“Good. Today we’ll do a few checks. And if we’re lucky, we’ll hear the heartbeat.”
That catches me. My lips curl into a real smile, and I glance at the screen. Nickoi’s smiling too, eyes still sleepy, but awake now, alert.
“Where’s Mari?” she asks, casually.
I flip the screen to show her. “Right here.”
Dr. Jacobs chuckles. “So you’re attending this visit virtually?”
“Wish mi was there in person,” he says, voice gruff through the speaker. “But mi did affi sort out some things.”
She nods. “Well, you won’t miss anything.”
“You a check her pressure?” he asks.
“Of course,” she smiles, pulling out the cuff.
I exhale, roll up my sleeve. She wraps the cuff around my arm, places the stethoscope to my chest. This time her smile grows when she looks at the monitor.
“Much better. Blood pressure’s normal today.”
I glance at Mama and squeeze her hand gently. “It was low last time.”
She nods, concern softening her face. Dr. Jacobs hands me a cup for the urine sample, and I slip into the bathroom. When I return, she tests it quickly and motions for us to follow her to the ultrasound room.
“It’s not guaranteed we’ll hear the heartbeat,” she says as we walk. “The baby’s still very small.”
“I hope we do,” Mama says softly.
I glance at my phone. Nickoi’s walking now, carrying the screen with him like he doesn’t want to miss a single frame.
“Nickoi?” I say.
“Wah gwan, mami?”
“We’re about to check for the heartbeat.”
“Mi ready,” he grins.
Dr. Jacobs looks at me. “You’ll need to undress from the waist down. We’re doing a transvaginal scan.”
The words hit harder than I expected. Intimate. Vulnerable. But necessary.
I nod. Mama helps me onto the table after I wrap the towel around my waist. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the machine as Dr. Jacobs begins the scan. I watch her face, searching for answers before she even speaks. And then, there it is.
Tiny. Fragile. A flicker of life on the screen. My baby.
She points. “You see that right there? That’s your baby. Eight weeks in about the size of a raspberry.”
My hand covers my mouth. A laugh and a gasp fight for space in my throat.
“Send mi a picture,” Nickoi says from the phone, voice thick with awe.
“You’ll get one,” Dr. Jacobs assures, focused on the screen.
Then she adjusts the probe slightly, and suddenly the room fills with a soft, rapid pulsing sound. The heartbeat. I blink fast, trying to stop the tears before they spill. But they come anyway. A sound so small, yet so enormous.
“God is good,” Mama whispers, squeezing my hand.
