“Not then, apparently.” The doctor nodded, her finger tapping her lower lip as she continued to study a chart she must have memorized by that point.
“Not ever,” Becca said adamantly. “We’ve made a good life for ourselves, Will and I. We both have careers, hobbies, a lifestyle that suits us. We’re happy.”
Most importantly, they had each other.
Becca had finally come to emotional peace with her childless state. She was all through with feeling sorry for herself. And through with other people feeling sorry for her, too. Early menopause was really and truly a blessing.
Apparently satisfied with Becca’s answer, the doctor closed the chart and, hands folded on top of it, looked across her desk at Becca.
“Mrs. Parsons, the test you took at home last week wasn’t wrong. You are pregnant.”
“No,” Becca said, or meant to say. The word was little more than a strangled whisper. “I can’t have children.”
How many times over the years had she had to explain?
“Yes, well, that’s what we need to talk about,” the doctor said. She leaned forward, her elbows on her desk.
“From what you’re telling me, you and your husband are unprepared for this pregnancy.”
Numb, Becca nodded. She had no idea what the doctor was talking about. The dark nights of the past week were taunting her—telling her that those worries hadn’t been pointless, the panic not unreasonable. Her life as she knew it was ending. And she had no idea where to find the beginning of a new one.
She couldn’t be pregnant. There had to be some other explanation.
“You’re forty-two years old, Mrs. Parsons.”
“Yes.” Becca was fairly certain of that fact. It was familiar. Something that she could grasp. “Yes.” She nodded vigorously. “I’m forty-two.”
“Having a baby at forty-two, while not uncommon anymore, is still a risk…” The doctor’s gaze was serious, though not unkind. Becca clung to that look, the woman’s actual words fading in and out. She heard something about weak placentas.
“…your blood pressure is a little high, which makes me additionally concerned…”
Feeling that something was expected of her, Becca nodded again. The doctor was right. Her blood pressure did have a tendency to run a bit above average when she was stressed out. And Lord knows, it had been a stressful week. What with Mayor Smith’s financial bombshell and all. As a paid—and elected—official of Shelter Valley’s town council, Becca should have some say in how the town’s money was spent. She ran her fingers through her hair, comforted by the familiar feel of the stylishly mussed strands.
“…there are also the hormonal considerations.”
Becca tuned in again. “Many women giving birth at your age,” Dr. Hall went on, “experience some rather alarming postpartum hormonal imbalances. Women who’ve had children before. With this being your first, you’re even more susceptible to these types of things.”
Her first.
Paralyzed with shock, Becca tuned out again. If she could only clear the fog surrounding her…
Why couldn’t she get rid of the fog?
Or the terrible churning in her stomach?
She needed Will.
She wanted to be out of here, on the road, driving her Thunderbird.
“…birth defects.”
Becca heard only the two words, but the doctor was finally finished. She’d stopped speaking, her eyes filled with sympathy.
Becca hated that. More than just about anything, she hated pity.
She couldn’t seem to do a damn thing to take control of the situation. To show the doctor that there was absolutely no reason in the world to feel sorry for Rebecca Parsons.
Having heard very little of what the doctor had said and comprehending even less, she didn’t really know what the situation was. She only knew that it had to be happening to someone else.