Page 83 of So This Is Love

Dr. Carter rests her hand on mine. “You did the right thing. We’re going to get this figured out, okay?”

“Based on the date of your last menstrual cycle that’s in your chart, you’re about six and a half weeks along. I would like to do an ultrasound to see what’s going on,” Dr. Carter says, her voice gentle. “Do you want us to clear the room?”

I look over at Bryce. He's sitting in a chair behind the doctor, his elbows propped on his knees and his hands clasped together. He’s been quiet since the doctor walked in but I see that he’s worried, concern etched all over his face. The mere thought of Bryce leaving the room causes my heart rate to uncomfortably quicken so I swiftly shake my head.

“No, I would like him to stay.”

A nurse comes in with the ultrasound machine. She places a blanket over my lower half and instructs me to lay back and on how to place my legs.

Dr. Carter warns me that I may experience some discomfort before she applies lubricant to the wand and then begins the ultrasound.

Bryce stands next to me, on the opposite side of the bed from Dr. Carter. One of his hands holds mine and the other gently brushes the hair at my temple.

The air in the room is thick. It feels like all of us wait on bated breath as Dr. Carter moves the probe around and hits buttons on the machine. I try to gauge the severity of whatever is happening to me by her face but her expression is unreadable, a skill that has probably been purposely honed for years during her career but leaves me anxiously awaiting her findings.

Finally Dr. Carter turns to me and starts to explain. She points out different parts on the screen, pointing out how things should look versus how they actually look for me but my brain can’t really make sense of anything on the grainy black and gray screen.

“Based on what I’m seeing, your pregnancy is ectopic. The baby is attached to your right fallopian tube. With yoursymptoms and the pain you’ve been experiencing, I’m worried about a possible rupture and I don’t want to risk that. I think it’s best for you to have surgery.”

Dr. Carter explains the procedure and I try my best to listen and take in all the information that she’s giving to me but I feel like my head's underwater and all the words are rushing past me without ever sinking in.

“Laila.”

It’s Bryce’s voice that snaps me out of the mental fog that surrounds me. I look up at him

“Baby, the doctor wants to know if you have any questions.”

I feel like I have whiplash. I had only just begun to wrap my mind around this pregnancy. The reality of it all just barely sinking in before this sudden hospital trip in the early hours of the morning on a random Tuesday.

My heart feels like it’s been ripped out of my body but no, I don’t have any questions.

32

Laila

The heavenly aroma comingfrom the kitchen causes my stomach to grumble. I haven’t had much of an appetite, the concept of food wholly unappealing. When my stomach grumbles a second time, I toss the covers off and get out of bed to walk to the kitchen.

My steps still when I reach the end of the hallway and don’t find Bryce in the kitchen but instead his mother stands at the stove, her back turned to me. I am about to turn and walk back to the bedroom but her voice stops me.

“He had a call he needed to take,” she says, nodding her head toward the balcony.

I look over and I see Bryce with his headphones in, walking back and forth as he talks animatedly with someone on the other end of the call.

She hasn’t turned around so I’m not sure how she knows I’m standing there but her words answer the question I hadn’t said aloud.

“Come sit.”

Her words are an invitation in the form of a command but the soft loving tone she uses has my feet moving before my mind has a moment to catch up. I close the distance to the bar stools and pull one out and sit down.

A host of ingredients are laid out on the counter. Fresh vegetables and herbs and potatoes amongst other things.

“What are you making?” I ask. “It smells amazing.”

She turns and gives me a small smile. “This is what my children call “sick soup”. It’s a pot full of deliciousness that I always made when they weren’t feeling well, physically or otherwise. A lot of bumps and bruises and broken hearts have been soothed by it.”

I wrap my arms around my middle, hugging myself as I watch her make the soup. She adds ingredient after ingredient to her pot, not a measuring utensil in sight. She moves around the kitchen with the ease of someone who has no doubt in their skills, someone who knows that whatever they’ve tasked themselves with making will turn out exactly as they intended.

“I assume Bryce told you,” I say, realizing that that’s probably why she’s here.

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