Probably not.
Though when I find myself lying on the table in the middle of the room, hiking my shirt up to expose my still unchanged belly, I look tohimfor comfort on my left. And Bo provides it, reaching out a hand for me to hold.
“It’s okay,” he tells me. His voice reminds me of the way parents comfort their children before the plane takes off. A tone ofpeople have done this before; there’s no reason to worry,but a tiny hint of concern of their own lying underneath, as if to say,then again, plane crashes do happen.
“Promise,” he says, his brows furrowing as he nods—his expression more concentrated and steady. I must look as scared as I feel for him to have to throw a word likepromisearound.
The tech is talking, alot,to my right. And I’m only picking up about half of it. I keep my eyes on Bo. Watching him listen to her intently and nod along keeps me from spiralling even further. He’s present, at least. He’ll leave with whatever information we might need.
The tech’s hand on my right shoulder makes me turn toward her and the machine she’s standing in front of. “I’m going to apply the gel now—it’ll be cold. We’ll make sure to wipe it all off once finished.” She shows me a bottle of gel, and I nod, smiling weakly.
I tighten my hold on Bo’s hand. He squeezes back rhythmically, as if he’s attempting to match my heartbeat. I find myself briefly wishing I had brought Sarah along too. That way, I wouldn’t be clinging to this guy for dear life.
Cold gel lands on my stomach, and I feel pressure as the tech lowers the probe and presses down more forcefully than I was expecting. She’s really digging around down there. After a few achingly long seconds, I start to worry that maybe she can’t find the baby. That maybe thereisno more baby.
Dread creeps up my spine like ice water as a million and one worst-case scenarios take my brain hostage. I feel a chill in the room that wasn’t there before, a cool breeze washing over my skin, raising each hair, goose bumps forming across my skin. Every nerve ending sends a signal that it isabsolutelytime to panic. But then Bo’s gasp pulls me back from the ledge.
I look at him as he, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, stares at the screen behind me that I’m too afraid to face. He exhales shakily, joy overtaking his features. He leans forward, whispering something I don’t quite make out that I’m not even sure he intended to say. Then he stills when the probe moves again, angling against my stomach.
I watch as Bo’s small wonderment bursts into a full-fledged, beaming smile that he attempts to subdue by biting his lip and shaking his head.
“Winnifred?” the tech says from behind me. “Did you want to see as well?”
I turn slowly, bracing for impact with squinted eyes and puckered lips.
But there, on the black and white screen, is a small, perfect, bean-likething.
My baby.
Notthebaby. Butmybaby.
And it’s not nearly as terrifying as I thought it would be—knowing it’s mine.It’s actually really fucking unreal. An honour. An amazing, incredible, spectacular, sublimething.
I watch as the baby moves in tiny, fluttering rotations. Relief warms my skin and senses like standing under a sunbeam on an otherwise cloudy day, my heart swelling with joy to the point where I feel it might give out.
The tech smiles softly as she presses the probe against me further, trying to get a better view on the screen. “They’re certainly active,” she says. “You’re going to have your hands full with this one.”
“Hmm,” I murmur my agreement.Hands are kinda the issue here, lady.
The baby moves on the screen again. A little twitch-like jump that reminds me of a flea. And I forget the world.
Do it again,I shout internally, imagining my veins and the blood pumping through them as radio transmitters, hoping foolishly that the baby can hear me somehow.
Bo laughs, deep and low, as the kid does another flip away from the probe’s view. “Seems like they want some privacy,” he says.
“Oh mygosh,Mom and Dad-uh. Leave me alone,” I say like a moody teenager.
“You guys aresoannoying,” Bo adds in his own similar whine.
We’re already so obnoxious. I love it. Probably more than I should.
The tech types as she continues clicking around the image, making notes and taking measurements. Her concentrated face could be just that: concentration. But it could equally be concern. Maybe there’s something not quite right only someone with a trained eye could notice.
“They’re okay?” The two words fall out before I think to ask them.
“All seems well to me,” she answers, turning to face me instead of the screen. “Do you want to hear the heartbeat?”
“Yes, please,” Bo and I answer in unison.
