Page 5 of All or Notching

I wash my hands, feeling better. If I were younger and looking for a relationship, Tristan would be somebody I’d pursue. But since I’m not, and a relationship has never been part of my long-term plan, I need to get on with my day. With my life.

Suddenly an image of my mother sadly shaking her head fills my mind. I blink it away and swipe at the errant tear that slides from the corner of my eye. I’m being silly. It might be Saturday, but I’ve got lots to do, so it’s time to shower and get ready for work.

I’m sure I’ll forget all about Tristan in a few days.

CHAPTER 3

Laurel

(PRESENT DAY - NOVEMBER)

“Oh, God, what time is it.” I scrub my eyes as I slowly wake to my stomach growling. My desk lamp is glowing, and my computer screen is dark. Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s after seven. I fell asleep on my office sofa again.

Feeling off for a few weeks now, I initially considered it a stomach virus. It had lasted a few days, then disappeared, but seemed to come and go after that. On the days I felt decent, I ignored it, hoping it had finally passed. On the worst days, I simply worked from home. I’ve never had a virus last this long, though.

And, I’ve been inexplicably exhausted. After a full day at the office, I can’t get home fast enough to put my head on a pillow and sleep for an hour, sometimes two. At least I have my appetite back, but I need to figure out what’s happening because this isn’t normal for me.

After working late today to play catch up, I reached the point where I simply couldn’t keep my eyes open a minute more, so I figured a quick cat nap would help. Now it’s past dinnertime. Tomorrow I’ll have my assistant call my doctor’s office and see if she can get me in.

My hunger pangs scream out again. I could head home to get something to eat and finish reviewing my report.

When I reach my car, a wave of exhaustion slams into me, sending me into a wobble. “This is ridiculous. What the hell is wrong with me?” I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. Hoping the chilly November air will refresh me, I roll down the window as soon as I exit the parking garage onto the street. Traffic isn’t as heavy now that rush hour has passed, but there’s still enough of us on the road that my drive through the lightly falling snow will take longer than I’d like.

My mind replays the last few weeks. Has anybody else in the office been ill? Maybe I caught something. I don’t remember hearing anybody coughing or sneezing. Maybe I picked something up from a restaurant, or maybe when I was doing some Christmas shopping for my family. There have been no trips to see my sisters for weeks, but I don’t recall their kids being sick the last time we got together.

As I turn a corner, I glance up and spot a walk-in clinic, and it’s open. After a spontaneous lane change while silently apologizing to the driver of the Ford Focus I just cut off, I’m swinging into an empty parking spot right in front of the entrance. Before I can question myself, I’m out of the car and strolling toward the automatic doors.

As soon as I step inside, I’m assaulted by that medical facility smell, bringing me to a dead stop. That overwhelming scent of disinfectants mixed with the faint smell of body odor and anxiety. I almost backtrack as I’m thrown back in time to standing in the hospital after our parents’ car accident. We’d waited in that room for two days while mom and dad fought for their lives after being broadsided by a dump truck. In the end, they succumbed to their extensive injuries. The payout from insurance did nothing to address the pain we all still experience every time we think about them. The only thing that gives us any sense of peace is that neither woke up in horrible pain, and they faded into eternity together.

“Hello. Can we help you?”

I snap out of it. “Um…”

A tired-looking middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk looks concerned as she stares at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I…no. I mean, I feel okay, yes, but I think I might have a virus or something.” I realize I’m still standing in the open doorway. It takes great strength to force my feet to move inside and steer them toward the reception desk, so we’re not yelling across the room at each other.

She watches me like she’s taking stock of any apparent issues. “Have you been here before?” With streaks of gray at her temple and the beginning of crow’s feet near her eyes, I’d estimate her to be in her early fifties. Her warm mother-like disposition draws me closer.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Welcome then. Can I get your name, please?”

“Laurel Downing.”

“And do you have insurance, Ms. Downing?”

“I do.” Diving into my purse like it’s the savior I need, I pull out my insurance card from my wallet and hand it over.

“Thank you.” She takes my card, enters my name and information into her computer, and then grabs a piece of paper from a file folder on her desk. Snagging a pen from some unseen holder and a clipboard, she clips the form to the board and hands it and the pen over the counter. “Why don’t you have a seat and fill this out. Then we’ll get you to do a quick urine test and send you back to see the on-call doctor.”

I take the board. “Thank you.” I spin around and search for an empty chair. Transitioning from their busiest hours, only a few people are waiting. The walls are decorated with health-related posters, and the tiled floors desperately need a mop. I spot a vacant chair near the back wall and head in that direction.

Sitting, I spot a young mother directly across from me. The poor woman looks exhausted and far too young to be a mother herself. She’s using one foot to rock the car seat, her crying baby not at all happy or wanting the pacifier mom is trying to tempt it with.

I drop my handbag on the floor next to me and settle in to review my medical history. I fill in all the pertinent information, briefly describe my symptoms and then work my way down the list of yes/no questions. I’m in the habit of saying no to them all, so when I reach one particular question, the intent to strike no is automatic, but I pause as the words register, jumping off the page at me in giant bold print like they have a life of their own.

Are you pregnant? Yes or No.

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