I squirmed in my paper gown, thinking back over the last week and all the risky—and outright dangerous—behaviors I’d engaged in. The big issue floated once again to the surface of my mind.
“I do have a question.” I paused, waited for his gaze to meet mine before continuing. “I may have been dosed with Ketamine last week, enough to put me under for about fourteen hours.”
He blinked at my statement, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “You may have been dosed with Ketamine? Did you have surgery?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
I struggled for a minute, releasing a pained sigh. “It’s a really long story.”
Dr. Freeman stared at me, obviously waiting for me to continue.
Figuring what the hell, I explained, “I rescued my husband last week from an illegal oil refinery in Nigeria and he drugged me with Ketamine in order to force me to leave without freeing the remaining hostages.”
Dr. Freeman’s expression didn’t change, but he gave me two slow blinks before replying dryly, “Riiight. You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to.”
Sigh.
Stupid Greg and his stupid poking. Both the poking and the poking had landed me in this debacle of a conversation.
Dr. Freeman turned back to the electronic medical record and typed as he spoke. “First I’d like to know the dose and have a sample of the drug if you have it. And we should do some additional blood tests. But, since the baby’s heart rate looks good, a one-time dose of Ketamine isn’t a disaster.”
Something hot and panicky—a weight I’d been carrying, an albatross of guilt and worry—eased, and I took a full breath for the first time since being told I was pregnant. “So the baby should be fine?”
“It’s likely, but I’d like to be sure,” he hedged. “I believe Ketamine is a class B drug. Since there are no controlled data in human pregnancy, it’s generally contraindicated. However, it can and is used as anesthesia while pregnant, which—from the sound of it—might be a similar dose to the one you took. I know of no case studies describing adverse effects to the fetus from a one-time dose.”
Unthinkingly, I placed my hand over my abdomen and nodded. “That’s good news.”
He considered me with a slanted frown. “In Asia, Ketamine is abused as a recreational drug and is correlated with full-term low birth weight. But that’s when it’s abused daily or weekly. You’re not abusing it daily or weekly, are you?”
I shook my head. “No. It should be a one-time poking.”
“A what?”
“A one-time thing. I have no plans to be dosed with Ketamine ever again.”
“Good. That’s good. Don’t use any other drugs, either.” He didn’t sound judgmental per se, but he wasn’t his normal cheerful self either. “Maybe focus on taking a prenatal vitamin should the urge grip you. I’ll leave a script for you at the front.”
I tried not to roll my eyes and barely resisted the urge to respond with, So, no meth?
Great. Now my obstetrician thought I was a recreational drug user. I was now branded as an advanced, maternal-aged recreational drug user.
How lovely.
***
Ice cream.
It wasn’t that I was simply craving ice cream. Rather, my soul required it.
On the way home I picked up four different flavors, unable to settle on just one. I also ordered shawarma from a takeout place near our apartment. It was another soul-deep necessity.
I arrived home just past 11 a.m. to a grim-faced Greg. He greeted me with a stoic glower, hands on his hips. I ignored him—not because I was playing games or trying to make him suffer. Not at all. Rather, I ignored him because I wasn’t yet ready to engage. Not until I fed my soul some ice cream and shawarma.
Avoiding his gaze, I walked past him to the kitchen and deposited my bags on the counter. He trailed after me. I felt his eyes track my movements as I pulled a bowl from the cabinet, a spoon from the drawer, and turned back to the ice cream and spiced meat.
The kitchen was silent for several moments save for the sound of me spooning food onto my plate until Greg demanded, “Didn’t you get my messages?”
“No.” I took a bite of my shawarma, followed by a spoonful of ice cream. “I turned my phone off.”
“Why would you do that?” He sounded aggrieved, which part of me found ironic. He was perfectly fine leaving me tied up in Enugu while planning to hand himself over to goons, whereas I couldn’t leave him for two hours in Chicago without him throwing a glower-party.
I sighed, still not looking at him. “Because I needed some time.”
He waited a beat before pressing, “Fe, we just arrived home yesterday. We haven’t spoken—not really, not with any gravity—about what happened. And then you disappear this morning.”
“And now I’m back.”
“You can’t just leave like that, not without a note or a text, not after everything that’s happened.”
I lifted my gaze to his, my movements stilling. “I’m sorry, did I worry you?” The words were out before I could stop them, dripping with accusatory sarcasm. “How incredibly thoughtless and selfish of me.”