Page 18 of Stone Vows

I shrug an unknowing shoulder.

“Maybe you didn’t tell her because you think she’d be jealous,” he says, eyebrows raised in inquisition.

“Why would Gina be jealous? It’s not like I haven’t done something like this before,” I say.

“Not on this level,” Cameron says. “And not for a beautiful young woman.”

“How do you know Elizabeth is young and beautiful?”

He smiles deviously. “I didn’t. But now I do.” He looks down at his beeping pager. Then he gets up and tosses what remains of his breakfast into a trashcan. “And maybe the fact that you want to keep this from Gina means you’ve crossed the line even more than paying the bill does.”

Chapter Nine

While I finish my breakfast, I tap out a text to Mallory. I ask if it’s possible for her to come by the hospital to meet one of my pregnant patients who seems to have nothing and no one and could she just hang out with her and talk pregnancy or something.

Then I sit back and wonder if Cameron is right.

I’m paying Elizabeth’s hospital bills and now I’m trying to get her to make a friend. Neither of those are my job. But isn’t being a doctor more than simply treating illness? Isn’t it about treating the whole person—mind and body? And her whole person is more in need of a friend than anyone I’ve ever met.

My pager goes off and I glance down at it. I’m being paged to ground zero. When I get there, Dr. Anders and I get a quick history from the ER resident about a patient who just came in.

“Female, twenty-nine years old, nineteen weeks pregnant. Presented with moderate vaginal bleeding and cramps. Initial exam indicates slight thinning of the cervix and absent fetal heartbeat. I’ll leave it to you guys to confirm with ultrasound and then break the news.”

My heart climbs into my throat knowing what the woman in exam room three is about to go through. I’ve witnessed a few miscarriages over the past year. But none have been late miscarriages—those occurring after twelve weeks’ gestation. Hell, five more weeks and the baby might have had a fighting chance. Five short weeks.

Fuck.

Sometimes I hate this job. I peek through the window into the exam room, relieved she’s got someone with her. Looks like her husband. He’s sitting on the bed, no doubt trying to reassure her. They are in for a world of hurt.

I can’t help but think of another woman upstairs in OB. My patient. Myonlypatient according to the bitch who owns me for the next four weeks. She’s much further along than the woman in the ER, and her baby, even if born today, would have an excellent chance of survival. But I can’t imagine what would happen if Elizabeth had miscarried, or God forbid, if anything bad happens while she’s here in the hospital. She has no one to comfort her. No one to go through it with, to support her and reassure her. No one to sit on her bed and tell her everything will be okay even when they know it might not be.

A nurse wheels the ultrasound machine around the corner and waits for us to go in.

“Are you ready for this, Dr. Stone?” Dr. Anders asks. “I’m going to let you take point on this, but I’ll be right by your side. Just nod and I’ll jump in if you need me.”

For the patient’s sake, I’m grateful that Anders was paged to ground zero instead of Red. Then again, it might just be residents that bitch has an aversion towards. I can’t imagine she’d get as far as she has if she doesn’t have compassion for her patients.

We perform the ultrasound, confirming everyone’s fear.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont, there isn’t a heartbeat and there are no fetal movements. That combined with your thinning cervix and I’m afraid you are having a miscarriage.”

Mrs. Beaumont breaks down in her husband’s arms. I give them a minute to absorb what I’ve said. I give myself a minute to gain composure.

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make a difficult decision. We can perform a D and C, or if you prefer to hold the baby, we could induce labor. You could also choose to go home and see if labor starts on its own over the next few days. The bleeding is minimal and doesn’t pose a risk to your health.”

“Go home?” Mr. Beaumont asks, his voice thick with emotion. “Why? Our baby is . . .”

He can’t bring himself to say it.

“I know it seems unconventional,” I explain. “But some people find they need the time to deal with their loss.”

“No. Please, let’s just do it now. But I don’t want the D and C,” Mrs. Beaumont says, looking at her husband. “I want to hold her.”

I nod to the nurse, who then goes out of the room to start the admissions process.

Three hours later, I’m delivering my second baby in a week. This time, it’s anything but a happy occasion. The miniature body is easily pushed through the birth canal and into my hands.

It’s a girl. Her tiny red body is barely bigger than one of my hands, but she’s perfectly formed. Her eyes are fused shut and her arms and legs are curled up against her body. She has ten fingers and ten toes, and one of her hands is no bigger than the nail on my thumb.

---