Chapter Twenty-Two The Shape of Things
The belly arrived sometime in the sixteenth week.
Miu noticed it first when she tried to button her jeans and discovered that even the unbuttoned method had failed. She stood in front of the mirror, staring at the small curve beneath her hoodie, and called Lena into the bedroom.
"Look," she said.
Lena appeared in the doorway, a spatula in her hand, her hair falling out of its ponytail. She looked at the mirror. Then she looked at Miu's stomach. Then she set down the spatula and crossed the room and knelt, the way she always knelt, and pressed her palm against the curve.
"Hi," Lena said. Not to Miu. To the belly.
Miu's throat tightened. "You're talking to it."
"I'm talking to her. Or him. Or them. I'm talking to the bean."
"It's not a bean anymore. It's a sweet potato. According to the app."
Lena looked up. Her hand was still on Miu's stomach. "I like bean better."
"You're attached to the bean."
"I'm attached to everything about this."
Miu put her hand over Lena's. Their fingers tangled. The morning light was pale through the window. The cat was on the bed, watching them with the particular judgment of an animal who had been displaced from his sleeping spot.
"We have an ultrasound today," Miu said.
"I know."
"You're coming?"
"I'm driving."
"You're staying?"
Lena stood. Kissed Miu's forehead. "I'm staying."
---
The apartment had changed.
It was subtle at first—a second toothbrush in the bathroom, a pair of shoes by the door that weren't Miu's, a laptop on the kitchen table that was too sleek for the space.
But then the changes became harder to ignore.
Lena's books appeared on the shelves, organized by color, which Miu found either artistic or unhinged.
Lena's coffee maker replaced Miu's broken one.
Lena's cat—the cat had become Lena's as much as Miu's, sleeping on her side of the bed, following her to the door when she left for work.
Lena left cabinet doors open. Miu left socks everywhere. They argued about the thermostat and the correct way to fold towels and whether the cat should be allowed on the counter.
Miu loved it. Every chaotic, domestic, ridiculous minute of it.
She didn't say anything. She didn't want to jinx it.
---
The ultrasound was at 2:00 PM.
Lena drove. Miu sat in the passenger seat with her hand on her stomach, watching the city slide past. The rain had stopped. The sun was trying to break through the clouds. It was the kind of Vancouver day that promised spring was coming, eventually.
"You're quiet," Lena said.
"I'm nervous."
"You've done this before."
"I know. But last time, it was just a bean. Now it's a—" She looked down at her stomach. "A person. With fingers. And toes. And probably opinions."
Lena's hand left the steering wheel. Found Miu's. Squeezed. "It has your opinions. That's what I'm worried about."
Miu laughed. "My opinions are excellent."
"You think pickles and peanut butter is a balanced meal."
"The baby thinks that. I'm just the vessel."
"The vessel has opinions too."
Miu squeezed her hand back. "I love you."
Lena glanced at her. Her face was soft in the gray light. "I love you too."
They drove the rest of the way in silence. It was the good kind.
---
The waiting room was the same. Soft lighting. Neutral colors. Magazines about breastfeeding and sleep training. But Miu didn't hate it this time. Lena was beside her, close enough to touch, close enough to hold.
Dr. Laurent called them in. Her lab coat was wrinkled. Her hair was escaping its bun. She looked the same as she always looked—tired, competent, slightly harried.
"Well," she said, looking at the ultrasound screen, "someone's grown."
Miu lay back. The gel was cold. The wand moved. The screen flickered.
And there it was. Not a bean. Not a sweet potato. A person. A small, curled, perfect person with fingers and toes and a nose that looked like Miu's nose and a chin that looked like Lena's chin.
Miu's breath caught. "Oh."
Lena said nothing. Her hand found Miu's. Held on.
Dr. Laurent pointed. "There's the heart. Strong beat. There's the spine. There's the hands—see? Ten fingers."
Miu was crying. She hadn't noticed when it started. The tears were just there, warm on her cheeks, falling without permission.
Lena was crying too. Quietly. Her face was wet. Her hand was steady.
"There's the face," Dr. Laurent said. "See? Profile."
Miu looked at the screen. At the small, perfect face. At the nose that was her nose. At the chin that was Lena's chin. At the hands that were opening and closing, like the baby was waving.
"Hi," Miu whispered. "Hi, bean."
Lena laughed. It was wet, choked, but it was real. "You're calling it bean now."
"It's always been bean. I was just pretending."
"I knew."
"Of course you knew."
Dr. Laurent printed the pictures. Handed them to Lena. "Congratulations. Everything looks perfect."
Lena took the pictures. Her hands were shaking. "Perfect," she repeated.
Miu looked at her. At the woman who had tied her shoes, who made her soup, who left cabinet doors open. At the woman who was holding a picture of their baby like it was the most precious thing in the world.
"Perfect," Miu agreed.
---
The car ride home was different.
Miu held the ultrasound pictures. Lena drove with one hand, the other hand on Miu's knee. The sun was breaking through the clouds, real sun, the kind that made the city glitter.
"We should call your mother," Lena said.
"She's going to cry."
"She cried when you sent her the last picture. She cried when you told her you were keeping it. She cried when she met me on video call and I didn't run away."
"She's emotional."
"She's Thai. It's genetic."
Miu laughed. "You're learning."
"I'm adapting."
They pulled into the parking spot in front of the building.
The building that Miu had lived in for two years, the one with the broken dishwasher and the landlord who never called back.
Lena had lived above her for months now.
She had moved in, slowly, without announcement, without discussion.
Her things were in Miu's closet. Her toothbrush was in Miu's bathroom. Her coffee maker was on Miu's counter.
They hadn't talked about it. They hadn't needed to.
But Miu looked at the building now, at her small apartment on the second floor, and thought about the space.
The way the kitchen had room for one person, maybe two if they stood close.
The way the bathroom had a sink that barely fit two toothbrushes.
The way the bedroom had a closet that was now overflowing with Lena's blazers and Miu's hoodies, pressed together, fabric against fabric.
She thought about Lena's old apartment. The one across the city. The one with the water view and the marble countertops and the space for a nursery.
"You're thinking," Lena said.
"I'm always thinking."
"You're thinking about the apartment."
Miu looked at her. "How do you do that?"
"Your face changes. When you're thinking about something you don't want to say."
Miu touched her own face. "My face does not change."
"Your nose wrinkles. Just a little. At the bridge."
"It does not."
"It does." Lena turned off the engine. Turned to face her. "What were you thinking?"
Miu looked at the building. At her window, the one with the crack in the frame, the one that let in the cold air in winter. At Lena's window, above hers, the one that had been dark for months now.
"I was thinking that we need more space," Miu said. "For the baby. For us. For the cat, who takes up more room than he should."
Lena was quiet. "You want to move?"
"I want—" Miu stopped. "I don't know what I want.
I want to stay here. I love this apartment.
I love the cracked tile and the broken dishwasher and the way the stairs creak.
I love that you lived above me. I love that you came down every morning to make me tea.
I love that we fell in love in this building. "
Lena's hand tightened on her knee. "But."
"But it's small. And the baby is coming. And we need a nursery. And we need space for the crib and the dresser and the rocking chair that your mother is going to buy even if we tell her not to. And we need—" She stopped. "We need room to grow."
Lena was quiet for a long moment. The sun was bright now, warm through the windshield. The city was waking up, people walking, cars moving, life happening.
"I have an apartment," Lena said. "My old one. The one across the city. It has three bedrooms. A nursery. A guest room. A kitchen with space for two people to cook at the same time."
Mui nodded. "I know."
"You've never seen it."
"I've seen pictures. Adrian sent them."
Lena's eyebrows rose. "Adrian sent you pictures of my apartment?"
"I asked him to. I wanted to see where you lived. Before."
Lena's face softened. "Before what?"
"Before you moved into my building. Before you started making me soup. Before you fell in love with me."
"I fell in love with you in the clinic. When you told my mother your uterus wasn't her business."
Mui laughed. "You did not."
"I did. I was wearing a blazer. I was trying to be professional. And you looked at my mother and told her to back off, and I thought—" Lena paused. "I thought, I want to know her. I want to know everything about her."
Mui's eyes were wet. "You're very romantic for a robot."
"I'm adapting."
They sat in the car. The sun was warm. The city was bright. Mui held the ultrasound pictures in her lap, the proof that their future was coming, that it was already here, that it had fingers and toes and a nose that looked like hers.
"I want to see it," Miu said. "Your apartment. The old one."
Lena started the engine. "Now?"
"Now. Before I lose my nerve."
---
The apartment was on the top floor of a building that looked out over the water.
Miu had seen pictures, but pictures didn't capture the light. The way it poured through the windows, warm and gold, filling every room. The way it hit the hardwood floors, made them glow. The way it made the empty rooms feel full, even without furniture, even without anything.
Lena stood in the living room. Her hands were in her pockets. Her face was careful, controlled, the face she wore when she was waiting for something.
"It's big," Miu said.
"It's too big. For one person. I never filled it."
"The kitchen is huge."
"It has room for two people to cook. At the same time. Without touching."
"That's not a selling point."
Lena almost smiled. "I thought you'd say that."
Miu walked through the rooms. The living room, where they would put the couch and the crib and the rocking chair.
The kitchen, where they would cook together, their shoulders brushing, their hands touching.
The bedroom, where they would sleep, the cat at their feet, the morning light through the windows.
And the nursery. The room that was empty now, waiting.
Miu stood in the doorway. The room was small—smaller than the others, tucked away at the end of the hall. The light came through the window, soft and gray, the Vancouver light. The walls were white. The floors were bare.
"There's room for a crib," Miu said. "And a dresser. And a rocking chair."
Lena was behind her. "There's room for everything."
Miu turned. "You want this. You want to move back here. With me. With the baby."
Lena's face was open, unguarded. "I want to live wherever you are. I want to be wherever you want to be. If you want to stay in the apartment with the broken dishwasher, I'll stay. If you want to move here, I'll move. I just—" She paused. "I just want to be with you. That's all. That's everything."
Miu looked at the nursery. The empty walls. The bare floors. The light through the window.
"I love our apartment," she said. "I love that you lived above me. I love that you came down every morning. I love that we fell in love in that building."
Lena nodded. "I know."
"But this—" Miu stepped into the nursery. The light was soft on her face. "This is where we grow."
---
They called Rosana first.
Miu sat on the floor of the empty living room, her back against the wall, the ultrasound pictures spread out beside her. Lena sat across from her, their legs tangled, the phone between them.
Rosana answered on the first ring. "You have pictures."
"How did you know?"
"The ultrasound was today. I've been waiting for two hours." A pause. "Show me."
Lena held up the picture. The profile. The nose that was Miu's nose. The chin that was Lena's chin.
Rosana was quiet for a long moment. Then: "That's my grandchild."
"That's the bean," Miu said.
"The bean?"
"It's a long story."
Rosana's voice was thick. "It has your nose, Miu. And Lena's stubborn chin. You're going to have your hands full."
Miu laughed. "We already do."
Rosana looked at the picture for another moment. Then she cleared her throat. "The apartment. The old one. You're moving back?"
Lena looked at Miu. Miu looked at Lena.
"We're thinking about it," Miu said.
Rosana's smile was sharp, knowing. "You're moving back. The nursery is the one at the end of the hall, isn't it? The one with the morning light."
Lena's ears went red. "How do you know which room has the morning light?"
"I picked that apartment. For you. When you were twenty-five and you thought you didn't want anyone." Rosana's voice softened. "I picked it because I hoped, someday, there would be a nursery. I didn't know it would be for this. For her. For the bean."
Miu's throat was tight. "You picked the apartment for a nursery?"
"I picked the apartment for a future. For my daughter's future. For a family she didn't know she wanted." Rosana looked at the picture again. "Bring the bean to dinner. When you're settled. I'll make the lamb."
She hung up. Miu looked at Lena. Lena's ears were still red.
"Your mother picked your apartment because she wanted grandchildren," Miu said.
"She picked it because she's controlling."
"She picked it because she loves you."
Lena was quiet for a moment. Then: "She's going to be insufferable."
"She's going to buy us everything. The crib. The stroller. The rocking chair."
"She's going to redecorate the nursery."
"Are you going to stop her?"
Lena almost smiled. Almost. "No."
---
They called Miu's mother next.
Aroon Srisuwan answered on the second ring, her face filling the screen, her kitchen behind her, something simmering on the stove.
"Miu! You have pictures!"
"How does everyone know?"
"The doctor called me. She said the baby is perfect. She said it looks like you. She said—" Her mother stopped. Saw the picture. Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh. Oh, baby."
Miu's eyes were wet. "Mae."
"It has your nose. And Lena's chin. It's going to be stubborn. Like both of you."
Lena leaned into the frame. "I'm not stubborn."
"You argued with me about ginger for twenty minutes," Miu said.
"Ginger is important."
"Ginger is ginger."
Her mother laughed. The sound filled the kitchen.
"You're both stubborn. The baby doesn't have a chance.
" She looked at the picture again. "When are you moving?
The apartment is too small. I told you. I told you months ago.
You need space for the baby. For the crib.
For the rocking chair. For me, when I come to visit. "
Miu's heart stopped. "You're coming to visit?"
"Of course I'm coming to visit. My grandchild is being born. I'm going to be there. For the first month. For the sleepless nights." She looked at Lena. "You'll need help. Both of you. I'll clean. I'll hold the baby while you sleep."
Lena's face was soft. "We'd like that. Very much."
Her mother's eyes went bright. "You're a good one, Lena Thomson. I knew it when you made her soup. I knew it when you tied her shoes. I knew it when you didn't run away."
"I'm not running."
"Good. Because Miu needs someone who stays."
Miu was crying. She didn't know when it started. The tears were just there, warm on her cheeks, falling without permission.
"Mae."
"Baby. My baby. You're going to be a mother." Her mother's voice cracked. "You're going to be a wonderful mother. You're going to be kind and strong and you're going to give that baby everything. Everything we gave you. Everything we didn't have."
Miu couldn't speak. She just nodded. Lena's hand found hers. Squeezed.
Her mother looked at the picture one more time. "I'm going to frame this. Put it on the fridge. Show your father when he gets home." She wiped her eyes. "Send more pictures. Every week. I want to see the belly. I want to see the nursery. I want to see everything."
She hung up. Miu sat on the floor, the empty living room around her, the light pouring through the windows. Lena was beside her. Lena's hand was in hers.
"You're going to be a good mother," Lena said.
"You're going to be a good mother too."
Lena's face was open, vulnerable. "I don't know how. I didn't have—my mother wasn't—"
"You have me. You have us. You have the bean. You're going to figure it out. Together."
Lena leaned into her. Their shoulders touched. Their hands stayed tangled.
"Together," Lena said.
---
They called Tina last.
She was at work, her scrubs bright, her hair pulled back. She answered on the first ring.
"Show me the baby."
Miu held up the picture. Tina's face went through five emotions in three seconds. Joy. Wonder. Fear. Joy again. Then something else, something that looked like pride.
"That's a person," Tina said.
"That's a person."
"It looks like you. And the robot."
"She's not a robot."
"She's a robot who makes soup. It's a very specific model."
Lena leaned into the frame. "I can hear you."
"I know." Tina grinned. "I love you. Both of you. The baby too. Even though it looks like you."
Miu laughed. "We're moving. To the big apartment. The one with the water view."
Tina's eyebrows rose. "The CEO apartment?"
"The apartment we're going to live in. Together."
Tina looked at her. Really looked. "You're happy."
"I'm happy."
"You're in love."
"I'm in love."
"You're going to be a mom."
Miu's throat tightened. "I'm going to be a mom."
Tina's eyes were bright. "You're going to be so good at it.
You're going to be the best. You're going to teach that baby how to write scripts and eat gummy bears and stand up to people who think they're better than her.
You're going to—" Her voice cracked. "You're going to give that baby everything. "
Miu was crying again. "Tina."
"I'm not crying. I'm just allergic to happiness."
"Tina."
"Fine. I'm crying. Happy? You made me cry. In front of my coworkers. I'm going to have to transfer floors."
Miu laughed. It was wet and choked and real. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now send me the picture. I'm going to put it on my locker. Show everyone my godchild."
"Your godchild?"
"You think I'm letting anyone else be the godmother? Your mother is in Thailand. The robot's mother is terrifying. I'm the only sane option."
Lena opened her mouth. Closed it.
"She has a point," Miu said.
"I always have a point." Tina wiped her eyes. "Now go. Move into your fancy apartment. Set up the nursery. Eat some vegetables. Take care of my godchild."
She hung up. Miu sat on the floor, the ultrasound pictures spread around her, the light pouring through the windows. Lena was beside her. The apartment was empty, waiting, ready.
"We're moving," Miu said.
"We're moving."
"To the big apartment. The one with the nursery."
Lena's hand was in hers. "To the big apartment. The one with the nursery."
"The one your mother picked out because she wanted grandchildren."
Lena almost smiled. Almost. "She's going to be insufferable."
"She's going to decorate the nursery."
"She's going to redecorate the whole apartment."
"Are you going to stop her?"
Lena looked at Miu. At the woman who had grown a person inside her body. At the woman who had never asked for anything. At the woman who was going to be the mother of her child.
"No," Lena said. "I'm not going to stop her."
Miu leaned into her. Their shoulders touched. Their hands stayed tangled. The light was warm through the windows. The city was bright. The apartment was empty, but it wouldn't be for long. Soon there would be furniture. Soon there would be a crib. Soon there would be