One Moment Please (Wait With Me #3)(25)

Lynsey’s breath comes fast and hard, and her belly shakes as she cries. “I’m pregnant?”

The woman’s eyes widen on me and then move to her. “You didn’t know?”

Lynsey shakes her head.

“Oh goodness, I’m so sorry. I assumed you knew.” The tech zeroes in on a measurement and adds, “This baby looks to be about thirteen weeks old.”

“Thirteen weeks?” Lynsey sobs and turns to look at me. “How? I don’t…It wasn’t thirteen weeks ago that—”

“I…you…” I stammer, all the years of education I’ve had in the medical field apparently disappearing in my muddled brain.

The tech’s voice interrupts, turning our attention back to her, “Well, you can’t even test positive on a pregnancy test until you’re about four or five weeks along. Let me input these measurements into my system, and I can tell you a conception date and a due date.”

My mouth gapes as my body attempts to process this information. Numbness overtakes me. This whole scenario is like it’s not even happening to me. It feels as though I’m a bystander while someone else finds out they’re going to be a parent. Not me. I was never going to have kids.

Blinking slowly, I focus on the tech as she types numbers on the screen. A sob from Lynsey breaks through my cloud of denial, and my eyes turn to see she’s slipping into full-on hysterics. Good God, she really had no idea.

Taking hold of her hand, I know I’m crossing a patient-doctor boundary, but I can’t even give a fuck, because, right now, she’s not my patient. She’s the woman I put in this situation.

Her hand tightens on mine as she continues to shake her head in complete disbelief. I stare at our joined hands, and a tremble runs through my body. This is it. We’re in this together now.

“November 22nd, or thereabouts is when the baby was conceived,” the sonographer says with a forced smile. “It has a day or two variance because sperm can live inside the vagina for up to five days and a follicle can live up to three days. So it just depends on when those two crazy kids decide to meet up.”

“I get it,” Lynsey says, defeatedly. “I’m pregnant. I…am pregnant. There’s a baby—inside me.”

The woman smiles. “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

We turn wide eyes to the tech as she twists a knob on her machine and a rapid fluttering heart rate echoes in the room. We soak it in for a good thirty seconds. I have to remind myself to breathe.

“Nice and strong. Perfectly normal.”

“So the baby is…okay?” Lynsey asks nervously. “I shot myself with an EpiPen a couple of hours ago. Is that bad?”

The tech turns her focus to me. “The doctor is better to answer that question.” Her gaze falls on my hand holding Lynsey’s, and I quickly release it and rub my sweaty palms on my scrub pants.

I clear my throat and reply, “EpiPens are fine to use as long as the benefits outweigh the risks.”

Lynsey gapes at me. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, there are not many studies to tell us exactly what the effects are.” My voice is flat, and for the first time, I actually hate that I can’t turn that part of myself off and comfort her.

“So, I could have hurt my baby?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“But we don’t know for sure?”

“Not really, no.”

“Why isn’t there more information?” she exclaims, her voice reaching a shrill level that sends me over the edge.

“Because, Lynsey, there aren’t many pregnant women willing to put their fetuses at risk by testing EpiPens for the sake of clinical studies.”

Lynsey instantly starts crying, covering her face with her hands. I wince at the tone I just took with her.

The tech lowers her gaze. “Anything else, Dr. Richardson?”

I shake my head. “Just the full report, please.”

The tech cleans up her stuff, but before she leaves, she puts a hand on Lynsey’s shoulder and hands over a photo. “The baby looks healthy. Great heart rate, great movement. That’s all that matters. Okay, honey?”

Lynsey nods, clutching the photo while her chin trembles.

“Thank you,” she croaks as she watches the woman leave the room.

I fold over, covering my face with my hands and mumbling against my palms, “How…how did this happen? We used a condom.”

“I know,” Lynsey says, her voice trembling. “Did it look okay when you took it off?”

“The condom?” I ask, and she nods. “It looked like a condom full of jizz, what the fuck do you mean?”

“Were there leaks?” she asks, her eyes red.

“I didn’t inspect it with a microscope.” I pin her with a glower. “What brand was it anyway? Where does your friend get her ridiculous book condoms made? Some back-alley shop in Tijuana?”

“How should I know?” Lynsey snaps, wincing as she jostles her photo. “Why don’t you go call Kate in from the waiting room so we can launch a full investigation! She’s the author who gave us the condom, after all.”

I pause, trying to calm down because it doesn’t matter where the condom came from. I’m an adult and it was a choice I made to use it. Lynsey tucks the photo under her hip and clutches her injured hand to her chest. Shit. I still need to stitch her finger.