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Thinking quickly, I said loudly enough to be overheard, “Oh, I hear them now, thank you…nurse…. I’m sorry I can’t remember your name; it’s been a hard day…but thank you. The doctor’s here now.”
I placed the phone in the cradle, arranged my face in what I hoped was an innocent expression and turned to look at the doctor Dario had rounded up to take care of me.
“I was calling the nurse,” I lied, “I’m sorry. I was worried and couldn’t wait.”
“That’s understandable,” the doctor said quickly, approaching my bed. I made up some symptoms, not making eye contact with Dario as I did. I could feel his eyes on me. I was afraid if I looked up, he would know that I was lying.
The doctor, as expected, said that the baby and I were doing fine. As soon as she said those words, Dario ushered her away.
They had a quick conversation at the door. Even though the doctor was imposing in stature, there was something about Dario’s persona that was just intimidating even when he tried not to be.
The doctor was now nodding and looking like she wanted to be anywhere else besides here. Then she turned around promptly and left.
Dario came toward me and tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work, as if he wasn’t used to the act of smiling.
“They’re going to discharge you in a few minutes. We’re getting out of here.”
“And heading where?”
He was silent for some time while he searched my eyes, for what? I didn’t know.
“Somewhere safe,” was all he said, turning away from me. “Do you need help getting dressed?”
I wanted to say no, but I truly did. “I think one of the nurses?—”
“You’re my wife. I’ll do it.”
Without another word, he closed the hospital door and then walked back over to me.
In my hospital gown, I felt so vulnerable. The terrible lighting, the smell of death in the air. I desperately wanted to leave, but I knew I would be jumping straight into the fire.
Under the hospital gown, I was nude. And having Dario’s eyes on me, knowing that I was pregnant with his child, unnerved me. He hadn’t said much to me at all once he found out.
I was surprised by that. But did I truly know what to expect when it came to Dario? I couldn’t read him now or ever.
I self-consciously slid the gown off my arms, catching it so it didn’t fall completely around my waist and leave me naked for his appraisal.
He reached for my shirt, pretending to ignore my naked breasts, and said, “Do you think you can raise your arms?”
I nodded, “Yes.” I raised them above my head, and this time when he looked at my breasts, he didn’t pretend that his eyes weren’t trained on them.
“Your breasts are fuller,” he commented, before sliding the shirt over my head.
I felt my nipples tighten at his acknowledgment. I hated that. I hated that my body reacted to his touch and to his voice.
I was embarrassed to say that sometimes I got wet just thinking about him. He didn’t need to touch me, talk to me, or even look at me before my body betrayed me.
It was problematic, to say the least.
For that reason, when he reached for my panties and jeans, I promptly told him that I didn’t need any help.
“Are you sure?”
His hand was on my waist. When had it gotten there?
“Yes,” I said, stepping back. I needed some distance from him. Vertigo be damned.
He paused as if wondering if he would listen to me. He put another hand around my waist and then slowly grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it up.