I followed her into an exam room and lay down on the cold table. She moved an instrument over my abdomen, her eyes fixed on a monitor. Suddenly, she stopped.
“Susan, have you ever had any gynecological surgery in the past?”
“No. Never.”
My heart started pounding.
“Why?”
Dr. Evans did not answer. She just continued the exam. After what felt like an eternity, she put the instrument down.
“You can get dressed. Let’s talk back in my office.”
Once I was seated again, she handed me a cup of water.
“Susan, I have to tell you something.”
She took a deep breath.
“The exam shows evidence that you’ve had surgery on your uterus.”
“That’s impossible.”
I almost shouted it.
“I’ve never had surgery.”
“But the results are very clear.”
Dr. Evans pulled up the images.
“You see this here? This is distinct scar tissue.”
She paused, her expression growing even more serious.
“And based on the location and formation of the scarring, this surgery was likely performed many, many years ago.”
She looked at me intently.
“Susan, are you absolutely sure you have no memory of this?”
My mind was a chaotic blur. Surgery? What surgery? When could it have happened?
“Could it be a mistake?”
I was grasping at the last straw of hope.
“No.”
Dr. Evans shook her head.
“The imaging is too clear. It’s not a mistake. Susan, I suggest you go home and think very carefully, or perhaps ask a family member.”
I walked out of the hospital in a daze, the doctor’s words echoing in my head. Surgery. Scar tissue. Many years ago. Suddenly, a thought pierced through the fog. Back in 2008, after Ethan, I had a period of severe anxiety. I could not sleep, and I was taking sleeping pills. I remembered waking up one morning with a dull ache in my lower abdomen. I had dismissed it as cramps. Could it be? The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I felt. I hailed a cab and rushed home.
Michael was in the living room reading the paper.
“You’re back.”
He did not even look up.
“Michael.”
I stood in front of him.
“I need to ask you something, and you have to tell me the truth.”
He finally looked up, his brow creasing at my expression.
“What is it?”
“In 2008, did I have surgery?”
The color drained from his face. He shot to his feet, the newspaper falling to the floor. My heart sank like a stone. So it was true. I had an operation, and I did not even know it.
“What kind of surgery was it? Why don’t I remember any of it?”
My voice was shaking.
Michael turned his back to me, his shoulders trembling as if he were suppressing some enormous force.
“Do you really want to know?”
His voice was low.
“Tell me.”
I nearly screamed it.
He was silent for a long moment. Just as I was about to ask again, he spun around, his eyes red-rimmed and raw.
“That year, after I found out about your affair, one night you took too many sleeping pills. I rushed you to the hospital to have your stomach pumped. While they were examining you, the doctor discovered you were pregnant.”
My brain buzzed and the room tilted.
“Pregnant? I was pregnant?”
