Page 137 of Keller

It's beena full day since I went to see Dr. Nevins. My work day today was useless. Waiting for her call is the only thing I can think of. It's even been overshadowing my spiral over Keller.

The parking garage sits nearly empty at this hour. Concrete pillars stretch toward the low ceiling, their shadows long under the fluorescent strips that hum overhead. My car occupies a corner spot on the third level, far from the elevator bank where the last few employees trickle out toward their own vehicles.

I sit behind the wheel with the engine off. The silence presses against my ears.

My phone vibrates against the center console. The screen lights up with an unfamiliar number, but the area code matches the medical complex.

I answer on the second ring.

"Ms. Mercer?"

"Yes."

"This is Sarah from Dr. Nevins's office. I'm calling with your lab results."

"Okay."

Papers shuffle on the other end. The sound is small and distant, filtered through the phone's speaker.

"Your bloodwork came back within normal ranges. No signs of infection or inflammation. Thyroid function looks good. White cell count is normal."

I breathe. Thank you, Jesus.

"Great."

The long tube light above my car flickers once, then steadies.

"One additional result." The nurse's voice remains even, almost casual. "Your pregnancy test came back positive."

The words land somewhere outside my body. I hear them. I understand what they mean individually. But they refuse to assemble into anything coherent.

"Ms. Mercer?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"Do you have any questions?"

"No."

"Dr. Nevins would like to schedule a follow-up appointment to discuss next steps and confirm gestational age with an ultrasound. Would sometime next week work for you?"

"Yes. That's fine."

"I'll transfer you to scheduling. Hold, please."

Music fills the line. It might as well be nails on a chalkboard.

I set the phone down on my thigh without disconnecting. The tinny hold music continues. A woman's voice eventually replaces it, asking about my availability. I answer the questions and I confirm Thursday at ten. I say thank you and end the call.

The phone screen goes dark.

My hands rest on the steering wheel. Ten and two, like driving school taught me. My knuckles are pale against the black leather.

A car passes behind me, its headlights sweeping across my rearview mirror before disappearing down the ramp. The garage returns to stillness.

Positive.

My breathing stays even. The air inside the car closes in on me as I think I'm going into shock.