While I finish my breakfast, I tap out a text to Mallory. I ask if it’s possible for her to come by the hospital to meet one of my pregnant patients who seems to have nothing and no one and could she just hang out with her and talk pregnancy or something.
Then I sit back and wonder if Cameron is right.
I’m paying Elizabeth’s hospital bills and now I’m trying to get her to make a friend. Neither of those are my job. But isn’t being a doctor more than simply treating illness? Isn’t it about treating the whole person—mind and body? And her whole person is more in need of a friend than anyone I’ve ever met.
My pager goes off and I glance down at it. I’m being paged to ground zero. When I get there, Dr. Anders and I get a quick history from the ER resident about a patient who just came in.
“Female, twenty-nine years old, nineteen weeks pregnant. Presented with moderate vaginal bleeding and cramps. Initial exam indicates slight thinning of the cervix and absent fetal heartbeat. I’ll leave it to you guys to confirm with ultrasound and then break the news.”
My heart climbs into my throat knowing what the woman in exam room three is about to go through. I’ve witnessed a few miscarriages over the past year. But none have been late miscarriages—those occurring after twelve weeks’ gestation. Hell, five more weeks and the baby might have had a fighting chance. Five short weeks.
Fuck.
Sometimes I hate this job. I peek through the window into the exam room, relieved she’s got someone with her. Looks like her husband. He’s sitting on the bed, no doubt trying to reassure her. They are in for a world of hurt.
I can’t help but think of another woman upstairs in OB. My patient. My only patient according to the bitch who owns me for the next four weeks. She’s much further along than the woman in the ER, and her baby, even if born today, would have an excellent chance of survival. But I can’t imagine what would happen if Elizabeth had miscarried, or God forbid, if anything bad happens while she’s here in the hospital. She has no one to comfort her. No one to go through it with, to support her and reassure her. No one to sit on her bed and tell her everything will be okay even when they know it might not be.
A nurse wheels the ultrasound machine around the corner and waits for us to go in.
“Are you ready for this, Dr. Stone?” Dr. Anders asks. “I’m going to let you take point on this, but I’ll be right by your side. Just nod and I’ll jump in if you need me.”
For the patient’s sake, I’m grateful that Anders was paged to ground zero instead of Red. Then again, it might just be residents that bitch has an aversion towards. I can’t imagine she’d get as far as she has if she doesn’t have compassion for her patients.
We perform the ultrasound, confirming everyone’s fear.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont, there isn’t a heartbeat and there are no fetal movements. That combined with your thinning cervix and I’m afraid you are having a miscarriage.”
Mrs. Beaumont breaks down in her husband’s arms. I give them a minute to absorb what I’ve said. I give myself a minute to gain composure.
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make a difficult decision. We can perform a D and C, or if you prefer to hold the baby, we could induce labor. You could also choose to go home and see if labor starts on its own over the next few days. The bleeding is minimal and doesn’t pose a risk to your health.”
“Go home?” Mr. Beaumont asks, his voice thick with emotion. “Why? Our baby is . . .”
He can’t bring himself to say it.
“I know it seems unconventional,” I explain. “But some people find they need the time to deal with their loss.”
“No. Please, let’s just do it now. But I don’t want the D and C,” Mrs. Beaumont says, looking at her husband. “I want to hold her.”
I nod to the nurse, who then goes out of the room to start the admissions process.
Three hours later, I’m delivering my second baby in a week. This time, it’s anything but a happy occasion. The miniature body is easily pushed through the birth canal and into my hands.
It’s a girl. Her tiny red body is barely bigger than one of my hands, but she’s perfectly formed. Her eyes are fused shut and her arms and legs are curled up against her body. She has ten fingers and ten toes, and one of her hands is no bigger than the nail on my thumb.
As I snip the small umbilical cord, my heart breaks for the life taken too soon. It breaks for these parents who have no doubt already envisioned everything from preschool to their daughter’s wedding.
Dr. Anders hands me a towel and I clean up the tiny body before wrapping her up and giving her to her mother.
There’s not a dry eye in the room, including mine.
I take some deep breaths and try to push my emotions to the side as I get back to work, making sure all the placenta gets delivered. Then we leave them alone to grieve their child.
Dr. Anders tries to catch me before I walk off. I shake my head at her. I need a minute. I know she wants to make sure I’m okay. Maybe even talk about what happened. But that’s not what I need.
I take out my phone and tap out a text. Then I plow through the door of the on-call room and kick a chair into the bed. Then I curse myself for hurting my foot. But no amount of hurt can compare to what the Beaumonts are dealing with right now.
The door swings open and Gina comes through. I stride across the room and almost tackle her into the wall. I lock the door next to her as I devour her mouth, her neck, any exposed skin I can get my hands and mouth on.
“I heard,” she says into my hair. “I’m sor—”
“Less talking,” I interrupt. “More fucking.”
She grabs the hem of her scrub top and pulls it over her head. Unlike her usual sports-type bra, she has a lacy white bra on underneath. One of those push-up bras that has the flesh of her breasts spilling over the top. It makes me wonder if she wore it specifically for me or if this was the only clean one she had. I couldn’t care less what the hell her bra looks like, especially right now. The only interest I have in her bra is seeing it on the floor.
I reach around and undo the clasp, my lips meeting the soft flesh of her breasts before her bra even lands on the hard tile. I suck on each nipple until they are erect, hard as a rock. Just like my dick.
I pull my shirt over my head, followed quickly by the removal of my pants and boxers. Gina follows suit and rids herself of her bottoms. I push her against the wall. Hard.
“Ugh,” she breathes, before she wraps her long legs around my naked body. My dick strains against her stomach, pulsing between us, begging to be inside her.
I carry her over to the table and set her down on the edge. I spread her legs wide and pull my scrubs over so I can cushion my knees on the unforgiving floor. I work my tongue on her. In her. I work it until she begs me to fuck her. When I push inside her, I do it so hard, the table hits the wall behind her and the lamp falls to the floor.
“That’s it, baby. Let it go,” she says.
My eyes open and snap to hers.
Why the hell did she have to say baby?
I try to pull out of her, but she grabs my ass, holding me inside. “Finish it, Kyle. I know you need to.”
She’s right. I do. The stress. The frustration. The sheer heartache. I need this. I need it so badly, it could just as easily be Red on this table and I’d still fuck her.
Gina reaches down and rubs herself. Watching her do it brings me back to where I need to be. She throws her head back and bites her lip as she comes quietly but forcefully. When her walls pulsate around me, I push deep one last time before I grip her hips and find my much-needed release.
I pull out of her and go sit on the bed, elbows on my knees, head slumped down in front of me. I should feel better. That’s why we do this, to feel better after a shitty case. Maybe this one was just so shitty, no amount of fucking can help.
I pick up my scrubs and put them back on.
“Better?” Gina asks, as she cleans up at the sink.
“Yeah, thanks,” I lie.
“Anytime,” she says. She gets her clothes off the floor and comes to sit next to me. “I mean it, Kyle. I’m here for you. Whenever you need me. Wherever you need me—even if it’s outside the hospital.”
“Yeah, okay.” I push myself off the bed and head for the door. “I have a patient to check on. I’ll see you later, Gina.”
I run my hands through my hair and realize the smell of sex is still on them, so I head for the nearest bathroom to wash my hands. I look in the mirror and study my face.
“Stupid bastard,” I say to my reflection. “She’s handing herself to you on a goddamn platter and you couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
Gina is great. Smart. Beautiful. Fun. And she’s obviously ready to take this to the next level. Maybe she has been for a while. Maybe I’ve just been too stupid to see the signs. Maybe I need to give this a chance. We’re good together. She could be my Mallory, or my Charlie.
Do I want a Mallory or Charlie?
I stare in the mirror and wonder if my sisters-in-law would be able to console my brothers after a similarly-horrible experience. Yes. They would. They pretty much have.
I wash my face, and then stare at my hands. I start to shake thinking of what I held in them not even an hour ago. I look around, seeing if there is another chair I can kick. There’s not. So I suck it up, put my lab coat on and compose myself enough to go check on my patient.