Eleven
Thanks For The Memory
“Amber? Amber? Are you okay? You seem a little out of it.”
Dr. Glendaver sounds genuinely concerned. Probably because I’ve spaced out in the middle of my 34-week ultrasound.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was just…thinking…” about all the ways I’m about to betray the father of my unborn child. “Is everything okay with the baby?”
“Oh, everything is just perfect,” Dr. Glendaver answers enthusiastically, her southern accent, pretty as the smell of jasmine in the spring. It’s still hard for me not to picture a genteel blonde when she speaks, even though Naima told me that she’s black— “like super dark blue-black” after our first appointment.
Dr. Glendaver launches into a list of measurements and other numbers, pertaining to my health. All good, including my blood pressur
