Page 135 of Clinically Bewitched
The morning sickness had started.
Not the gentle, occasional nausea. The full-scale, every-morning, sometimes-every-evening warfare between Athena’s body and anything she tried to eat.
“The universe is purging toxins,” she said weakly, her head over the toilet.
“The universe,” I said, holding her hair back, “is being a sadist.”
“It’s natural.”
“It’s horrible.”
“It’s part of the process.”
“I hate the process.”
She laughed, then immediately threw up again.
I’d researched every anti-nausea remedy known to medical science. I consulted with three different OB-GYNs. I even created a meal plan based on foods that were least likely to trigger her symptoms.
None of it worked.
Because the universe, apparently, didn’t care about my research.
“I’m sorry,” she said, after the latest bout had passed.
“Don’t apologize.”
“I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”
I looked at her pale face, exhausted, yet still somehow smiling, and felt something crack in my chest.
“This is exactly what I signed up for,” I whispered. “All of it.”
“Even the vomit?”
“Even the vomit.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I’m a surgeon. We lie to patients all the time.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
She laughed again, and this time she didn’t throw up.
Small victories.
Week Twelve:
I was reviewing post-operative scans when my office door swung open.
Without a knock. Without warning. Without any regard for the fact that I wasworking.
Looking up, I muttered, “Athena, I’m in the middle of—”
My words died in my throat. She was standing in the doorway wearing a sundress that clung to her newly rounded belly, her hair loose around her shoulders, and on her face was an expression I had never seen before.
