“Is it supposed to be that fast?” Leo asks and I jump, not realizing he’s come so close.
His eyes are glued to the screen, as though he’s as obsessed by seeing our baby on the screen as I am.
“Yes,” Dr. Harlow says. “He or she is pumping at about one-hundred-sixty beats per minute. That’s right in the normal range for ten weeks along.” She takes a few measurements before adding, “All of those look normal as well.” Then she leans forward again, tapping at the keyboard, and prints off a couple of pictures, passing them over to me.
I hold them close, torn between committing them to memory and absorbing everything that’s still on the screen.
Blood flow and size measurements—the baby is the size of a strawberry.
My baby’s head and limbs.
Something called the crown-to-rump measurement.
And that heart rate.
Everything looks perfect, and I start to relax.
But then she does something that destroys me.
She turns on the sound.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
“Wow,” I whisper, my eyes immediately welling up and spilling over.
I don’t even care that I’m staring at the screen through suddenly blurry eyes.
That’s my baby.
A thumb wipes my tear away and I find myself looking at Leo.
His eyes are damp too and my stupid heart convulses again as our gazes lock together, our baby’s heartbeat filling the air around us.
“Everything sounds perfect,” Dr. Harlow says quietly. “I’ve taken a recording and it will be in your chart if you want to listen to it again later?—”
I have a feeling I’ll be listening on repeat.
“—for now”—she slips the wand free—“I’ll let you get dressed and we’ll see you in about a month.”
“Thanks, Dr. Harlow.”
“Don’t forget to check in about the nausea and vomiting at the end of the week. If it’s still really bad, I can send in a prescription for you.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Then she’s gone and it’s just Leo and me in the room.
And silence—heavy silence, filled with so, so many unsaid things.
“You’re keeping the baby.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He shifts, almost as if he’s going to reach for my hand, but stops, steps back. “I’ll let you get dressed.”
“Okay.”
