Hopefully this is ok :)
He stands alone in the ladies, unsure of why he cannot seem to move away, aware that each passing minute increases the likelihood of him getting caught. If she was still here with him, the implications of this would be lessened. Certainly the hospital gossip network would come alive with the knowledge that Ms Naylor and Nurse Maconie were spotted in the female toilets, and by all accounts one of them was holding a suspicious plastic object but that was a much more favourable scenario than being caught here alone. Again he is certain the gossip mongers would be most amused by this turn of events, the nurse seemingly frozen clutching the object in the ladies – no woman around. They could have a field day guessing at whom the woman was, whose child he had fathered though he suspects most would immediately assume Jac. He is near certain this scenario is worse.
He doesn't know how he should feel; doesn't understand half of the emotions which are flitting through his mind, not sticking quite long enough for him to name it.
He doesn't think he has a right to mourn, to feel saddened. He has learnt of the presence of the baby at the same time it was lost. He had so little time. He feels cheated that she had not come to him earlier, talked to him about the pregnancy. But that would make this all the harder now.
Perhaps it is better this way, perhaps it would have been better if he had never known. But then he thinks of her. If he hadn't found out, even at this late stage, she would have had to face this reality alone. He can support her, even though she has run away from him yet again. He can offer her comfort, though he worries she wouldn't accept it, that she would push him away again to deal with this on her own.
She is too independent for her own good. It scares him, how she would rather face something alone than with someone alongside her, to support her. It scares him how little he knows of her and what made her that way. He knows that nothing good can have caused it; that now she expects nothing good can come to her.
He thinks back to that day. The day outside of the theatre. The day they had shouted at each other stupidly and wrecked the good that had come for them both. She had pushed him until he was forced to retaliate, forced to push her as she had pushed him. Words from both sides, designed to wound, to sting. Only now he sees the look on her face, sees the set of her eyes as he had spoken the words about 'who in their right mind would want a child with you' knowing full well that was part of the future he had dreamed of sharing with her. Only now he sees something in the way she had looked at him as he had said the words, a hurt beyond the wound he had intended to inflict. This is something greater and he doesn't understand it; knows that he has no hopes of having understood it then – or even now – because she wouldn't open up to him. How different could things have been if he had known about whatever had caused that look?
He knows that thinking about it cannot change anything, that dwelling on the past is of no use to him now. But he cannot help himself. He cannot help but wonder what could have been. He thinks of her and the night she had conceived the baby.
He would never forget that day. The one where the young doctor had lost her life, how the news had travelled, how nobody had wanted to accept the truth of it. How they had sought comfort in each other. They had been reckless, in not using protection. They had tried to be careful since that false alarm so many months previously; the negative test that she had faced alone. He thought now that she had sounded, almost disappointed when she had told him the result though at the time he hadn't taken much heed of it then. He thinks now that perhaps she had wanted a different result, just as she had this time. They had been careful and yet this one time she had allowed him to be careless – though he had presumed she was still on the pill. He looks at the edge of the white plastic stick he still clutches, and wonders if this had perhaps been her plan all along. Only it hadn't worked. Would she have even told him or would she have disappeared to have a child he would never have known about?
Perhaps that was all she had wanted, and yet that doesn't fit with what he knows of her. She isn't maternal from what he has seen, she is hardened and cold most of the time, struggles with human emotions not least her own. And yet her reaction to this was so different from what he would have expected based on that.
He turns to look in to the mirror, at his own face. He expects to see himself looking back, expression torn and unreadable. Only it isn't him, he sees. It is her. Her face outside of the theatre, that look in her eyes. That look that almost brings him to his knees now but which he had been blinded to then.
He has to get out of here. He looks down at the watch on his chest, he has to go watch the little girl, he has to be happy and playful. He looks in to the eyes in the mirror glass, sees Eve reflected in them beneath the pain, an Eve who slowly flickers away.
He grabs a paper towel from the pile, he'll wrap up the stick before he throws it in the bin, to hide it. He fears that she will return here and be confronted by it, he knows it is a ridiculous fear but he needs it gone.
He opens his fist to wrap it, to conceal the evidence. Only he finds himself staring at the little window once more, convinced his mind is playing tricks on him only it looks so very real. He frowns, he cannot chuck it away now so instead he wraps it tightly in paper and places it within his pocket, suddenly feeling all the more confused.