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Dr. Miller gives me an awkward smile. “You don’t have to apologize, June. Everyone has different ways of coping.”
Coping.God, I hate that term. It’s a word that has failure baked into it already.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Physically, I mean.”
I swallow. The antiseptic smell of doctors’ offices always makes my throat itch. “Physically, I feel fine. But I was wondering…”
I spent the whole morning going back and forth on whether I should bring this up at my appointment today or not. Apparently, indecision is another coping mechanism I’ve developed as of late.
“Yes?”
“Well, I was wondering if it was normal to develop anxiety during pregnancy,” I say. “Anxiety, like… bordering on paranoia?”
Dr. Miller doesn’t look disturbed. I take that as a good sign. “It’s perfectly normal to have anxiety and stress related to a new pregnancy,” he says, adjusting his necktie and leaning back on his stool. “After all, it is a major life change. And you’re facing it with some pretty heavy extenuating circumstances. Can I ask what symptoms in particular you’re experiencing?”
I laugh nervously to try to undercut just how real this feeling has gotten lately. “Well, sometimes I feel like I’m being… watched,” I admit. “And sometimes, I’ll get home and it feels like my stuff has been moved around. Like someone’s been in my place when I’m not there. Which is impossible because no one else has a key to my place. I mean, Adrian did. But he’s clearly not around anymore. Unless of course, his ghost is moseying around while I’m at…”
I trail off when I notice the look on Dr. Miller’s face. I wonder when I should have stopped—the morbid line about who might have a key to my house, or the ghost joke?
Jokes have to be funny, Junepenny.
I shudder. Based on how often I still hear his voice, maybe the ghost thing isn’t such a joke after all.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. Never mind. It’s probably nothing.”
But the frown on Dr. Miller’s face begs to disagree. “How long have you felt this way, June?”
“It’s probably just all in my head,” I say with another nervous laugh, even less convincing than the first. “I haven’t lived alone for a long time, and I’m just psyching myself out.”
His grimace deepens. “June, have you considered talking to a therapist? I could recommend a few good ones,” he says. “And if cost is a concern, I know several who charge nominal fees for patients with… special circumstances.”
That’s not the kind of special I ever aspired to be. I always wanted to be special for what I could do, not for what had been done to me. It’s gruesomely funny that Adrian took one kind of specialness away from me, but here he is, giving me back another kind I don’t want and didn’t ask for.
I force those thoughts aside and smile politely. “Thanks, Doctor. I’ll think about it.”
He gives me a disappointed smile, but he doesn’t push the idea, which I appreciate. Instead, he rolls away on his stool and checks my file.
“Everything else seems to be fine, June. The baby’s healthy and so are you. Keep taking your vitamins. And don’t neglect your mental health.”
“Roger. Thank you.”
I swing my legs down and grab my satchel. It still has the lame bumper sticker that I impulsively plastered over the label way back when I first bought it:DANCE IS LIFE.
I’m not sure why I never peeled it off. These days, it’s just a brutal reminder that, if dance is life, I pretty much lost mine in The Accident two years ago.
I swing the strap of the bag over my shoulder, give Dr. Miller a wave goodbye, and head out of the examination room. My next OBGYN appointment is not for another few weeks, and I’m grateful for the respite from being poked and prodded like an alien abduction.
I’m rounding the corner after leaving the obstetrics wing when I nearly crash into a person-shaped wall. “Argh!” I cry out.
Then the scent of vanilla hits my nose.
I take a slow, cautious step backward. My eyes track upwards. From tailored pant legs in a jet black suit fabric. To the open collar of a snow-white button-down shirt. To the tattooed hollow of a man’s throat.
And then up into a pair of icy blue eyes.
My voice, when it comes out, is rasped and croaky. “Kolya?”
He looks completely unsurprised to have run into me. “June,” he says simply.
