“You’re right,” he said calmly. “But you have to believe anyway.”
When I came home, I smelled dinner. “What smells good?”
“Mexican food.”
“You made Mexican food?” I dropped my bag on the couch and moved into the kitchen.
“Sorta…”
“How do you sorta make something?”
“Well, I ordered it. Does that count?” She held up the plates where the food was dished up, the to-go containers behind her.
I smiled before I kissed her. “Sure, baby.”
We moved to the dining table and ate across from each other.
“What’s going on at the hospital?” she asked.
“I ordered those labs. Your dad got mad.”
“Mad?” she asked incredulously. “Why?”
“Thinks it’s a waste of time.”
She sliced her fork into her enchilada and took a bite. “He can be really intense sometimes.”
“Yes, I’ve learned that.”
“When my mom had cancer, Derek tried to bring her ice cream, and Dad acted like he was trying to kill her. He just gets really intense in dire situations. He’s racing the clock, seeing more patients pass away than he wants, and he’s on edge. My mom said he’s been a shithead at home.”
“A shithead?” I asked with a laugh. “I can’t think of another word to describe him less.”
“Then you don’t know him that well.” She fished her hand into the bag of chips and scooped one into her cheese.
“Define shithead.”
“Moody. Untalkative. Brooding. She’ll talk to him, and it’s like he can’t hear a word she’s saying. It’s really striking because he’s normally really attentive to my mom and gives her all of his focus once he walks in the door. But now, his mind is still at the hospital even when he gets home.”
I had the opposite problem. I’d be at work, but my mind would be on her, thinking about the person trying to survive inside of her.
“And shame on him for not exploring. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“He just doesn’t want me to waste time.”
“Exploring is never wasting time. Ignore him.”
“He’s my boss…kinda hard to do.”
“He’s not your boss. You work with him. Not for him.”
It was hard to see it that way. “How was your day?”
“I have this little girl who’s been having these constant seizures. And when I say constant, I meant literally every couple minutes. She can’t ride a bike, go on a slide, nothing. So, her doctors said they want to remove the part of her brain responsible for the seizures, but obviously—”
“She’ll be intellectually and physically disabled for the rest of her life.”
“Exactly. So, I’m trying to figure out if there’s something else going on because it’s possible she could have an infection in her spinal cord and brain. I had another patient who had all these serious symptoms, but they took too long to figure out what it was, and by the time they realized it was Lyme disease, it couldn’t be cured, just treated. So, if she does have an infection, it may take a long time to address it.”
“Better than losing part of her brain.”
“Yeah. So, let’s hope that’s what it is.” She continued to eat, the two of us swapping stories like we still worked together. Didn’t have to resort to weather talk and celebrity scandals.
“Your dad asked about a wedding… Have you given it any thought?”
“Lately, no. But I know exactly what I want, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Alright. What do you want?”
“A big-ass wedding, of course. At the Hamptons. On the beach. A dress that’s slutty but also tasteful.”
“Well, I only know like a dozen people, so it won’t be that big on my side.”
“That’s fine. I just meant I don’t want it to be only family.”
“When do you want to do that?”
She shrugged and looked down at her food. “Not sure…with everything going on. I don’t want to get married after we have a kid. Not because having a kid out of wedlock bothers me, but…I want to be married when it’s still just the two of us. So…I don’t know. Maybe we can do something small. As long as I wear a sexy-ass wedding dress, I’m happy.”
She talked about our baby like it was a done deal, like they would arrive with no hiccups, planning our wedding around it. I wouldn’t shatter her hopes and dreams, so I gave the response every man gives. “I’m happy to do whatever you want. Just tell me when to show up. I’ll be there.”
“You don’t have any opinion at all?”
I shook my head. “As long as you’re wearing a sexy-ass wedding dress, I’m happy.”
“What the…?” The labs were in my hand, and I stared at the figures I’d been anticipating.
They had the markers.
I flipped to the next patient.
Markers.
And the next…markers.
I wandered mindlessly to the desk, looking at the paperwork in my hands, unable to believe the data staring me right in the face. Were these markers present before the trial? Or did they pop up after the medication was given?