Chapter 7: On His Knees

Rupert came on Wednesday, at twenty past one, with no flowers and no practiced speech.

I was between patients, eating saltines at the front desk, when the glass door banged open.

He had no coat on. His tie was crooked, and he held a torn white envelope in his fist.

"Leah."

"I'm working, Rupert."

"Is it true?"

The waiting room had five people in it, and all of them looked up.

He crossed the floor and dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of me.

I knew that picture. I had seen it in a studio, with someone else in it.

"Is it true?" he said again, and held up the envelope. "This came from your OB. It says ultrasound. It says obstetric visit. Leah, are you pregnant?"

The receptionist had stopped typing.

I looked down at him and felt nothing but tired.

"Nine weeks," I said.

"Nine." His lips moved. He was counting. "That's August. You said you were done in August."

"I was done. I stopped the shots on the twelfth."

"You stopped them." He said it slowly. "And then you just. On your own."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to tell you at dinner," I said. "I had the printout in my purse. And then I opened my phone and watched you kiss somebody else's belly."

Somebody behind me sucked in a breath.

An older man in the corner lowered his newspaper, and the woman with the roses, who had come in for a recheck, put her hand to her mouth.