Infinite Possibilities (The Secret Life of Amy Bensen #2)(30)

Reluctantly, it seems, he leans back and says, “I’m calling for the doctor.”

I nod. “Yes. Okay.”

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and walks to the window. My attention is riveted on him, this man who could very well be the father of my child. I study him, his strong profile, the way he moves with grace and confidence, the way he makes everything seem easy. Except us. We are not easy any more than we are the calm water of the Hudson River just beyond the windows. We are caught in the hurricane of turbulence, passion, and a past I can’t even remember.





Chapter Nine



In less than an hour from the time Liam places the call, Dr. Murphy, an attractive forty-something woman, has arrived, and according to Liam, she makes a living catering to the rich and famous. Translation, she gets paid the big bucks for keeping her mouth shut. I pray the opposite doesn’t apply as well.

She and I take a seat at the window in Liam’s bedroom and I am acutely aware of Liam hovering nearby. I’m also aware of Dr. Murphy’s perfectly fitted navy blue suit, and her red hair braided at her nape, while I am a blonde, frizzy, just showered mess, who managed a few dabs of makeup from the stash I had in my backpack that made it to New York with me. I am also braless, thanks to Liam’s overzealous dagger action, and dressed in an oversized T-shirt, tennis shoes, and Liam’s sweats that I’ve had to pin up.

Dr. Murphy admires the water for a moment. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this view.” Her lips curve. “Alex and I went way back. I actually live next door but there is something about the view from his room.”

“Oh,” I say, and my mind can go all kinds of places with that one.

“Oh,” she repeats, looking amused. “And yes to whatever you are thinking. I knew Alex quite well.” She pulls a blood pressure machine from her bag. “Let’s start with some basic vitals, shall we?”

She pumps the cuff up. Liam paces behind us. Back and forth. Back and forth. Dr. Murphy unclamps my arm. “Blood pressure is good.” She stands to eye Liam. “But mine won’t be if you keep pacing behind me.” She points to the door. “Out.”

“I’m staying,” he insists.

She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a steely stare that impressively rivals the one he returns. “You leave,” she warns, “or I leave.”

Liam, who has changed into jeans and a teal blue pullover that matches his now stormy eyes, gives her a fierce look. “I don’t like being strong-armed, Dr. Murphy.”

She doesn’t even try to deny that’s exactly what she’s doing. “You don’t have to like it. I’m the doctor and I insist all of my patients have privacy.”

Liam eyes me and I quickly tell him, “I’m perfectly fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but says, “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Once we’re alone, the doctor pulls out her stethoscope and checks my heart, then listens to my lungs and takes my temperature. “Liam tells me you’re having blackouts.”

“For six years off and on. There are triggers I’m aware of and acupuncture helps.”

“Describe the blackouts.”

“It’s more flashbacks to a terrible time in my life. I see spots and get pressure in my head and then everything just goes black.”

“How often?”

“I went years without any at all, but now...a couple a day.”

She whistles. “That’s not good, especially if you think you’re pregnant. It limits our testing abilities and medications.”

“I’ve had MRIs and CAT scans. They showed nothing.”

“How long ago?”

“Years.”

“That’s too long ago.” She purses her lips. “You said they went away and came back?”

“Yes. A stress trigger set me off again. Really. I know what is wrong. I just...I need to know if I’m pregnant and if the blackouts can hurt the baby.”

“What was the diagnosis?”

“I don’t know. The doctors just tried to shove drugs down my throat.”

“Did you try medications?”

“No, and I won’t.”

“Why?”

Because I can’t risk my thinking process being impaired, but instead I say, “I just won’t.”

She reaches in her bag and pulls out a blood drawing kit. “Let’s take blood and run a full panel, as well as a pregnancy test.”

“I need to know about the baby now.”

Digging in her bag, she produces a little plastic cup and hands it to me. “Fill it and I have a strip test for immediate results. Let me do the blood draw first. It’s Friday and I want to get them to the lab so we have them back on Monday.”

Lab. My name. “No. No test results. No lab.”

“Nothing is done in your name,” she says, reading my worries. “Discretion all the way.”

Reluctantly, I stretch my arm out and she wraps a rubber tube around it. “Have you seen a counselor?” she asks, readying the syringe. “In cases of post traumatic syndrome, which I suspect is what you’re dealing with, talking to someone and dealing with whatever happened to you can be helpful.” She glances at my arm. “Ready?”