Page 105 of Fourteen of a Kind

“Are you okay, Dr. Kind?” My Uncle Jackson asked.

“I’m fine. Or maybe not. Dr. Orloff, help Dr. Kind,” I said, tearing off my mask and running out of the O.R. to the nearest bathroom. I flew into a stall and locked the door. Leaning over the toilet, I could feel the vomit rising in my throat and, before too long, expelling from my body.

“Fuck!”

When I was finished, I washed my hands thoroughly, put on a mask, and opened the operating room door.

“Stay out, Dr. Kind. You’re sick and need to go home,” my uncle said. “Dr. Orloff and I can finish.”

“I know. That’s what I was coming in to tell you.”

“Go home and get some rest. I’ll check on you later.”

I left the O.R. and went up to the pediatric unit.

“Hey, babe.” Graham smiled when he saw me step off the elevator.

“I was in the middle of surgery and had to leave to throw up. My Uncle Jackson told me to go home, and I’m not fighting him about it.”

“I told you that you should have called in.” He pressed his lips against my forehead. “You don’t feel warm, which is good. You probably just picked up a bug. Go home and climb in bed. I’ll see you later. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I smiled.

When I got home, I changed into my nightshirt and lay down on the bed. My belly felt better, but the exhaustion I felt overtook me. When I opened my eyes and looked at the time, I couldn’t believe I’d slept for four hours. Climbing out of bed, I threw on some clothes and made a cup of tea. Taking it to the patio, I sat down. The cool breeze that swept across my face felt good.

“What are you doing home?” my mom asked, walking over.

“You might want to stay away. I’m sick.”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked.

“Flu, probably. I had to leave the O.R. during one of my surgeries with Uncle Jackson to throw up. Talk about humiliating. I just woke up from a four-hour nap.”

She placed her hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.” A bright smile crossed her lips. “Is pregnancy a possibility?”

“Well, there’s always a possibility, but no.”

“Are you sure?” The smile never left her face.

“Do you think?” I cocked my head.

“Anything is possible, sweetheart. Take a test just to be safe. I have to get to the dance studio.”

I went inside and placed my cup in the dishwasher. The front door opened. Graham walked in, holding a bouquet of beautiful red roses.

“Hey, beautiful.” He walked over, handed me the roses, and kissed my lips.

“Hi. Thank you. They’re gorgeous.” I smiled.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. It was probably a twelve-hour bug.” I took down a vase, filled it with water, and arranged the roses.

The following morning, I awoke from a sound sleep, placed my hand over my mouth, and jumped out of bed.

Graham walked into the bathroom while I was kneeling and hugging the toilet.

“Damn. You’re still sick? You were fine last night.” He held my hair back.

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