Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [55]
And he was starving. Tired as he was, the idea of food became an obsession. How long had it been since he’d eaten? If he could fill his stomach, he might find some peace and sleep more easily. But where? And how long would he have to wait? He thought he should book a hotel room but then remembered he’d already reserved one at the Mandarin. He was here for work, after all. Work? Nothing was as it should be. And he suddenly felt certain that every single step in their traveling from New York to Oahu, every single word they’d spoken and act they’d committed leading up to now had been for the express purpose of their child dying.
“Are you Mr. Pepin?”
“Yes.”
The doctor standing before him was Indian, tall and thin fingered, with a long, regal nose.
“I’m Dr. Ahmed,” he said, “the attending OB. May we talk?”
“Yes.”
The waiting room was empty, so the doctor sat down next to him.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “Are you holding up?”
“How is Alice?”
“She’s stable. The doctors on the plane did an excellent job.”
David nodded. His hands, at rest on his thighs, felt as if they might float up above his head, so he put them between his legs and used his knees to trap them.
“We got some results back,” the doctor said. “Your wife’s pregnancy was interrupted by a disorder called thrombophilia. It’s a clotting disorder. Quite common, I’m afraid. Nearly one in five women suffer from it. Do you understand how clotting works?”
David shook his head.
“When tissue is injured, red blood cells and platelets stick together to scab over a wound. They pile on an injury and seal it.” He laid the palm of one hand over the top of his other. “Unfortunately, the disorder causes what you might call incorrect clotting, or a kind of misrecognition. Your wife’s body treated her pregnancy as an injury. Clots embedded in her uterus, sheared off the placenta”—he brushed his palm over the top of his hand as if lighting a match—“and this led to her miscarriage.”
David had no idea what to say. He’d hoped knowing might grant him some comfort, but this was so abstract that he felt no better.
“Mr. Pepin,” Dr. Ahmed went on, “I can understand your grief. It is, however, extremely fortunate your wife’s condition has been discovered before you flew home. We don’t let patients with this disorder take long flights without an intensive regimen of blood thinners in advance. Your legs, the veins there,” he touched his own thigh, “they’re aided by muscle contractions for circulation. Without medication, people with the disorder can have clots form there and then drift into the heart, lungs, or brain. Resulting in a massive stroke, or pulmonary embolism, or heart attack.” David waited.
“On your flight back, your wife could well have died,” he said. “She could just as easily have died coming here. And so you might have lost your whole family.”
It was so odd, David thought, to be so far from home and talking to a man you’d never see again tell you about losing everything. “Can I ask you something?” David said.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure this disorder was the cause?”
“Yes.”
“It couldn’t have been anything else?”
“No.”
David waited for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.” The doctor put a hand on David’s shoulder.
“Can I see her?”
“She’s sedated right now.”
“What about the baby? What happens to him?”
“We’ll let him stay with her for a while—with the both of you. There’s no rush.”
“When can I see her?”
“She’s in room three eighty-two. You can go there now.