“Leave him a message, please. Tell him to meet me at the hospital.”
The EMT slams the door, and they take off, the siren screaming.
I let them attack me, poke me, prod me as my nausea keeps washing through me.
What if my stupidity and need to fight with Demyan had endangered the baby? Or worse… What if?—
“Miss Yegorov?—”
“Mrs. Belov,” I say.
“Mrs. Belov,” the EMT says in a soothing tone, “I need you to calm down and not move.” He puts the cuff back on. “Your blood pressure is through the roof, so try and calm down and relax. Deep, slow breaths. With me…”
“I’m fine. I landed on my brother,” I say.
He smiles. “You’re the expert now, are you? Humor me and breathe.”
Gritting my teeth, I mimic his breathing.
When we arrive at the private hospital, I’m on the brink of calm and let the doctor check me out thoroughly.
They move me to another stretcher and wheel me up to a room, no matter how much I protest.
“I don’t want a room. I don’t need a room.” I want to sit here and wait for Ilya. The panic starts to blur my vision and it’s harder and harder to breathe.
But they don’t listen to me as someone injects me and minutes later a heavy calm that blankets everything settles.
I blink, look around.
I’m hooked to a drip with a peg on my finger to monitor whatever it is they want monitored, all for their entertainment.
But finally, after a long forever, the doctor comes back in.
“The good news is,” he says, going over the chart in his hands, “the baby’s fine. It’s very early days, as I’m sure you already know, and you’re very lucky your brother caught you and broke the fall.”
“So lucky,” I mutter.
He keeps his face straight. “If he hadn’t, you could have ended up with a concussion or broken bones. We want to keep you in overnight?—”
“Why, if I’m fine?”
He smiles, and I want to punch him. Maybe falling makes me violent. Or maybe being at the end of my rope does. But I force myself to breathe and remain calm.
“Because I want to run tests,” he says. “Make sure your bloodwork’s in order, give you some fluids, make you rest. And I want to make sure your vitamins and nutrients are up to scratch, as well as make sure the shock of the fall doesn’t suddenly hit you.”
“Where’s Ilya? Where’s my husband?”
“Talk to your brother.” The doctor pats my hand and then leaves, and Demyan comes in.
My brother’s clearly anxious and guilt-ridden, as he’s finding it hard to stay still and look at me, and I want to feel bad, but I don’t. I want to thumb my nose at him.
He pulls up a chair and tries to take my hand. I move it away.
“Are you all right?” he asks, finally bringing his gaze to mine.
“Are you?”
“I’m fine.” He sits in the chair.
