I need vitamins? What’s wrong with me? Shit … I really am sick. I don’t feel sick, and eight
months to recover is not good at all.
She smiles at both of us and sits down on the edge of the bed. Jake is being scarily silent, staring
blankly at her and her apparent two heads. His hands have clamped on mine firmly and there’s a good
chance he’s stopped breathing, my stomach is tightening in fear, my senses going haywire, and my
fingers turning a little blue at Jake’s deathly grip.
What the hell?
“I’m guessing I should be more direct, Emma, I’m saying you’re pregnant. I would say given the
answers to the questions I asked you’re roughly under a month gone. Your contraception failed I’m
afraid.” She beams at me as though this is the most wonderful news in the world, but my throat
tightens, and my stomach flips out, the room tips as the bubbling surge of panic hits me hard.
What?
Jake doesn’t move, I’m not sure he even heard her, he’s acting like he’s in a trance. The complete
opposite to what my inner mind is doing.
“Pregnant?” He finally says, before his shoulders flex and his fingers loosen the death grip on mine. He
seems to sag a little, still staring but now down at his lap, his mind must be running through the
possibility and the realization of what is happening, but I’m just freaking out. My mind is racing, palms
are sweating, and my throat closing.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
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