Marrying My Billionaire Hookup - Nadia Lee Page 0,97
with a lovely sage and pale lemon color scheme. A small water fountain gurgles soothingly in a corner. The chairs are covered in leather, and look to be soft but with excellent back support. It’s nothing like my previous gynecologist’s office, with its functional vinyl-covered low-back benches and plastic chairs and slightly scuffed white walls.
No wonder so many people want to be Dr. Silverman’s patient. I lucked out. I’m already calmer, the mild anxiety I felt earlier dying down.
I fill out a new patient questionnaire that asks about allergies, my monthly cycle and more. Edgar’s checking email on his phone and not looking in my direction, letting me fill out my medical data in privacy, which I appreciate. We’ll have plenty of sharing moments when the doctor does the ultrasound. TV shows always have expectant moms getting black-and-white photos of their fetuses. I should probably start a scrapbook to document this, just like my parents did.
Whether this pregnancy was planned or not, I love this baby, and I want to make sure the child knows just how much. My parents’ love and support have meant everything to me my whole life, and I want my kid to have the same sense of emotional security.
Once I hand over the completed form to the receptionist, it only takes five minutes before the doctor is ready to see me—a first in my experience. Must be a perk of being Dr. Silverman’s patient.
Edgar and I stand up. He puts away his phone and places his hand at the small of my back. The contact feels so good. Nervous excitement throbs in my belly. Soon we’re going to see the baby on screen.
The nurse takes us to a room labeled Consultation and Examinations. Edgar and I step inside a spacious chamber with three chairs and a basic bed—probably for ultrasound. There are two big monitors above the bed, which confirms my suspicion.
Dr. Silverman is at her desk. Although she’s seated, I can tell she’s short from the length of her legs from knees to feet, which are encased in sensible pumps. She looks to be in her late forties and is sporting a stylish bob that sits perfectly around a friendly face. Her green eyes are so warm that I’m certain when she looks at her patients, they tell her everything. Maybe going into TMI territory, even for an ob-gyn.
“I’m Dr. Silverman,” she says, extending a hand. “So you’re Josephine Martinez…and you must be Edgar Blackwood. Very nice to meet you. Please have a seat.” After waiting until we’re seated, she glances down at the file in front of her. “So you’re pregnant,” she says with a smile.
“Yes,” I say.
“Your last period was…” She looks down again. I jotted that down on the questionnaire. “Well. You’re fairly early.”
“Yes,” I say again, trying not to squirm like an excited kid at a candy store.
Edgar lays a hand on my shoulder, and I relax, feeling anchored and reassured by the contact.
She starts asking more questions, about my specific moods, cravings and things like morning sickness. She takes notes on her computer, easily typing fast enough to keep up with my answers.
“Everything sounds about normal,” she says.
I exhale and slump a little with relief. Those four words are exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear. Edgar squeezes my shoulder.
Dr. Silverman adds, “Not every woman has morning sickness, and sometimes you have it early in your pregnancy and then not at all later, or vice versa. We should do an ultrasound, though, just to rule some things out, see where the baby is and estimate the due date.”
This is it! My little baby, you don’t get to see your mama yet, but I’ll get to see you! “Sure.” I start to move toward the bed.
“Actually, we need to do this in stirrups,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s transvaginal.”
“Uh… Trans what?” What does that really mean? Best not to assume when it comes to medical terms.
“Transvaginal,” she repeats. “We have to do it through your vagina.”
She’s speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. But I’m just inwardly cringing anyway. I did not see this coming, especially with Edgar watching us so seriously. I don’t think he’s even blinking.
“But on TV, they always do it on the belly,” I say faintly. How the hell do you do transvaginal ultrasound, anyway? On TV, the ultrasound equipment looks sort of bulky. I don’t know if they’re going to fit down there, even with lube.
Somebody ought to sue Hollywood for misrepresenting a very important medical procedure.