She hands me a small white paper bag. “I almost forgot. It’s been so long. You left this in the room. Must’ve fallen between the cushions on the couch.”
I open the bag, which contains a small box of prescription pills—ibuprofen mixed with famotidine. Half the label has been ripped off the flat box, but my name, Kyra, remains, and the name of the physician, Dr. Louise Gateman. The reason for the prescription, dated last April, eludes me. Yet my heart sinks, and an unbearable sadness darkens my soul.
“Are you okay?” Waverly says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you earlier. Things get thrown into our lost and found—”
“I’m fine,” I say, flustered. “Um, but I wonder . . . could I use your phone? We don’t have long distance.”
She motions me into a tiny office cluttered with files and papers and collectible lunch boxes. Batman, Disney, and every theme under the sun, crowded onto shelves and any other available surface. She points toward a cordless phone on the desk. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” The bell rings at the front desk. She rushes out, closing the door after her.
I call Dr. Gateman’s office in Seattle.
“Obstetrics and Gynecology,” a perky female voice says at the other end of the line. Time slows. My heart stops beating, then everything starts again at a frenetic pace.
“This is Dr. Gateman’s office?” I say in a shaky voice. The line begins to crackle and hum. Please, please keep the connection.
“Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?” Phones are ringing in the background, the murmur of voices drifting through the line.
“I believe I was a patient there some time ago, maybe a year or two ago?”
“Would you like to make an appointment? Dr. Gateman is scheduling about three months out now.” Static on the line. Her voice echoes.
“I just want some information. I’ve lost my memory . . . I was in an accident, and I need to piece together some things from my past.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I’ll leave a message for Dr. Gateman. I’m sure she will want to get back to you. She’s on vacation right now.”
“Is there anyone else I could speak to?”
“I’ll see if I can get the nurse for you.”
“Thank you.” Relief rushes through me. She puts me on hold, and instrumental elevator music wafts into my ears. After about twenty seconds, the music stops, and a throaty voice comes on the line. “This is the nurse.”
“I’m Kyra Winthrop . . . I was there a while ago to see Dr. Gateman. Do you remember me? I need my records. Quickly.”
In the background, more telephones are ringing. The clock ticks on the wall. “I would have to pull up your file.”
I let out a shaky breath. “That would be wonderful,” I say, nearly fainting with relief.
“I need to verify that you are who you say you are.”
“Kyra Winthrop,” I say, my heart tapping in my ears.
“Hmmm. I don’t have you in here.”
No, no. A dead end. I spell out my name for her.
“That’s how I spelled it. You’re not in here.”
“Was I there too long ago? Maybe I’m not in the computer?”
“We moved to an electronic system five years ago. If you came in since then, you would be in here.”
“But then . . . I have to be.”
“You’re not. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Wait! The records could be under my maiden name, Munin. Kyra Munin.”
More typing. “I do have you in here under Munin. Kyra?”
“Yes, that’s me.” I’m suddenly light-headed. I give her my Social Security number and my mother’s maiden name.
“Are you still on Cedar Court?”
An image of a house flashes into my mind—a cedar A-frame with a metal roof and big windows. Then it’s gone. “Cedar Court, no . . . I’m on Mystic Island now. Twelve Ocean View Lane.”
“Okay, I’m pulling up your file . . . You were a patient for quite a while.”
“I was married, right? But I used my maiden name?”
“Your status was married, yes. When you got pregnant.”
When I got pregnant. I nearly drop the phone. The room vibrates around me. “Pregnant. I was pregnant.”
“The first time was in April, two and a half years ago.”
“The first time.” Bile rises in my throat.
“You had a miscarriage in late June . . . You were about twelve weeks along.”
I can’t catch my breath. “A miscarriage?”
“Yes, I’m very sorry.”
“Did I go into the hospital or . . .?”
“Normally we don’t hospitalize for an early miscarriage. The doctor might prescribe ibuprofen.”
“I have a prescription with famotidine.”
“To protect your stomach lining.”
“And I didn’t . . . go into the hospital or anything.”
“No, you didn’t. At least, we don’t have a record of it.”
“I see . . . And the next time . . .”
“Looks like early April of last year . . .”
“Another miscarriage?” My hands tremble. I can barely hold the phone.
“You were a little further along, but similar situation.”
I gasp. Another one?
“Don’t worry—there are many reasons why women miscarry. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with you.”
“Nothing wrong with me. Clearly, there is something wrong with me.”