Chapter 4 #2
She explains what she's going to do instead of assuming I remember anything from the emergency room. I nod and settle back. The empty chair sits at exactly the wrong angle: I can see it without turning my head.
"Would you like the screen facing you?" she asks.
"Yes." I hesitate. "Unless there's a reason—actually, yes. I want to see."
She angles it toward me. "I'll tell you what we're looking at. You can ask me to stop or explain anything."
The gel is cold. I grip the edge of the paper under me while the gray smudges begin to settle into shapes I recognize.
"There's your baby," she says softly.
I squint at the gray. "That curved bit?"
"Here." She traces it with the tip of her pen. "This is the head, and that's the body. See the movement in the middle?"
I lean toward the screen. "I was afraid I'd have to ask you to point to the heartbeat. I thought if I couldn't find it straightaway, I'd panic."
"It's right there," she says, tapping a key. "I'm measuring it now."
I watch the flicker. Nobody should be able to be that small and hold this much of somebody else's life.
"One-fifty-eight beats per minute," she says. "Measuring eight weeks and two days."
"So still on track?" I ask.
"The measurements are on track," she says. "We'll get the images we need, and your clinician will go over the results with you."
"Can I hear it?" I ask, barely above a whisper.
She adjusts the machine, and the quick rhythm fills the room. My hand moves toward the empty chair before I can stop it. I press it against my own stomach instead.
"Would you like a tissue?" she asks.
"Please," I say, laughing wetly. "Apparently I've brought enough water for both of us."
She puts the box within reach. She doesn't tell me to calm down or insist that these must be happy tears. I could kiss her for the courtesy, which would make the appointment substantially stranger.
"My husband was supposed to be here," I say.
She pauses with her hand on the wand. "Would you like a moment to call him?"
The offer hurts more than I expect. A stranger is willing to pause for him. I have been pausing for him for two years.
"No," I say. "He knows the time."
"All right." She nods and taps the keyboard. "I'll print pictures for you."
"For me, please," I say. "Everyone keeps saying I'll have pictures to take home to Dad, and I know they mean well. But I'm here. I'd like a set for me."
Her voice stays gentle. "Of course. These are your pictures."
I let out a breath that feels embarrassingly close to a sob. "Sorry. That sounded like I was about to challenge somebody over the office stationery."
"You don't need to apologize," she says.
She takes the next measurement. I wipe my face and make myself look at the screen again. This is my child. I don't want every memory of this room to belong to the person who failed to come.
"Could you show me the arm again?" I ask.
She slides the wand a fraction. "This little part here."
"I know it's early," I tell her. "I just want to remember what I'm looking at when I get home. My mother-in-law will ask seventeen questions, and I refuse to identify the head as a foot. She'll preserve the mistake for every future birthday."
Her mouth twitches. "I'll label the image for you."
"Excellent," I say. "Evidence. I may frame the labels separately."
I manage a small laugh. The baby keeps flickering on the screen, entirely unaware that its mother is trying to hold herself together with sarcasm and a square of tissue.
When the examination is finished, the tech hands me four pictures.
"Take your time getting up," she says, peeling off her gloves. "There are wipes beside you. Do you need help with anything before I step out?"
"No, thank you," I say. "You've been very kind."
She lingers at the door a second longer. "You can take a minute. There's no need to rush."
I wait until the door shuts, then put my palm on the chair beside me. The seat is cold.
The parking garage is dim and gray. I find my car by muscle memory, unlock it with shaking hands, slide into the driver's seat. The pictures go on the passenger seat where Taz should be sitting. I stare at them for a long moment.
Then I put my head down on the steering wheel and cry.
When I finally lift my head, my eyes are swollen and my nose is running and I probably look like someone who just got terrible news instead of someone whose baby is healthy and perfect and measuring right on track.
I dig through my purse for another tissue, and that's when I see it.
Three rows down. His black Ford. I'd recognize it anywhere, even before I see the man beside it.
Taz's truck, in this parking garage, at this medical center.
He's here. He came after all. He must have wrapped up his meeting faster than expected, rushed over, and I missed him. Maybe he's looking for me in the waiting room right now, maybe he's asking the front desk if his wife already went back—
He's crossing the garage toward the glass doors into the building.
I see him before I fully register what I'm seeing.
His dark wavy hair, his broad shoulders, the way he walks, always half a step ahead of his own schedule.
He reaches the doors and holds one open for someone, ever the gentleman, and for one bright second I think he's going to turn and look toward my car, that he'll spot me and wave, that this whole thing will be a misunderstanding I can laugh about later.
Then I see who he's holding the door for.
Kendall Brooks steps through in a fitted dress that hugs her small bump, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She's smiling up at him, saying a line that makes him duck his head. His hand moves to the small of her back as they walk through the doors of the same building I just left.
Natural. Familiar. Like he's done it a hundred times.
Go ahead without me. I'll meet you there if I can.
He didn't mean my appointment. He was never coming to my appointment. He was held up because he was here, at this building, with her. Walking her to her first appointment. His hand on her back.
I can't breathe.
I watch the glass doors swing shut behind them. Watch her laugh at whatever he says in the lobby. Watch him press the elevator button for her, wait beside her, step in after her with his hand still at her back. All the things he would have done for me, if he'd been here for me.
He never once looks toward the garage. Why would he? He thinks I'm upstairs in an exam room right now, listening to our baby's heartbeat alone.
I sit in my car until I can breathe again. Until my hands stop shaking. Until the parking garage goes quiet and still and I'm the only one left.
Then I pick up my phone, stare at our text chain, and type: Got some great pictures. Baby looks perfect. Can't wait to show you.
His response comes thirty seconds later: That's amazing!! So sorry I missed it. Home by 6, I'll bring dinner. Love you.
I delete the message without responding. The drive home is silent. I put the ultrasound pictures in my sock drawer, facedown, where I don't have to look at them.
And I wait.