Chapter 21: Grounded

Laura sat in the chilly examination room, swinging a leg, crossed over a knee, nervously. Packing up Holt and leaving the house before Remington and the girls had even awakened had been an act of foolishness on her part. She scrunched her face, squeezed shut her eyes. Cowardice, even. She simply hadn't been up to another discussion about the Agency and suspected by the way he'd stiffly left the room the evening before, he was intent upon pursuing the matter. As it was, they'd have to face the matter head on when she walked through the Agency doors after her appointment with Dr. Adams.

The thought drew a long sigh, one overheard by Dr. Adams when he swung open the door and stepped into the room.

"Should I be insulted?" he joked. She smiled at the older doctor, having always liked the man.

"Of course not," she answered. "I was just thinking…"

"Laura Holt, thinking? How shocking!" His comment drew a laugh, as he looked down at the baby, nestled in his carrier.

"The baby looks like he's doing well," he noted, as he pressed his stethoscope to her chest. "How's his mother doing?" Her eyes flitted away from him, and she unconsciously sighed again.

"Fine. Busy."

"I imagine so, with a three-year-old and newborn." The nurse entered the room and he looked over the notes she'd scrawled on Laura's chart.

"And a four-year-old," she corrected. He gave her a surprised look. "We adopted Sophie last Thursday."

"Well, congratulations. Three kids. That's a big change. Could account for why your blood pressure's on the high side for you. Lay back please," he directed. As she complied, the nurse pushed the ultrasound cart close to the exam table, while Adams discretely adjusted the paper sheet and raised Laura's gown. "Running again?" he asked, in polite conversation, his fingers palpating her abdomen.

"I've been too busy." He hummed at her answer.

"No triathlons planned?" She flinched as the nurse squeezed a generous portion of cold gel on her stomach.

"I haven't really thought about it," she shrugged, her eyes on the grainy screen of the ultrasound.

"The gym?" he pressed.

"Haven't found the time," she answered nonchalantly, growing irritated with questions when what she wanted to know was what had captured his interest on that screen. "Between moving to the new house, laying the groundwork for the foundation we're creating, I've been busy."

"A new house. Exciting times. How do you like it?" She absently shrugged a shoulder.

"It'll serve our needs. As long as we don't have to move again, that's fine by me." His hand paused at the answer, then he continued to move the wand, flicking a quick glance at her face before his eyes returned to the screen

"How are you sleeping?"

"Fine," she drew out the word in a huff.

"That can be difficult with a newborn." He handed the wand to the nurse. "You can turn it off," he instructed.

"Is everything alright?" she inquired, pressing up on her elbows to look at him. Adams moved to sit at the stool at the end of the exam table and waited until she secured her feet in the stirrups.

"Let's finish the exam, and we'll see," he suggested, much to her annoyance. "How much sleep are you getting each day?"

"I don't know," she answered, irritably. "I'm in bed by nine-thirty, maybe a little earlier. Get up at seven, seven-thirty. Most days, I manage to take a nap."

"How long of a nap?" She held up a hand then dropped it.

"I don't know. Long enough. An hour, maybe two."

"How many times in an evening are you up with the baby, for how long?" She grimaced as he slid the speculum inside her.

"I'm not. Remington takes night duty, always has."

"Lucky woman," he answered with a smile. "Most of the women in my practice complain of just the opposite. How's your diet? Eating well?" She wrinkled her nose.

"Who has time to eat?" she replied. "But, truthfully, nothing much appeals to me right now." The questions stalled as he finished the internal examination.

"Go ahead and sit up, Laura," he told her as he stood himself, pulling off the latex gloves and stepping to the trash can to throw them away. He leaned his backside against a counter, scribbling notes in her chart. "How long ago did you stop bleeding?" Her brows furrowed as she considered the question.

"Nine, maybe ten days."

"Any break through?" She shook her head as she raised and dropped her shoulders in part answer.

"No, not at all." He nodded and scrawled some more.

"How are you feeling, overall?"

"Fine. I'm fine," she insisted.

"How about emotionally? The birth of a child, the complications afterwards, it would be a lot for anyone to deal with."

"I'm fine," she snapped this time. "Can you please just clear me for work, so I can get on with the day?" Setting the chart down on the counter, he crossed his arms and considered her thoughtfully.

"Laura, my examination, the ultrasound, confirm what we spoke about in the hospital. The scarring is… extensive. Have you and your husband come to terms with the diagnosis, what it means in terms of future plans?" Her chin tipped up a notch, and she did some arm crossing of her own.

"Completely." He studied her at length, then gave his head a single nod.

"I want to see you back in three weeks. During that time, I'd like for you to try to resume some of your old routines: running, the gym. To find some downtime for just yourself," Adams informed her. "Until then, you're cleared to resume intercourse, just be aware there's a chance of some discomfort. If there is, it should subside with time. When you return, we'll take a second look at returning to work." Her head snapped up at that, her eyes shooting daggers at him.

"I must have misunderstood. Did you just actually say you're not clearing me to return to work?" she demanded to know, her tone like ice.

"Laura, I've been treating you since you were a teenager," he reminded her. "Your blood pressure is high for you, your pulse abnormally elevated. I've never known you to sleep more than five, six hours in a day, but you've just reported to sleeping as many as twelve. In a little over a month, you're back to your pre-pregnancy weight. Your bloodwork showed you're anemic, an indication you aren't getting adequate nutrition. You show a lack of interest in pursuits you are normally wholeheartedly committed to: running, triathlons. You seem unenthused by something as monumental as moving to a new home. Frankly, I'm concerned you may be suffering from mild depression."

"De… de… depression?" she stammered, fully flummoxed by his assessment. "You can't be serious! I've had a lot going on," she continued, defensively. "So what if I'm a little bit more tired than I normally am? Who cares that going for a run seems like more hassle than it's worth? For God's sake, I ate enough for ten people during my pregnancy, is it any wonder food doesn't hold any particular interest to me right now?" She tipped her chin up at him in defiance and swiped a dismissive hand in front of her body. "This whole conversation is just… insane. I'm fine."

"In just over a month, you've faced a half-dozen life stressors that on their own could cause depression," he answered calmly, in face of her pique. "A new baby, the adoption of a child, the move to a new home, the sale of your old home, a major medical episode with lifelong implications, not to mention your involvement in a very dangerous situation with that Castoro character who's been headlining the news for weeks now. Your temper is shorter than normal, you're defensive, and…" he looked pointedly at her hands as they rubbed at her arms, "…you're more anxious than I've seen you in nearly twenty years of treating you."

"If you're so sure of yourself, then just prescribe me something and clear me to go back to work," she demanded.

"I prefer to medicate as a last resort, you know that," he reminded, quietly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a short stack of business cards, selected one and held it out to her. "I'd like you to consider talking to some—" She recoiled from hand as though it were a snake, fangs bared.

"I talk to Remington," she retorted. "He and I can get through anything together, have proven that time and time again."

"Does he know you're struggling?" Adams pressed.

"No!" she barked. "Because I'm not struggling. I'm fine," she asserted again. With a long exhale, Adams considered the woman in front of him. She was stubborn to the core and as a long as she was denying the impact recent events had on her, there would be no getting through to her. Returning the business card to his pocket, he withdrew his prescription pad and wrote out two scripts, then handed them to her.

"A prescription for iron, and a low dose of fluoxetine. If you change your mind about speaking to someone—"

"I won't," she cut him off.

"Then I'll see you in three weeks," he answered, turning to depart.

"And my release for work?" His hand stilled on the doorknob and he turned back around to face her.

"I'm sorry. I can't sign off on that just yet," he replied, with some genuine regret.

"You just said I need to get back to old routines that matter to me. That's exactly what my job is," she argued, passionately.

"I'm not debating you enjoy your job. I also recall when you were a teenager, you used school to hide from your problems, and now you use your work to do the same. Can you deny that?" he challenged. Her eyes widened, her lips moved, but not a word emerged. "Three weeks."

With that, he let the room.