She lies in an exam room in a blue paper dress. The walls are a color she has determined should be called 'Institutional Eggshell'. The paint is flat, and makes the room seem even more cold, and sterile than it is. The room seems to grow colder with each passing moment. She studies the decorations on the wall. There are posters of female reproductive organs plastering the walls. She sits on the edge of the exam table. She shifts uncomfortably, as she sits on a sheet of white paper. She glances up at the clock on the wall. Her sense of anxiety kicks into high gear as she realizes that she is probably going to be late for work. She groans inwardly, cursing the entire situation. Finally there is a knock on the door, and the physician enters the room.
Her physician enters the room, and takes a seat on a stool. He asks her a hundred and one nosey questions. He reviews her lab work, and then pulls on a pair of gloves to examine her. He pulls out a pair of stirrups. She rolls her eyes, knowing that being in a pair of stirrups first thing in the morning does not make for a promising day. After finishing the pelvic exam he flips on a monitor nearby. She continues to be surrounded by a cloud of mixed feelings, and severe nausea as he asks her if she's ready. She simply nods, fully aware of the fact that she's lying. The truth is that she just wants to get it over with so she can go to work.
She stares up at the white ceiling tiles. She furrows her brow, wondering if they're asbestos tiles. She reminds herself that it is a doctor's office, and that asbestos tiles would be completely inappropriate in such a healthcare setting. The other part of her brain screams that it's an old building, and that it is not out of the realm of possibility. A rhythmic sound interrupts her train of thought. She shifts her gaze to the physician's face. Her physician is grey, and wears thick glasses. He is over sixty. He has been an OB/GYN for thirty years. She tries to estimate the number of babies that he has delivered, but she finds herself completely distracted. She finds her eyes glued to the screen.
"That is your baby's heartbeat."
She feels as if her own heart skips a beat. He points to the screen as he moves the probe, "And that is your baby."
She swallows hard.
"Mac how long have I known you?"
"Since I moved here five years ago," she admits.
He glances at her uniform hanging on the back of a chair, "You're still a marine, I see."
"Yes," she nods.
"With JAG?"
"Yes."
"And unmarried, too?"
"Yes."
"I have delivered thousands of babies in my thirty years of practice. I have taken care of thousands of pregnant women."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I expect honesty."
"Okay?" She furrows her brow.
"I am blunt."
"I know."
"Some people get offended by the questions that I ask."
"I am not easily offended."
"I want to preface my question by saying that I ask every woman the same questions regardless of race, age, marital status, or socio-economic status."
"Okay."
"Do plan on having this baby?"
She swallows hard, "I don't know," she admits, honestly.
He nods as he prints off pictures. He grabs half a dozen pamphlets off the wall. He hands her half a dozen pictures with the pamphlets.
She hurries out of the office with her stack of pamphlets, and pictures. She locks them in her glove compartment, and hurries off to work. She arrives on time with a couple of minutes to spare. She exits the elevator, and the smell of hot coffee hits her. She swallows hard, and races off to the bathroom. She slams the stall door closed behind her, and proceeds to vomit into the toilet bowl. She tries not to consider how clean it is. She exits the stall when she's finished, and heads to the sink. She proceeds to brush her teeth thoroughly, swish, and wash her hands. She returns her travel sized bottle of mouthwash, toothpaste, and toothbrush into a pocket of her bag.
She exits the bathroom, and makes her way through the bullpen into her office. As she walks towards her office she finds Harm eyeing her suspiciously. She has barely managed to hang up her coat when he enters her office. He clears his throat, and closes the door. He stops directly in front of her desk. She places her bag on the chair. He is standing close enough to her that he can smell her. He furrows his brow.
"Can I help you?" She wonders, trying to ignore the smell of his aftershave.
"Mac we need to talk."
"Now is not the time," she argues.
"You haven't been yourself lately, you seem distracted."
"Harm, please don't go there."
"I'm worried about you," he admits.
She takes a step back, "I appreciate that, but I'm fine."
"You're late," he points out.
You have no idea how late, she thinks to herself. "By two minutes and thirty seconds," she responds.
"What's going on?"
"Traffic sucked," she answers.
"I don't buy it. What's really going on?"
"Stay out of it," she replies.
"Have you been drinking again?"
She furrows her brow, "Why would you think that?"
"Because you smell like mouthwash."
"That isn't a crime. You smell like coffee, and cheap aftershave."
"My aftershave isn't cheap."
"What is your point?"
"Have you been drinking again?"
"No."
"You look like you haven't been sleeping well. You have dark circles under your eyes, and your face is pale. I suspect that you just went into the bathroom, and puked before coming into your office. I am guessing that is why you smell like mouthwash."
"You honestly think that I'm hungover?"
"Are you?"
She doesn't answer him. He expects her to chide him, or deny that she is. He considers that she may even confess that she is. What she does next is completely unexpected, and catches him totally off guard. She starts crying.