Page 132 of Scarlet Thorns
“Of course, Doctor is looking forward to your follow-up,” the receptionist says with a brightness that makes me want to curl in on myself. How could he possibly be looking forward to another inspection of my defective womb?
“Thanks,” I say flatly before ending the call. It feels like it takes all of my energy to change out of the pajamas I’ve taken towearing all day, pulling on oversized sweats that were meant to accommodate an expanding belly that will now remain flat.
The driver is already waiting in the hallway by the time I get downstairs. No chance of me taking my own car anywhere since everything went to hell. It’s Osip’s instruction, but it suits me anyway. The cramping makes it hard to focus, and I’m still paranoid about the car incident from a few weeks ago.
The driver remains silent as I slide into the backseat, and that suits me fine too. Budapest streams past the window in a blur of gray buildings and gray sky, matching the gray fog that’s settled over my thoughts since the miscarriage.
We pull up at the curb outside the clinic and the driver moves to get out, probably intent on opening my door.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder. I don’t feel like calling attention to myself. Right now, I’d be perfectly happy if I could just crawl into a hole.
Just as I’m stepping out in front of the clinic, something makes me glance across the street. A figure in a dark coat, half-hidden in the shadow of a tram stop. For one impossible moment, my breath catches. The way he holds himself, the way his head is tilted slightly reminds me of someone from a lifetime ago.
Stanley.
The same broad shoulders. The same way of standing with his weight shifted to one hip.
A tram rumbles between us, its bright yellow bulk blocking my view for endless seconds. When it passes, the street is empty except for an elderly woman walking a small dog.
Paranoid.
You’re being paranoid, girl.
My legs feel weak as I push through the clinic doors. Stress. Grief. Sleep deprivation. It has to be my mind playing tricks on me, conjuring monsters from shadows because the realworld isn’t frightening enough. Stanley Morrison has no reason to be in Budapest. He has no way of knowing where I am.
Does he?
“Goddammit,” I mutter, shoving the irrational fear aside. Besides, who cares if it is actually Stanley? What could he possibly do that’s worse than what’s already happened?
“Ilona?” Dr. Varga’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s standing in the doorway of his office, concern etched into every line of his face. “Come, please.”
His examination room smells like antiseptic and lavender— an attempt at comfort that somehow makes everything feel more clinical. The paper crinkles under my body as I settle onto the examination table, and Dr. Varga pulls on latex gloves with a snap that makes me flinch.
“Tell me about the pain,” he says, his accented English careful and precise. “Scale of one to ten.”
“Six. Maybe seven when it’s bad.” I wince as he begins palpating my abdomen, his fingers gentle but thorough. “It’s not constant, but when it comes…”
“Sharp? Dull? Cramping?”
“All of the above.” The pressure of his examination sends fresh waves of discomfort through my pelvis. “And the bleeding hasn’t stopped. It’s lighter than before, but it’s still there.”
His frown deepens as he continues the exam, pressing different areas of my abdomen and watching my face for reactions. When I involuntarily suck in a breath, he pauses.
“Here? This hurts?”
“Yes.”
He makes a note on his chart, then reaches for the ultrasound equipment. The gel is cold against my skin, and the wand feels invasive as he moves it across my lower abdomen. I turn my head away from the screen— I don’t want to see the empty space where a life used to be growing.
“Ilona.” His voice is gentler now. “Look at me, not the screen.”
I meet his eyes, and the sympathy there makes my throat tighten.
“There appears to be some retained tissue,” he says carefully. “This is not uncommon after a miscarriage, but it needs to be addressed. It’s what’s causing your continued bleeding and pain.”
Retained tissue.
The clinical words sit heavy in the room between us.
