I wait until Em’s face jumps with delight, then glance at the screen with some trepidation. Although I’m happy to step into the role of father, I admit to feeling a few twinges of jealousy sometimes. Small things that shouldn’t really matter will trigger the emotion. Thinking of how I’ll miss out on searching our baby’s face to see whose genetic inheritance won the race to the finish line. That I can never make any claims that our child might have my chin or nose or eyes.
The shadows on the screen don’t mean a lot to me. I feel Em squeezing my hand but don’t understand what’s causing her excitement. All I see is black and white and grey fuzz dancing around in no discernible pattern on the screen.
Then I see more. A little shadow that seems more active than the rest of the grainy image. Like a wriggling bean in a little oval inside a denser, darker cave.
“Look at her go,” I whisper, entranced by the movement. “She’s trying out for the baby Olympics.”
“Can we get some pictures to take home?” Em asks, far more practical than I am in this moment.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen to look for a nod or a shake even though I’m also desperate for a photograph. Something to put on the home screen of my phone to look at when I think of telling Stefan exactly where he can shove his job. A reminder of what my purpose is from now on. Taking care of my beautiful girlfriend and the adorable, jumpy little being currently hitching a lift inside her.
“Can you imagine what she’s going to be like when she’s bigger?” I whisper, putting my head sideways on her upper belly as though that’ll let me listen in to what’s going on inside. “You’ll be black and blue by the time she comes out.”
The technician shifts the position of the wand and Em winces. My eyes tear away from the screen to focus on her for the moment, rubbing my thumb along her cheek bone, feeling the pulse of warmth from her blush.
“You okay?”
She nods, wrinkling her nose when her eyes fill with tears.
“Big crybaby.”
She snorts out a laugh, pressing the sleeve of her right arm to her face to stop the sound a second too late. “You’re one to talk.”
Okay. Things might be getting misty on my end, too. I press a soft kiss to her cheek, then turn back to the screen. The image has moved again from when I last looked and I wait a few seconds to let my eyes resolve the new angle.
“Everything looks good,” the technician says, shifting again in her seat. “There are no visible abnormalities with the baby or your placenta and baby’s got a strong heartbeat.”
“Yeah, she does.”
Em rolls her eyes. “It’s not a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.”
True enough. And right now, I feel like I’m winning. “How many copies should we get?”
“I’ll send the file to your email, and you can print off however many you like.” The technician gives a perfunctory smile as she adjusts the wand again, then warns Em about its imminent removal a second before pulling it free.
She leaves the room to do goodness knows what and I pull Em closer, resting my forehead against hers while I close my eyes, hardly able to believe how good it feels to have her close, to know she’s carrying our baby—regardless of who the father is—and that we have a lifetime of this ahead of us.
Love. Companionship. Maybe the odd mental breakdown to keep things spicy.
Even that thought does nothing to puncture my sense of contentment. It’s an irritant when the technician comes back in to explain how we’ll receive the results, how our midwife and GP will be in touch if there’s anything further, and where Em can go to get dressed.
Outside, I want to put Em in bubble wrap as we walk alongside Hagley Park to reach the car. At the time of parking, it seemed close, but I’ll have to remember next time that Em’s carrying the third member of our family with her.
“Why’re you scowling at the carpark?” she asks with a laugh, letting go of my arm as we reach the car.
“I was just thinking I should’ve parked closer. Your legs are short enough at the best of times, with two people on board—”
“They’re not short!”
My head jerks up, noticing that I suddenly have a very indignant girlfriend staring at me when I’m sure my thought pattern started off extremely complimentary. I rewind, replay, decide it could have used a second of polishing before the thought came out my mouth.
“I wasn’t giving you an insult or anything. I just meant they’re in proportion with the rest of you, and you’re tiny, so it must take you twice as many steps as me to get anywhere, and…”
I trail off, noticing there’s a strange gleam in Em’s eye that doesn’t look promising.
“Are you finished with the insults or are there more?” She twists from side to side. “Maybe a nice piece on how none of my clothing is soon going to fit me or how fat I’ll be in a few months, so I won’t be able to waddle nearly as fast.”
