“I packed some chamomile tea for you,” Madison said, her breathy voice coming faster than usual. “It is in the silver thermos in the cup holder.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate you driving me to the new place.”
“Ethan is just under a lot of pressure with the autumn audit,” she said, her eyes tracking a delivery truck ahead of us. “He doesn’t mean to be harsh. He’s just practical about the foundation’s future.”
“He told me my body failed the foundation,” I said.
Madison adjusted her right earring, her fingers lingering on the small pearl. “We all have our limitations, Claire. Sometimes we just have to accept what the doctors tell us.”
“The St Catherine files were never fully explained to me,” I said, watching her profile.
Madison took her foot off the gas for a second, then pressed it down again. “They were very thorough, Claire. There is no reason to go through all that pain again.”
“I need to see the final ledger,” I said.
“Why would you do that to yourself?” Madison asked, her voice rising slightly.
“Because the numbers don’t match the bank transfers,” I said.
She stopped the car in front of the small brick building where my new room was located, keeping her eyes fixed on the steering wheel.
The lobby of the St Catherine reproductive medicine center was exceptionally quiet, the cold hum of the fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished grey linoleum floor. Linda, the receptionist who had worked there since our first consultation, looked up from her computer screen as I approached the desk.
“I need to request a certified copy of my complete treatment ledger,” I said, placing a seventy-five dollar money order on the counter. “Particularly the records from my final cycle in October.”
Linda smiled, her fingers hovering over her keyboard. “Of course, Claire. Let me just pull up your patient file.”
