Page 67 of Moonlighter
“Then what should I do?”
“I think we’ll keep you here overnight, but I’m fairly certain there’s no real cause for alarm. When you get home, your doctor will keep an eye out for placenta previa, for example. But that’s not the end of the world either.
“What’s that?” I hear myself ask.
“In early pregnancy, the placenta rides low. Then it’s supposed to shift higher. Otherwise bleeding can occur, and a c-section may be necessary.”
I still have no idea what she’s saying, but it doesn’t sound that bad.
“You’ll move up to the second floor,” the doctor says, scribbling something on a chart. “Your husband can stay with you.”
Your husband. Under different circumstances, we might have a laugh over that mistake. But the doctor is about to make her escape. And I have a pressing question. So I follow her into the hallway.
“Excuse me. Doctor Patel?”
She turns around.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
I drop my voice because I don’t want anyone to overhear. “Look, is there any way I caused this?”
She blinks. “Well, first, we don’t know if there’s a problem. Everything might be fine.”
“I know that, but…” Words fail me. And I don’t even know if I’m ready to hear the answer to the question I can’t spit out.
“Look, Mr.…”
“Bayer.”
“Mr. Bayer, I’m going to assume you’re asking about sexual intercourse?”
“Um, yup.” And this is officially the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had.
“Pregnant couples are encouraged to enjoy a normal sex life. If sex caused miscarriages, the human species would already be extinct.”
I feel my shoulder muscles begin to unknit about two seconds after her words sink in. “Oh. Okay.”
“Like I said, there’s no evidence that this pregnancy will end in miscarriage. But even if it does, please know that most miscarriages are caused by genetic abnormalities, or underlying health problems, such as food poisoning or other pathogens. They are not caused by sex, or stress, or spicy food, or exercise.”
“Right. Good.”
“Your job is to just breathe through the next twenty-four hours, and to support your partner no matter what happens.”
“Yes. Absolutely,” I say, willing the conversation to end. “Thank you.”
She hugs her clipboard a little more tightly and turns away, her shoes squeaking on the hospital’s shiny floor.
They move Alex upstairs,as promised. An hour later, I’m dozing in a reclining chair in her new hospital room. Or I’m trying to, anyway. The lights are off, and I’m hoping that Alex can fall asleep, giving herself a break from all the anxiety she’s still feeling.
But after ten minutes of silence, I hear her let out a sigh.
“What are you thinking about over there in your big brain?” I whisper.
“Paint colors.”
“Wait, what?” I chuckle.
