Chapter 3 - The Longest Eleven Minutes
Mark had her by the arm before I was even out of my chair.
"How bad?" he said.
"I don't know." Hannah pressed her palm flat against the side of her belly. "It's pressure. A lot of pressure."
"We're going. Right now." He looked at me across the table. "Get your keys."
I grabbed my purse. My sister grabbed hers. Around us the room came half to life — women rising, chairs scraping, nobody sure whether to trail after us or stay behind with the presents and the cake.
Diane stepped into the aisle. "I'll ride with—"
"No." Mark didn't even turn his head. He said it the way you shut a door in a storm. Flat. Done.
We left her standing at the head of the table under that balloon arch, in a room full of women who suddenly couldn't look at her.
The drive to Mercy Ridge took eleven minutes. I know because I watched the clock on the dash the entire way.
I sat in the back with Hannah. She had my hand in a grip that hurt, and I studied her face for every flinch, every breath that came out too fast.
"Talk to me," I said.
"I'm fine." She wasn't. "I just need them to look at her."
"They will. Two more minutes."
Mark ran two yellow lights and I didn't say one word about it.
In the ER waiting area he paced. Four steps toward the window, four steps back. The envelope was still in his jacket — I could see the corner of it pushing against the fabric every time he turned. He hadn't set it down once. I don't think he knew he was still holding onto it.
I sat and patted the plastic chair beside me until he took it.
"When did you find out?" I asked. "About the records."
He stopped bouncing his knee. "Three days ago." He dragged both hands down his face. "A nurse at the clinic saw Hannah's name come across a request. She trained with me at Mercy Ridge a couple years back, before I moved to the equipment side. She called my cell because she didn't know who else to call."
"What did your mother ask them to look for?"
Mark stared at the floor tiles. "Any diagnosis that could be used to recommend ending the pregnancy. Any complication. Anything she could carry to me and call a reason." His jaw worked. "She told the front desk she was Hannah's emergency contact. She'd put herself on the form months ago. Nobody checked."
The breath went out of me.
"Mark. She was trying to end the pregnancy."
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
A nurse leaned through the doors and called Hannah's name. Mark was up before the sound finished.
I followed them down a bright hallway, and the whole way I kept seeing Diane at that table. Chin up. No apology. Just that terrible silence when Hannah asked her straight out.
To lose the baby?
And nothing.
The exam room was small and lit like a parking garage. Hannah changed into a gown behind a curtain while Mark stood just outside it, and I held her folded dress against my chest because I had no idea what else to do with my hands.
The doctor came in a few minutes later. Young, unhurried. She said her name was Dr. Bello.
"Let's have a look," she said, and reached for the ultrasound wand.
The room went quiet in a different way than the shower had. That quiet had been shock. This one felt like praying.
Grey and white shapes slid across the screen. Dr. Bello moved the wand a fraction of an inch at a time. Her face gave away nothing.
Hannah stared at the ceiling. Mark stared at the monitor. I stared at Mark.
Then the sound filled the room — fast, even, strong — and Hannah made a noise that wasn't quite a word.
"Heartbeat's excellent," Dr. Bello said. "Nice and strong. Baby's in a good position."
Mark sank into the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
"The pressure you're feeling is most likely early practice contractions on top of a lot of stress," Dr. Bello went on. "Your body's been through something today." She looked right at Hannah. "Whatever that something was — it can't happen again before you deliver."
Hannah looked at Mark.
He lifted his head. "It won't."
Dr. Bello wanted two hours of monitoring. If nothing changed, Hannah could go home that night, but she was on the couch for the rest of the week. No arguments.
"Understood," Hannah said.
The doctor left. The curtain swung shut behind her.
For a while nobody said anything.
Then Hannah turned her head toward Mark. "Tell me everything. Start to finish. Right now."
He reached into his jacket, pulled out the envelope, and laid it on the blanket next to her hand.
"It started about six months ago," he said. "Before we even knew she was a girl."
Hannah looked at the envelope but didn't pick it up.
"How much did your mother pay them?"
May you like
Mark's jaw tightened. "Enough that the nurse almost talked herself out of calling me."
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