Quinn hands him her car keys. Zack opens the kitchen door, puts his hand on the small of her back, and gently guides her out.
That’s the moment I know, truly know, that Zack and I areover. It wasn’t when he said our marriage wasn’t an issue; it wasn’t when he offered to help Quinn give Lily a sibling; it wasn’t even when he told her he wanted her to have his baby.
It was the moment he put his hand on the small of her back, as if she was treasured and cherished... and his.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Quinn
WE WAIT MOREthan an hour in the ER before we’re called to an examination room. Once there, we wait most of another hour for a physician to see us, then another twenty minutes for an ultrasound machine to be wheeled in.
The doctor, a round-faced man about my age with dark, curly hair, squirts cold gel on my belly. “All right. Let’s take a look and see what’s going on.”
He moves the transducer over my stomach. Zack stands beside me. I’m terrified. I’ve been googlingmiscarriageson my phone the whole time we’ve been waiting. Now that I’m about to find out if that’s what’s happening, I’m shaking like Ruffles on the way to the vet. I reach out my hand, and Zack takes it. Both of us stare at the blurry gray screen. The room is silent except for the sound of our breathing. The silence goes on and on, and dread unfurls in my belly. It’s so very, very quiet.
Too quiet.
“Shouldn’t we at least hearmyheartbeat?” I ask.
“Oh, right.” The doctor lifts the transducer from my stomach, turns, and adjusts the machine. He gives a sheepish laugh. “It sometimes helps to turn on the sound.”
I’m not in the mood for jokes, and he isn’t inspiring confidence in his abilities. He puts the transducer back on my belly, and the hard, fast drum of my pulse fills the room. “Calm down, there, Mom,” he says. “Stress isn’t good for your baby.”
There ought to be a law against a man my own age calling meMom. I hadn’t realized I’d tightened my grip on Zack’s hand until he squeezes mine back.
The doctor moves the transducer, and then—Eureka!Hallelujah!—I hear the fast, gallopingswish swish swishI’ve been praying for.
“Chamber music!” Zack says.
“That’s the baby’s heartbeat,” the doctor corrects, as if he believes Zack has actually mistaken the sound for a string quartet. “And there he is.” He points at a small blob in a dark area of the screen. “You can see him right there.”
I strain, but I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing.
“Is he okay?” Zack asks.
The doctor nods. “Looks great. There’s his head, and there are his arms and legs.” He then turns to the machine, adjusts a knob and zooms in, making the image larger. “He’s waving at you.”
Suddenly, I see the movement of a tiny limb. My heart turns over. “I see it!”
“Yep. You’ll be able to feel that in a few weeks.”
I stare at the screen, transfixed. It’s not a clear picture of an obvious baby, but I think I see the profile of a face. The doctor moves the transducer, and I lose perspective.
“Is it a ‘he’ for sure, or are you using the word as a catchall pronoun?” Zack ask.
“Sorry—I tend to call every fetus ‘he’ because I have a son,” he says apologetically. “I can’t determine the sex on this machine. It’s not very high resolution; it’s more for finding gallstones than making fetal videos. Your obstetrician can tell you that in a few weeks.”
“Any idea what’s causing the bleeding?” I ask.
He slowly moves the transducer and scans the screen. “There’s nothing visible. My guess is it’s a small subchorionic bleed or hematoma.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Sometimes a little blood will leak out of a blood vessel between the uterus and the placenta—the vessels are expanding and carrying a lot of blood during pregnancy. Most often it’s not a big dealand will self-correct.” He stops moving the transducer, puts some markers on the screen, and fiddles with some knobs. “Looks like you’re about eighteen weeks along.”
“That’s right,” I say. “What happens if the bleeding doesn’t stop?”
“Well, then, the pregnancy could be at risk, but there’s no indication that’s the case.”
