29
Dante
After the doctor’s thorough examination of Nikki, we step out into the hallway. I shut the door.
“What’s the diagnosis?” I ask.
The doctor is an older gentleman and could easily be my father’s age. His salt and pepper hair is short and wiry, flailing in every direction. He has the features of a mad scientist with his white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck.
But I trust him.
He comes highly recommended.
“Aside from the pregnancy? She’s been poisoned and has Q Fever. I’d go so far as to say that it was used as a biological weapon given your situation. Whoever did this intended for Nikki to suffer. It’s good you reached out when you did.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “And what about the baby?”
“She’s at risk for miscarriage, stillbirth, pre-term delivery, or low infant birth weight.”
Wonderful.
I run a hand through my hair. If I don’t look a mess, I sure as hell feel like a walking disaster.
“How do we treat Q Fever?” I ask. “Is there something we can give her? Antibiotics?” I can’t even consider that she and the baby may die. That isn’t an option.
The doctor pushes his spectacles farther up his nose.
“She will require antibiotic treatment for the infection.”
Antibiotics. Thank heaven for modern medicine. “But she’ll be all right? She and the baby will make a full recovery?” That’s what I need to hear.
“Yes, I believe that she will be fine, but we will have to keep a close eye on the pregnancy. And if the antibiotics don’t work and she continues to have symptoms, call me right away. There are rare instances where it can turn into Chronic Q Fever which may pose a bigger risk.”
* * *
I finally feel like I can breathe again. Moreno is stopping by the local pharmacy with the prescription for Nikki.
While we’re not out of the woods, just knowing that she will be fine is a relief.
I just hope the little one growing inside of her can handle the infection and the antibiotic treatment.
I bring a tray into Nikki’s bedroom with crackers, soup, and a tall glass of water filled to the brim. It’s well after lunch, and she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Given that she hasn’t eaten much all week, I’m grateful she managed to stomach toast and jam.
But she can’t live off toast while pregnant. She needs a healthy diet.
“What did the doctor say?” Nikki asks. She lies on her side, staring out the window.
“A course of antibiotics will do the trick.”
She rolls onto her back, casting a glance at me. Her dark hair splays across the pillow, and she runs her hand over her abdomen. “And the baby?”
I won’t lie to her. Already there are too many lies our pseudo-relationship is built upon. I don’t know what else to call it. She’s here because I demand her to be, not because she desires to be with me.
Maybe one day that will change. At the very least, my priority is the child that is growing inside of her.
“There are always risks but not taking the antibiotics, you and the baby will die.” There’s no sugar coating the graveness of the situation. I want her to take it seriously. Not that I doubt that she will, but she and that child, my child, are my responsibility.
She sits up in bed, props herself up with the pillows behind her. I bring the silver tray to the bedside table and place it down for her to reach.