Chapter 90 Pregnancy Checkup
The number burned in Clara’s memory.
She had stood in the hallway that night, her palm resting over the faint rise of her stomach, wondering whether she was being brave or reckless. By morning, her body answered before her mind did. A sharp wave of nausea folded her in half, and the oxygen tube at her nose felt heavier than usual, as if even the air demanded patience from her.
She decided she would go to a nearby hospital first. If she was going to chase shadows, she needed to be sure she was not dragging her child into them.
The hospital sat at the edge of town, pale and square against a cloudy sky. Inside, the smell of antiseptic and floor polish mixed with the faint cry of a newborn somewhere down the corridor.
Clara moved slowly, one hand holding her portable oxygen cylinder, the other pressing lightly against her abdomen.
She told herself that word again.
Routine.
The nurse recognized her from previous appointments and offered a sympathetic smile that did not pity her. Clara preferred that. Pity made her feel smaller than her illness. After checking her vitals, they led her into a quiet examination room. The walls were cream colored, almost warm, and for a moment she allowed herself to imagine that nothing about her life was complicated.
When the doctor entered, he carried her file like something fragile. He spoke gently yet directly, reviewing her history as if laying out pieces on a chessboard. The cancer remained stabilized. The trial treatment she had undergone in March was still holding its ground. Her lungs were not perfect, but they were steady. The baby’s heartbeat, when they let her hear it, was strong and rhythmic, like a small drum refusing to surrender.
Clara closed her eyes at that sound. It filled the room and then filled her. In that moment, she was not a patient, not a daughter entangled in secrets, not a woman suspicious of invisible sponsors. She was simply a mother.
“The pregnancy is progressing well,” the doctor said. “But you must avoid stress. Emotional strain can weaken your immune response. You are already balancing a delicate system. Rest is not a suggestion. It is necessary.”
Rest.
The word lingered between them. She almost laughed at the irony. How could she rest when her life felt like a book with missing pages? Someone had paid for Peter’s treatment. Someone had stepped into their story without a name or a face. Her father wanted to hire an investigator. Peter’s parents had refused. And now she held the investigator’s number in her mind like contraband.
“I understand,” she replied softly.
But did she?
After the scan, she remained seated for a few minutes while the nurse printed her updated reports. She studied the grain of the wooden desk, tracing its lines with her eyes. The baby was safe, for now. Her own body, though imperfect, was cooperating. Perhaps that was enough. Perhaps she should let the anonymous kindness remain kindness.
Yet something in her resisted. Gratitude and suspicion coexisted in her chest like uneasy neighbors. What if the sponsor had motives that would surface later, when Peter was too weak to fight? What if silence now meant regret later?
On her way out, she passed the maternity ward. Through the glass, she saw a woman cradling a newborn, exhaustion and joy braided across her face. Clara felt a quiet ache. She wanted that future. She wanted a room filled with sunlight, a crying infant, and Peter’s laughter tangled in the air.
The doctor’s words echoed again.
Avoid stress.
Was the truth worth the risk?
Outside, the afternoon air was warm. She adjusted the oxygen tube and stood still for a moment, letting the breeze touch her skin. Life had given her a second chance when the trial treatment worked. It had given her another miracle in the form of a child. Did she dare complicate it by chasing questions?
Her phone vibrated in her bag, startling her. It was a message from her mother, asking how the appointment had gone. Clara typed a brief reassurance.
Stable. Baby fine. Doctor says rest.
She did not mention the investigator. She did not mention the storm of thoughts gathering beneath her calm words.
As she walked toward the gate, she pressed her hand to her stomach again.
“I will protect you,” she whispered under her breath, unsure whether she was speaking to the child or to herself.
By the time she reached home, her decision was not fully formed, but it was breathing. She would see Peter first. She needed to look into his eyes and measure the cost of the truth there. Only then would she decide whether to dial the number that felt heavier than her oxygen tank.
As evening settled like a soft curtain over the house, Clara realized something unsettling.
The more she tried to convince herself to let it go, the more certain she became that someone, somewhere, was waiting for her to make the first move.