It’s not too late for that…
I swipe the never-ending tears from my face and hop off the bed to where I left my purse on the floor by the door. Phone in my hand, I spot a missed call from an unfamiliar number and a voice mail.
My heart beats wildly in my chest as I tap play on the message, but when “Hi, Daisy, this is Dr. Fields” fills my ears, all my hopes pop like a balloon with a needle in it.
I don’t know what I expected. Flynn calling me from a random number? It makes no sense, but I’m not exactly the most sane person at the moment.
“I have an urgent update that I need to relay to you, so please call me back as soon as you can. This is my cell number, and I’ll be available any time, day or night.”
Urgent update? What in the hell does that mean?
I tap on the number beside her voice mail and hit the phone icon to call.
The line rings four times, and I almost hang up, but by the fifth ring, she answers.
“This is Dr. Fields.”
“Hi, it’s Daisy. You just left me a message.”
“Daisy Winslow, right?”
I swallow and shut my eyes. “Yes.”
“Well, Daisy, I want to first apologize because the lab we sent your blood to made a very big error.”
“Okay…?”
“When they entered everything into the system, they somehow mixed up your results with another patient’s results, and while all of your lab work was still normal, your HCG levels came back high.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your blood work showed that you’re pregnant.”
Time halts. Brakes squeal. The world stops spinning.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“You’re pregnant, Daisy. And estimating by your HCG levels, I’d say you were about five to six weeks when you were in my office, so you’re probably seven to eight weeks along now.”
I shake my head. “T-that can’t be.”
“I can understand this comes a shock, especially since you’re finding out two weeks later than you should have. Again, I really apologize for that.”
“But I’m on birth control. The Depo shot. I have been for years now.”
“Birth control isn’t one-hundred-percent effective, Daisy. Do you remember the last time you had your shot? Or the last time you had a period?”
My last period? Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not the organized type that keeps it all marked on a calendar. I’m more of the type that finds out she’s on her period when she’s in a bathroom stall at a restaurant and Aunt Flo decides to ruin her underwear.
And my shot? I mean, I’ve been getting it regularly, every three months, even since I moved to LA.
Yeah, well, you’re the woman who forgot to renew her work visa, so it’s highly possible you’ve messed something up here…
When I think back to the last time I had my Depo shot, I know that it was Christmastime because Dr. Lowe’s waiting area was decked out with garland and stockings and a giant tree in the corner.
Which means it was December. And it’s May, almost fucking June.
“I’m pregnant,” I whisper and lift a hand to my mouth. “Holy shit, I’m pregnant! How did I not notice that I’m pregnant? Isn’t that something that a woman should know?!” Oh my God. I’m one of those women who end up having her baby in the toilet because she’s clueless!
“Every woman’s body reacts differently to pregnancy, and while some experience a lot of symptoms in the first trimester, some women don’t. Maybe you’re one of the lucky few who doesn’t have to deal with morning sickness and constipation.” She laughs, but I sure as shit don’t feel like laughing.
I am in the midst of existential absurdity, and it feels like I’m the butt of the universe’s biggest cosmic joke. I mean, who finds out they’re pregnant with their fake husband’s baby on the same night they walk away from their fake husband, even though they don’t want to walk away from their fake husband at all because, in all actuality, they love their fake husband so much they wish he was their real husband?
Apparently, you are this woman.
My life is an absolute dumpster fire, and this news just added gasoline to the already blazing flames. If I’m seven or eight weeks pregnant, that would mean…that you and Flynn literally consummated your marriage in Vegas.
“Daisy, are you there?”
“How do you know for sure?” I blurt out and begin to pace the small space in front of my hotel bed. “I mean, if the lab results got all screwed up, how do you know that I’m really pregnant? Maybe it’s another one of your patient’s labs. Maybe I got a pregnant woman’s HCG result mixed with my labs! Maybe you’ve called the wrong woman!”
Or maybe, you’re the pregnant woman, you no-period-having, missed-birth-control-shot lunatic.
“I can assure you, it’s your results,” Dr. Fields responds, and her voice is surprisingly calm for handling a raging psycho. “And while HCG levels are a definitive test, Daisy,” she continues, but I’m already done with the conversation, “I want you to follow up with an OB-GYN in the city. Her name is Dr. Marissa Summers. She’s really—”