Page 107

By the time the second specialist starts explaining progesterone to Maggie, she has stopped pretending to be interested.

She’s doing an excellent job of looking polite. That’s how I know she’s bored.

She sits opposite me at the long table, one hand around her water glass, the other resting near the edge of her plate. She has barely touched her food. Not unusual, given the nausea. Still, I notice. I’ve been noticing too much all night.

Alester arranged this dinner. A casual meeting, he called it, which meant a private room at a restaurant where the menu doesn’t list prices and the waiters know how to disappear between courses. He wanted Maggie to meet the extended medical team: maternal-fetal consultant, nutrition specialist, obstetric coordinator, genetic counselor, two physicians whose roles overlap enough to make the whole thing feel more like a board presentation than dinner.

Then, fifteen minutes before we sat down, Alester’s office called.

Urgent matter. He couldn’t make it.

So now Maggie is trapped at a table of physicians who keep discussing her body in careful voices while she sits right there, alive and increasingly unimpressed.

At four weeks pregnant, there’s no visible change yet. Not medically. Not to anyone else.

I know that. It doesn’t help.

She looks beautiful tonight. Not dressed to seduce. Not like the green top. This is simpler: dark dress, soft cardigan, hair pinned back badly enough that a few pieces have already escaped near her cheeks. She looks tired. A little pale. More human than anyone else in the room, which is probably why I can’t stop looking at her.

Dr. Lawrence, the maternal-fetal consultant, leans forward with the kind of smile people use when they think softness makes condescension invisible. “At this stage, Margaret, the most important thing is compliance. Supplements, rest, hydration, limited stress. You needn’t worry yourself with the details yet.”

Maggie’s fingers tighten around her glass. Only slightly.

Her face stays pleasant.

“I do like details,” she says.

I look down at my plate to keep from smiling.

Dr. Lawrence misses the warning. “Of course. But the early weeks can be overwhelming for patients, especially when they begin reading too much online.”

“I try not to get my medical information from the internet.”

“That’s wise.”

“Mostly I get it from lectures, textbooks, attendings, and whatever gets shouted at me during rounds.”

Dr. Lawrence pauses.

The nutritionist looks up.

Maggie takes a calm sip of water. Across the table, her eyes flick to mine over the rim of the glass. She’s amused now. God help me, she’s enjoying herself.

I should stay neutral. That’s the role tonight. I’m here as the physician Alester asked to oversee care. I’m not here as the man who knows what her mouth feels like when she stops arguing. I’m not here as the man who has texted her far too late at night and read every message twice like a fool.

I am neutral. Professionally, at least.

The genetic counselor clears her throat. “You have a medical background?”

Maggie sets her glass down. “A small one.”

“Are you in nursing?”

Maggie smiles. That smile should concern them. “No.”

Before she can continue, Dr. Baines, who has been holding forth all night with the confidence of a man who thinks listening is something other people do before he speaks again, says, “The trouble is that a little medical knowledge can make these processes more stressful. In my experience, patients often feel better when they leave interpretation to the team.”

Maggie looks at him. “Patients often feel better when they’re told what is happening to them.”