Chapter 3 - Bitter Tea
The air in the trauma bay grew colder.
“Toxicology?” I echoed, my mind spinning. “Why did you run a tox screen?”
“Standard protocol for high-impact falls when a patient presents with sudden dizziness,” Dr. Mercer explained, pulling another sheet from the folder. “When you described your fall to the triage nurse, you mentioned feeling suddenly lightheaded right before Judith confronted you at the stairwell.”
The memory snapped back with terrifying clarity. I had been at the kitchen island, clearing the salad plates. Judith had handed me a small, porcelain cup of her specialty chamomile blend—a brew she insisted on serving before every Sunday dinner to ‘aid digestion.’ I had swallowed two sips, remarking that it tasted unusually bitter, almost metallic. Within ten minutes, a strange, floating lethargy had settled behind my temples.
“We found traces of misoprostol in your blood,” Dr. Mercer said, watching me closely.
The name sounded vaguely familiar, like something read in a medical journal years ago. “What is that?”
“It’s a synthetic prostaglandin,” he said, his voice flat with clinical gravity. “In clinical settings, it’s used to induce labor or terminate early pregnancies. In someone who is six weeks pregnant, even a micro-dose causes uterine cramping, dizziness, and spontaneous abortion within hours.”
The room seemed to violently cave inward.
Judith hadn't just pushed me down the stairs in a fit of temper.
She had known.
“How?” I whispered, my voice breaking into a ragged rasp. “How could she have known?”
“Think back, Nora,” Dr. Mercer urged gently. “Did you leave anything behind? Did anyone have access to your personal space?”
My mind raced through the past forty-eight hours. On Saturday morning, after I saw the two faint pink lines on the test strip, I had wrapped the plastic wand in tissue and tucked it into the bottom of my leather purse. That afternoon, Graham and I had gone to Judith’s house to help her set up patio furniture for the season. I had left my handbag on the console table in her front foyer for over three hours while Graham and I worked in the backyard garden.
Judith had gone through my purse. She had found the test.
And instead of celebrating the long-awaited news, she had laced my tea with a black-market abortifacient, waited for the dizziness to take hold, and then shoved me down the stairs to guarantee the job was finished.
A sudden, sharp commotion outside the bay shattered my thoughts.
“Get your hands off me!” Graham’s voice barked through the curtain, loud and arrogant. “I am Graham Sterling! My wife is in that room, and you have no legal right to detain me in this hallway!”
“Sir, step back from the threshold,” a deep, gravelly voice ordered. It was the security guard.
“Nora!” Graham shouted, his voice slamming through the fabric partition. “Nora, pick up your phone! Mother is waiting in the parking lot! We have our private physician ready to see you at the Sterling clinic! You don't need to be in this county facility!”
The curtain rings rattled violently as Graham shoved his head past the edge. His hair was disheveled, his expensive silk tie loosened at the collar, but his eyes were wide with a frantic, desperate fury.
“Nora, tell this security guard to back off! We’re leaving right now. I’ve already called our attorney. Mother is having a panic attack in the car because of the scene you made!”
I stared at him from the hospital bed. The man I had spent five years loving looked like a complete stranger. The expensive wool jacket, the polished demeanor, the soft-spoken charm—it was all wallpaper over rot.
“Graham,” I said, my voice eerily calm despite the fire blazing in my ribs.
He stopped struggling against the security guard’s outstretched arm, a smug look of relief washing over his features. “Thank God. Tell them, Nora. Tell them it was an accident so we can go home.”
“Dr. Mercer just showed me the X-rays,” I said clearly.
Graham’s relief vanished. His mouth parted slightly.
“He showed me the healed fracture on my right clavicle from the lake house,” I continued, every word landing like a hammer blow. “And the healed fracture on my ribs from Judith’s library. And he just gave me the results of my blood work.”
Graham’s eyes darted toward the floor, refusing to meet mine. “Nora… don't do this here. Let’s talk about this in private—”
“I’m six weeks pregnant, Graham.”
The hallway fell completely silent. The security guard glanced at Graham, his expression hardening with disgust.
Graham turned ash-white. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You’re… you’re pregnant?”
“Yes,” I said. “And your mother put misoprostol in my tea before she pushed me down the stairs.”
Graham didn't gasp. He didn't drop to his knees in horror. He didn't ask if his child was alive.
Instead, his eyes darted left and right down the corridor, checking to see if anyone had overheard. Then, he leaned forward, whispering with a frantic, sickening hiss: “Nora, keep your voice down! You don't understand what’s at stake! You don't know what Father’s will says!”
“Get out,” I said.
“Nora, please—”
“Get him out of here,” Dr. Mercer instructed the security officer.
The guard grabbed Graham by the elbow, wrenching him away from the curtain. “You heard the doctor, buddy. Move.”
As Graham was dragged down the hall, his voice echoing against the linoleum, the curtain pulled back again. A woman in a dark gray trench coat stepped into the room, holding a leather-bound notebook and a silver police badge.
May you like
“Mrs. Sterling?” she asked, her gaze taking in the monitors, the bruises, and the tear-stained determination on my face. “I’m Detective Miller with the Special Victims Unit. Dr. Mercer called me twenty minutes ago. I think it’s time you and I had a long conversation.”
***
