She actually laughs, a surprised sound that eases some of the tension I’m feeling. "You're going to distract me with failed real estate deals?"
"Is it working?"
"A little." She steps out of her jeans and panties and pulls the gown around her waist, tying it in front. The paper crinkles as she sits on the examination table. "Keep going."
I do, spewing out the details of the Henderson property's slow-motion collapse while she settles onto the table. It's ridiculous but it makes her smile and her shoulders relax slightly, so I keep talking.
There's a knock, and then the door opens to reveal a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun, and a warm smile that immediately puts me at ease.
"Emma? I'm Dr. Martelle." She extends her hand, and Emma shakes it. Then Dr. Martelle turns to me. "And you must be Dad."
Dad. The word hits me squarely in the chest.
"Grant Cross," I manage, shaking her hand.
"Nice to meet you both." Dr. Martelle settles onto a rolling stool, pulling up Emma's file on a tablet. "So, Emma, I've reviewed the notes from Dr. Byers. You're about nine weeks along now, is that right?"
"Coming up on ten weeks," Emma says. "According to my first ultrasound."
"Perfect. And how are you feeling? Any nausea or fatigue?"
"Both. The nausea is better later in the day, but mornings are pretty rough."
“And the bleeding from yesterday… has that stopped?”
Emma lets out a little sigh. “Yes, thankfully.”
Dr. Martelle nods, tapping notes into her tablet. "All this is completely normal for the first trimester, and often more pronounced with multiples. The nausea should start to easeup around week twelve or thirteen." She looks up and smiles. "I know Dr. Byers already confirmed you're having twins, but today we're going to take another look, check their development, and listen to their heartbeats. Sound good?"
Emma nods, her hand finding mine and gripping tight.
"All right." Dr. Martelle moves to the ultrasound machine, pulling on gloves. "Go ahead and lie back for me, Emma. This is going to be transvaginal again—best way to get clear images this early. You'll feel a little pressure, but let me know if it hurts."
I've been in a delivery room before. With Victoria, when Samantha was born eighteen years ago. But that experience was nothing like this. Victoria was calm throughout her entire pregnancy, treating the whole thing like a project to be managed. She scheduled her C-section with the same efficiency she brought to planning dinner parties. I was there because I was supposed to be, because it was expected.
This is different. Emma's hand is trembling in mine. Her breathing is shallow, anxious.
I lean close, my mouth near her ear. "I'm right here. Whatever we see on that screen, whatever Dr. Martelle says, I'm right here with you."
She turns her head, meeting my eyes. "Promise?"
"Promise."
Dr. Martelle adjusts the equipment, her movements practiced and precise. "All right, Emma, here we go."
Emma's grip on my hand tightens until I can feel my bones protest, but I don't say a word. Just hold on and watch her face as Dr. Martelle works.
The screen flickers to life, showing grainy black and white images I can't make sense of. Shapes and shadows, nothing recognizable. Dr. Martelle adjusts the wand, her eyes fixed on the monitor.
Then sound fills the room.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
Fast. Impossibly fast.
Emma's breath catches.
"There we go," Dr. Martelle says enthusiastically. "That's heartbeat number one."
