She ushers me along the corridor; those bloody greenwalls yet again do nothing to soothe my nerves. ‘Hop up on the bed,’ she motions, and I do as I’m told.
She snaps on a fresh pair of gloves, powers up the computer beside us, then gently lifts my blouse. ‘The gel is cold, I apologise.’
She’s not exaggerating. I jump as it hits my stomach. She lifts the ultrasound and rolls it over my stomach, staring at the monitor in silence.
‘Is it okay?’
Dr Tessa’s brows soften as she tilts the probe slightly, searching. The machine hums, and my heart beats like it’s trying to crack my ribs open from the inside.
Then her face melts into a warm smile. ‘There you are,’ she whispers.
My breath whooshes out of me like I’ve been underwater for weeks. ‘Can you see it?’ My voice wobbles.
‘Mm-hmm.’ She spins the monitor to face me and presses a button to enlarge the image. I peer at the grainy shades of black and white until I make out a tiny shape–curled up like a tiny cat, but perfect.
She turns the volume up, and a thrumming noise floods the room—fast, fierce, determined–thump-thump-thump-thump.My entire world stops.
The sound of his heart hits me like a hammer.
Because it is a he.
Every cell inside my body screams that I’m looking at my son. Becketts make boys. My parents made five before they got me. California is one of two brothers. Yep—that’s my son.
I slap a hand over my mouth as tears spill without warning. I didn’t even want a baby, now that I’m looking at my baby, I’m sobbing like a deranged Disney princess.
‘His heart is so strong.’ I choke.
‘Yes,’ she says gently. ‘Like his mammy.’
Happiness and horror slam into each other in my stomachlike two speeding cars that collide head on, leaving me trapped and terrified in the wreckage.
She continues staring at the screen, tapping in measurements. ‘Based on the crown-rump length…’ she clicks something on-screen, ‘I’d estimate you’re around ten weeks.’
That sounds about right.
Ten weeks ago I was in the Dominican Republic, naked under California’s hands, letting him ruin me on every available surface.
My chest caves inward.
I stare at the screen, at this tiny beating thing that’s already turned my world upside down and I haven’t even met him.
Dr Tessa places her free hand over mine and squeezes. ‘You’re doing brilliantly. And the baby’s doing beautifully.’
I swipe the tears from my cheeks.
‘You’re not alone in this, Zara,’ Dr Tessa says kindly. ‘You have support. I’ll refer you to the best obstetrician in Dublin. Your family?—’
‘They can’t know about this,’ I whisper instantly. ‘Not yet.’
She studies me but doesn’t argue. ‘Your choice,’ she says softly, handing me a paper towel to wipe the gel.
When she finally turns off the machine, the room feels eerily quiet.
I sit up slowly, pressing the towel to my stomach.
‘I don’t know how to do this,’ I admit.
‘You don’t have to know today,’ she replies. ‘You just have to take care of you—both of you. Eat well. Vitamins, plenty of rest. Once you get past the first trimester, you’ll feel much better. I’ll arrange a referral right away, and I’ll see you again myself in a few weeks.’
