Chapter Nine The First Appointment
The hallway between apartments was narrow, poorly lit, and smelled faintly of whatever the neighbor on the second floor was cooking—something with garlic and regret.
Lena Thomson stood outside Miu's door at 7:45 AM, holding two travel mugs, and tried not to think about the last time she had waited for someone like this.
She had been fourteen. Her father was supposed to pick her up for a weekend visit. She had waited on the front steps for three hours before her mother came out and told her to come inside.
He never came.
Lena pushed the memory down and knocked.
The door opened forty-seven seconds later. Miu Srisuwan stood in the doorway looking like she had lost a fight with a pillow. Her hair was doing something chaotic. Her cat hoodie was on backwards—the hood hung over her chest, the cat's face staring blankly at the ceiling. She was wearing one shoe.
"You're early," Miu said.
"You're late."
"I'm not late. You're early. There's a difference."
Lena held out the travel mug. "Herbal tea. No caffeine."
Miu stared at it. "You remembered."
"I remember everything."
Miu took the mug. Did not say thank you. Drank it anyway. The tea was hot and slightly sweet—honey, maybe, or something else she couldn't identify. It was perfect, which annoyed her.
"Give me two minutes," Miu said. "I need to find my other shoe."
"I'll wait."
Miu disappeared back into the apartment. The cat—Som Tam, orange, judgmental—appeared in the doorway and stared at Lena like she had personally offended his ancestors. Lena stared back. The cat blinked first.
"Good cat," Lena said quietly.
The cat did not agree.
---
The stairwell was narrow.
They walked single file—Miu first, because she knew the building, because she had lived here for two years, because she needed to be in front. Lena followed. The steps creaked. The walls were covered in layers of paint that had been applied by landlords who stopped caring sometime in the 1990s.
Miu's hand brushed the railing. Lena's hand brushed the same spot a moment later.
Neither mentioned it.
---
Lena's car was a black sedan that cost more than Miu's annual rent. Miu had seen it before—parked on the street, gleaming in a neighborhood where most vehicles had duct tape and at least one mismatched door panel. She had not been inside it.
She got in. The leather seats were warm. The interior smelled like nothing—no air freshener, no coffee spills, no evidence that a human being had ever occupied this space.
"Your car is creepy," Miu said.
"It's clean."
"It's too clean. Clean is creepy. Cars are supposed to have crumbs."
Lena started the engine. "I don't eat in my car."
"Of course you don't."
They pulled out of the parking spot. The drive to Thomson Reproductive Medicine took twenty-three minutes. Miu counted. She had nothing else to do except watch Vancouver slide past the window and pretend she wasn't nervous.
The heartbeat. They might see a heartbeat today.
"You're quiet," Lena said.
"So are you."
"I'm always quiet."
"That's true." Miu turned to look at her. Lena's profile was sharp in the morning light—the line of her jaw, the concentration in her eyes, the way her hands rested on the steering wheel at exactly ten and two. "Are you nervous?"
Lena took a moment to answer. "Yes."
"Good. Me too."
They drove the rest of the way in silence. It was not uncomfortable.
---
The waiting room was designed to be calming. Soft lighting. Neutral colors. Magazines about breastfeeding and sleep training arranged in neat rows on a glass table. Miu hated it immediately.
"This is where my nightmare began," she said.
Lena sat beside her. There was a gap between them—enough space for another person. "Technically, it began in the procedure room on the second floor."
"Not helping."
"Would you prefer I lie?"
"I would prefer you to be less accurate."
A woman with a very round belly sat down across from them. She smiled—the kind of smile that said I am so happy and I assume everyone else is too. "Is this your first?"
Miu opened her mouth. Lena spoke first. "Yes. Our first."
Miu choked on her tea.
The woman beamed. "How wonderful! Are you finding out the gender?"
"We're taking it one appointment at a time," Lena said smoothly.
"That's so wise. My husband wanted to know immediately, but I said—"
The woman kept talking. Miu stopped listening. She was staring at Lena, who was nodding along like she had been asked about quarterly earnings instead of baby genders.
The woman finally left to use the restroom. Miu leaned over. "Our first?"
"It was simpler than explaining."
"You just implied we're a couple."
"I implied we're having a baby together. Which is true."
"That's not—" Miu stopped. Rubbed her forehead. The tea was not helping. "Fine. Whatever. But next time, warn me."
Lena's mouth twitched. "I'll add it to my list."
"You have a list?"
"Several."
Before Miu could respond, a door opened and a nurse emerged. She was round, cheerful, and wearing a lanyard covered in cartoon baby pins. "Miu Srisuwan!"
Miu stood. Lena stood beside her.
The nurse—Bea, according to her nametag—clapped her hands together. "Oh! You brought your partner! How wonderful!"
Miu opened her mouth.
"She's not my—"
"Thank you," Lena said. "We're ready."
---
The exam room was small. An ultrasound machine sat in the corner. A paper-covered table dominated the center of the space. The walls were decorated with diagrams of female anatomy and motivational posters about breathing.
Miu sat on the table. The paper crinkled beneath her. Lena stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching.
Dr. Laurent entered. She looked slightly less exhausted than before—slightly. Her lab coat was still wrinkled. Her hair was still escaping its bun.
"Good morning," she said. "How are you feeling, Ms. Srisuwan?"
"Like I'm about to be probed by a stranger."
"That's normal." Dr. Laurent pulled on gloves. "Any bleeding? Cramping? Nausea?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." Miu frowned. "Is that the wrong answer?"
"It's an honest one. We'll take it." Dr. Laurent turned to the ultrasound machine. "Today we'll do ultrasound to confirm viability and check for cardiac activity."
Miu's face went pale. "Cardiac activity."
"A heartbeat. At this stage, we may see one. It's early, but possible."
Miu gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles were white. Lena noticed. She did not reach out. She wanted to. She stayed where she was.
"Lie back," Dr. Laurent said. "This will be cold."
The gel was cold. Miu flinched. The wand moved. The screen flickered—gray and black and white, shapes that didn't look like anything.
Then a flicker.
Small. Fast. Rhythmic.
Dr. Laurent pointed. "There. That's the heartbeat."
Miu stared at the screen. Her mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.
Lena uncrossed her arms. Took one step closer. Then another. Her reflection appeared in the corner of the monitor—blurry, but there.
"That's it?" Lena asked. Her voice was different. Softer. Almost unfamiliar.
"That's it," Dr. Laurent said. "Approximately 150 beats per minute. Normal for this stage."
Miu reached out. She didn't know what she was reaching for—something to hold, something solid, something to remind her that the world was still there. Her hand landed on Lena's sleeve.
Lena looked down at the hand. The fingers were trembling. She did not pull away.
Neither of them moved.
The heartbeat flickered on the screen. Small and fast and impossibly real.
---
The hallway was quiet.
They walked side by side. Miu's hand was no longer on Lena's sleeve, but the memory of it lingered. The paper crinkle of the exam table. The cold gel. The sound of a heartbeat that didn't belong to either of them but somehow did.
Miu stopped walking.
Lena stopped too.
"I thought I was ready," Miu said. "I told you I was ready. I told myself I was ready. But seeing that—" She pressed a hand to her chest. "That was a heartbeat. That thing inside me has a heartbeat."
"Yes."
"That's all you have to say?"
Lena turned to face her. The hallway was empty. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere, a phone rang.
"What do you want me to say?" Lena asked.
"I don't know. Something reassuring. Something that makes this less terrifying."
Lena considered this. Her expression was unreadable, but something behind her eyes shifted—softened, just slightly.
"It is terrifying," Lena said. "I'm terrified too. But we're both here. Neither of us is running. That's something."
Miu stared at her. "You're terrified?"
"I've been terrified since the email arrived."
"You don't act terrified."
"I've had practice."
Miu laughed. It was small, surprised, pulled out of her against her will. "You're weird."
"I've been told."
They started walking again. This time, their shoulders almost touched.
---
The car ride home was different.
Miu sat in the passenger seat with her hands in her lap. The ultrasound printout was tucked into her jacket pocket—a gray blur with a tiny flicker that the technician had circled in blue ink. She had looked at it three times already.
"Can I ask you something?" Miu said.
"Yes."
"Why are you really doing this? The moving. The appointment. The tea this morning. The gummy bears." She turned to look at Lena. "You could have just paid for everything and stayed in your fancy apartment across the city. But you didn't."
Lena kept her eyes on the road. The street was busy—morning traffic, people going to work, people living their ordinary lives. Her hands were steady on the wheel.
"Because my father left," she said. "When I was twelve. He chose someone else. Something else. He never looked back." She paused. The traffic light turned red. She stopped. "I told myself I would never do that to anyone. I would never be the person who leaves."
Miu was quiet for a moment. "That's not the same thing."
"It's the same principle. Showing up. Staying. Even when it's hard."
The light turned green. Lena drove.
Miu looked down at her stomach. Flat. Unremarkable. The ultrasound printout pressed against her chest.
"You're not your father," she said.
"I know. But I have to prove it every day. That's the difference between intention and action."
They drove the rest of the way in silence. The parking spot in front of their building was empty. Lena pulled in. Cut the engine.
Neither got out immediately.
"Hey," Miu said. "Lena."
"Yes."
"The tea was good. Thank you."
Lena's mouth twitched. "The gummy bears were also good. I tried the green ones."
Miu turned in her seat. "You ate my gummy bears?"
"You said the green ones were the best. I wanted to verify."
"And?"
Lena almost smiled. Almost. "You were correct."
They got out of the car. Walked into the building together. The stairwell was narrow. Miu went first. Lena followed. The steps creaked. The smell of garlic and regret drifted down from the second floor.
At Miu's door, they stopped.
"Same time in two weeks?" Miu asked.
"I'll be here."
"Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You were early this morning. That's a kind of lateness."
Lena blinked. "That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense. You just don't understand because you're a robot."
Miu opened her door. The cat was waiting inside, sitting on the welcome mat like a tiny landlord. She stepped over him.
"Goodnight, Lena."
"Goodnight, Miu."
The door closed.
Lena stood in the hallway for a moment longer than necessary. Then she walked upstairs, unlocked her own door, and stepped into her too-clean apartment.
---
That night, Miu ate the rest of the gummy bears—all but the green ones, which she left in the bag.
Upstairs, Lena opened the bag and found them waiting.
She ate one. Then another. Then she closed the bag and put it back in the cabinet, left side, exactly where it had been before.
Some things, she decided, were better shared.