Twisted(39)

Pick you up if you fall

Hold you when you’re hurting

But baby, most of all I’ll be there . . . so you’ll never be alone

Don’t ever feel alone

I imagine myself a few years from now, walking home on the city streets from the job I love—one hand holding a briefcase, the other holding the small, sweet hand of my little girl or boy.

And I picture us at the dining-room table, working on homework and talking about our day. I see story times, and bedtimes, tickle-times, hugs, and butterfly kisses.

Being a single mother wasn’t something I’d ever planned to be . . . but now? It’s who I want to be.

I’ll be there every step of the way

Won’t miss a moment

I’ll be there every step of the way

Won’t miss a moment

You know that saying? The best-laid plans of mice and men . . . ? You might want to remember that right about now.

Because as soon as the decision takes root in my mind, I feel a dull throbbing. You ladies will know what I’m talking about. That pulling cramp in my lower abdomen. And a thick, warm wetness oozes out from between my legs, seeping into my underwear.

My heartbeat pounds against my chest, and I head for the restrooms. Hoping I’m wrong.

But once I’m in the stall, I see that I’m not.

I stumble back out of the bathroom, into the crowd. My hands shaking with dread, with fear. Because this is wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I grab Delores’s arm and tell her. But the music’s too loud, and she doesn’t hear me. I pull her to the back of the bar, where it’s quieter, and I force the words out.

“Dee, I’m bleeding.”



Forrest Gump had it all wrong. Life isn’t like a box of chocolates.

Doctors are.

The vivacious but inexperienced physician right out of medical school, or the battle-hardened know-it-all finishing the last minutes of a twenty-hour shift—you never know what you’re gonna get.

“Spontaneous abortion.”

My eyes snap away from the gray blob of the ultrasound screen to the steel-blue eyes of the emergency-room doctor. But he’s not looking at me—he’s too busy writing on his clipboard.

“Wh . . . what did you say?”

“Spontaneous abortion—miscarriage. It’s common in the first trimester.”

I make an effort to process his words, but I can’t quite manage it. “Are you . . . are you saying I’m losing my baby?”

Finally he looks up. “Yes. If you haven’t already lost it. This early in gestation, it can be difficult to tell.”

As he wipes the cool, clear gel off my abdomen, Delores squeezes my hand. We called my mother on the way to the hospital, but she hasn’t gotten here yet.

I swallow hard, but I refuse to give up. Stubborn—remember?

“Is there anything you can do? Hormone therapy or bed rest? I’ll do bed rest for the entire nine months if it’ll help.”

His tone is clipped and impatient. “There’s nothing I could prescribe that could stop this. And believe me, you wouldn’t want me to. Spontaneous abortion is natural selection, the body’s way of terminating a fetus with some catastrophic deformity that would have prevented it from surviving outside the womb. You’re better off.”

The room starts to spin as the hits keep on coming. “You need to make a follow-up appointment with your regular gynecologist. When the fetal tissue is expelled, you should scoop it out of the toilet with a strainer. Then put it in a spill-proof container—a jelly jar would work well—so your doctor can analyze the remains and ensure the uterus is empty. If all the uterine matter isn’t . . .”

I press the back of my hand against my mouth to keep the bile in. And Delores charges to the rescue. “That’s enough. Thank you, Doctor Frankenstein—we’ve got it from here.”

He’s offended. “I need to give the patient accurate instructions. If tissue is left inside the uterus it could lead to sepsis, and possibly death. She may need a D&C to prevent infection.”

My voice is weak. “What’s . . . what’s a D&C?”

It sounds familiar. I’m sure at some point in my life I’ve learned the definition, but I just can’t remember.

“Vacuum extraction.”

Images pop into my head with his words, and I gag.

He continues, “A suction hose is inserted into the cervix—”

“Jesus Christ, would you stop talking!” Dee Dee shouts. “Can’t you see she’s upset? Were you in the f*cking bathroom when they taught bedside manner in medical school?”

“Excuse me, miss, I don’t know who you think you are, but I won’t be spoken to—”

Her finger points at the curtained doorway like the snap of a soldier’s salute. “Get. Out. She’ll make an appointment with her regular doctor. We’re done with you.”

A slight breeze blows past me, and I’m not sure if it’s the doctor. Because my eyes refuse to focus, and my mind is reeling. Trying so hard to grasp this latest turn of events . . . and failing miserably.

Delores puts her hand on my arm and my head turns toward her, surprised.

Like I forgot she was there.

“Kate? We’re gonna get you dressed now, okay? I’m going to take you home.”