“Medical records route through you?” she says.
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“For everyone?”
“For this family.”
“I’mnotthis family.”
“You are carrying my children.”
The words enter the room like a lock turning. The first page faces me. I turn it around. Her name. Her date of birth. Twelve weeks. Twin gestation. No complications.
She doesn’t reach for it. Good. If she touched it, her hands might shake. She’d hate that.
But she looks at the ultrasound picture despite herself, at the two small shapes. One turned toward the camera. One angled away. Her face changes then. Not for me. For them.
The room loses her for half a second. That’s the first real uncontrolled thing she gives me. Then she takes it right back, her face closing off.
“You had no right,” she says.
“No.”
The answer stops her. She expected argument. Justification. A lesson in family rules. I give her none.
Her eyes narrow. “No?”
“No.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
She laughs once under her breath. It has no humor in it. “How civilized.”
“Civilization has nothing to do with this.”
“No. Of course not. This is protocol.”
“Yes.”
“Your protocol.”
“My family’s.”
“Your family seems very committed to making brutality administrative.”
I look at her. She’s angry now. Good. Anger gives shape to shock. Without it, the crack opens too wide.
“It wasn’t designed for you,” I say.
“How comforting. So I was violated incidentally.”
“Yes.”
