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I try to form another sentence, but my queasiness builds. Shaking my head, I hope he can see and understand that I can’t.
“Are you gonna throw up?” I shrug. “Okay. Hold my hand then,” he demands. “Every time I squeeze, I want you to squeeze back. Okay?” I nod and squeeze his large hand as it settles in my lap.
We make it to what I assume is the closest Emergency Room, and I have no idea what Raf has done with his SUV, because all I know is I'm being carried into the lobby and placed in a wheelchair immediately.
“Sir, there’s going to be about an hour wait before she’s seen.”
“Like hell there is!” I hear him roar. “She’s almost unconscious! She can’t stand up, she can’t talk without being sick, she can barely lift her arms!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but she’s going to have to wait like everyone else.”
“We’ll see about that,” he seethes, pushing me away at a snail's pace. A few seconds later I hear him speaking in Spanish. “Hey, Mamá. Angie’s at the ER on Convention Ave. I’m with her. Who do you know here? She needs to be seen immediately. Thank you. I understand. Yes. Thank you so much.”
His hand squeezes mine and I return the touch, still unable to open my eyes or speak. Within a few minutes, I hear a voice call out, “Angela Johanssen?”
“Right here!” Raf calls back and starts wheeling me.
After taking my vitals, Raf gives the nurse the situation, and I do my best to open my eyes and acknowledge what he’s saying.
“Her blood pressure is dangerously low,” the nurse says. “I’m going to run some tests and start her on some intravenous fluids. She’s incredibly dehydrated as well.”
That part checks out—between gagging from water recently and sobbing from Cora’s happy news—yeah, that seems about right.
Shit. I need to take better care of myself.
The nurse, Aleigha, I think she said her name was, sticks me with a needle and within minutes I’m feeling marginally better. When she leaves, I turn to Raf as I lay back on the crunchy plastic hospital bed. “Thank you for being here.”
Sitting in the chair next to me, still holding my hand like it’s a life preserver, he smiles up at me. “Of course. I wouldn’t be anywhere else, Angel.”
Angel. That silly little nickname he’s been calling me since we were kids holds a punch. I don’t think he’s aware of it. And if he is, then he knows exactly what he’s doing when he says it to me. He says it often, but especially when he’s trying to convince me to do something because he knows I’ll fold like a lawn chair.
By the time the doctor comes in twenty minutes later, I’m more alert thanks to the IV and able to coherently speak without crying. She’s a short Black woman with natural hair that’s been straightened and curled to perfection. She’s incredibly beautiful. “Hi, Angela,” she smiles, rubbing her hands together after pumping some antibacterial foam on them when she walks in the room. “I’m Dr. Asare.” She takes the chart out from under her arm and flips it open. “Looks like you’re in here for dehydration, low blood pressure, and fatigue, is that right?”
“Yes, that's right.”
She looks at Rafael and comes back to me. “Would you like to be alone for the rest of our visit, or would you like for him to stay?”
“Oh, he can stay. He should be my emergency contact anyway.”
“Alright,” she says calmly, then looks back at the chart. “Did you know you’re pregnant?”
A long pause stretches between us, freezing me. “Did…you…know that’s the wrong chart you’re looking at?” I ask.
She simply shakes her head and says, “No, it’s not.”
I choke on my own words but finally push out, “That’s not possible. I’m on birth control and I haven’t missed any periods. I just had a period.”
“Some people never stop their periods while they’re pregnant. It’s more common than you think.” She says simply, like it’s common-fucking-knowledge. The doctor continues, oblivious to my turmoil. “Says here, you’re about twelve weeks pregnant. Which really means you’re ten weeks pregnant. I’ve never understood why we always add two more weeks from before conception, but here we are. You’re almost in your second trimester.”
My vision defaults to a dolly zoom on Dr. Asare.
She can’t be serious.
I can’t be pregnant.
How the fuck did this happen? I haven't had sex with anyone in nearly a year.
“I’m going to give you some privacy to adjust to that news, and Nurse Aleigha will be in here shortly with some juice and snacks to help with your blood sugar levels. I’ll come back a little later with more information and some obstetric doctor recommendations in case you don't already have one. Okay?” she says cheerily, as if she hasn’t handed me a live grenade.
