The doctor probably thinks Anatoly is my husband. Or the father of my baby, at least. I don’t even care. If it means I don’t have to talk and try to pretend my world isn’t crumbling around me, then he can think whatever the hell he wants.
“Yes, but she needs to rest,” the doctor tells him. “Take it easy for the next couple days. Call her doctor if she has any more spotting.”
“Call her doctor or bring her here?” Anatoly asks, a tinge of panic in his voice. “Should I have called her doctor the first time?”
The emergency room doctor is saying something about how it’s good to stay in contact with my physician since Dr. Rossi will be more familiar with my case, but I stop listening when I hear a muffled vibration. Like a bloodhound on the scent, I leap at Anatoly’s pocket and wrench his phon
