But she’d been so tired that she’d made an appointment and had blood work done. This was her follow-up.
Dr. Ferante was a middle-aged Hispanic woman with short, curly black hair, white teeth, and a brisk, friendly manner. Andi sat down on the crinkly paper on the end of the examining table and waited for some answers.
Now, she studied the woman who’d been Greg’s doctor first, after the family’s longtime physician had retired. Greg hadn’t known what to think of his first woman physician, but Andi had sensed Dr. Ferante was a straight shooter.
“So, am I going to be okay?” Andi asked, smiling faintly, though it was an effort.
When Dr. Ferante didn’t immediately answer, Andi’s heart clutched a bit. Oh, God. She hadn’t believed she was really sick.
“You’re pregnant.”
Andi’s mouth dropped open. “What! No. I’m not.”
“I ran the test three times.”
“I can’t be. I can’t be.”
“I assure you, you are. You’re a little over three months, best guess.”
Andi stared at her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“I even checked to make sure your results weren’t mixed up with someone else’s,” Dr. Ferante went on,” though it would be highly unlikely. The lab’s extremely careful and has a wonderful reput—”
“I don’t believe you!”
Dr. Ferante cut off what she was about to say and nodded instead. “I understand this is overwhelming. You’ve been through a lot in a very short time. But I think this is good news, right?” she said gently.
“But the IVFs failed.”
“You’ve said you’ve been lacking in energy. That you haven’t been able to focus. This is why. This and your grief,” she said. “Call your gynecologist and make an appointment.”
Andi couldn’t process. Boggled, she quit arguing with Dr. Ferante and allowed herself to be led toward the door. Her brain was whirling like a top. Three months . . . the baby, of course, was Greg’s. They’d had that attempt at reconciliation after the horror of learning about Mimi Quade’s pregnancy, which Greg had furiously denied being any part of. Greg had died before any testing could prove otherwise, and in the three months since, there had been no contact with Mimi or her brother, Scott.
Andi’s hands felt cold and numb and she stared down at them as if they weren’t attached to her arms. She climbed into her Hyundai Tucson and sat there for a moment, staring through the windshield. Then she pulled out her cell phone, scrolling to her gynecologist, Dr. Schuster’s, number. When the receptionist answered, she said in a bemused voice, “This is Andrea Wren and I’ve been told I’m pregnant, so I guess I need an appointment.”
“Wonderful!” the woman said warmly. Carrie. Her name was Carrie, Andi recalled.
“I’m having trouble processing this. I just want to be sure.”
“How far away are you? Dr. Schuster had a last-minute cancellation today, but the appointment’s right now.”
“Oh God. I can be there in fifteen minutes. Will that work?”
“Just,” Carrie said, then added, “Drive carefully.”
Andi aimed her car out of the medical complex and toward the familiar offices of Dr. Schuster’s IVF offices, which were across the Willamette River to Portland’s east side. She made the trip in twenty-three minutes, gnashing her teeth when it took several more minutes to find a parking spot. Slamming out of the SUV, she remote locked it as she hurried toward the covered stairs on the west side of the building, refusing to wait for the elevator. She hadn’t felt this much urgency since before Greg’s death.
When she entered the reception room, her face was flushed and her heartbeat light and fast. She scanned the room and settled on the woman at the curved reception counter. Carrie, who was somewhere in her forties, with straight, brown hair clipped at her nape, about Andi’s same shade and length, though Andi’s was currently hanging limply to her shoulders. She’d combed it this morning, but that was about as far as she’d gotten after showering, brushing her teeth, and getting dressed. She’d thrown on some mascara, the extent of her makeup.
“Go on through,” Carrie urged her, coming around the desk to hold open the door to the hallway beyond. “Second door on your right.”
“Thank you.”
She seated herself on the end of the examining table. Suddenly her body felt hot all over, and she sensed she was going to throw up. It was as if her mind, having accepted this new truth, had convinced her body. She knew where the nearest bathroom was and ran for the door. Too late. She was already heaving. She grabbed the nearest waste can, with its white plastic kitchen bag, moments before losing the remains of her earlier coffee and a muffin.