I set the silver rattle back on the table, right in the center of the wooden surface, where the fading light caught its curved edges.
The sun was beginning to drop below the treeline, throwing long shadows across the worn linoleum floor.
I reached for my phone on the counter, my thumb hovering over Claire’s name in my contact list for a long moment.
She answered on the first ring, her breath coming fast as if she had been holding the device against her cheek.
“Marianne?” she asked.
“Tell the clinic to prepare the paperwork,” I said.
The silver rattle rested on the kitchen table under the fading afternoon light.
Three weeks later, the plastic chairs in the waiting room of the Oak Creek Reproductive Center stuck to the backs of my thighs.
The air smelled of industrial carpet cleaner and cheap lavender room spray, a combination that made my throat feel dry and tight.
Claire sat next to me, her fingers tapping against her phone screen with a sharp, rhythmic click that seemed to echo off the blank walls.
Her nails were painted a pale, frosty pink that caught the harsh glare of the fluorescent tubes overhead.
On her lap rested a thick blue leather folder, its brass corners glinting every time she shifted her weight.
I could see the edges of several white documents poking out from the top, some stamped with red ink at the margins.
“Is that the medical history from our side?” I asked, pointing to the edge of the blue leather.
I wanted to see if she had included our father’s cardiac records, just to be sure we had covered every detail.
“I should probably look over the blood type results before we go in,” I added, reaching out toward the folder.
“It is just some standard intake forms,” Claire said, her voice rising to that high-pitched tone she used when she wanted to soften a conversation.
“Nothing you need to worry about, sweetie,” she added, giving a quick smile that did not clear the deep lines of tension from her forehead.
She pulled the folder closer to her chest, her fingers digging into the soft leather until the material bunched.
I reached out, my fingers almost touching the plastic tab on the side of the papers.
Claire swung her legs to the side, shifting her entire body away from me with a sudden, jerky movement.
“They have all my records on the computer anyway,” she said, looking toward the receptionist’s desk.
Her phone buzzed in her palm, a short vibration that made her startle.
She cleared her throat and slid the blue folder under her designer purse on the floor.
“We should ask about the medication schedule today,” I said, trying to steady my own voice.
“Evan wants us to stick strictly to what the specialist laid out,” Claire said, her eyes fixed on the hallway door.
A woman in green scrubs opened the heavy oak door and called my name.
“Let me carry that for you,” I said, pointing to the folder beneath her purse.
“I have it,” Claire said, her grip tightening until her knuckles turned white.
She stood up quickly, leaving me to follow her down the narrow, carpeted hallway.
The receptionist watched us walk past, her fingers paused over her keyboard.
