Chapter 20: The Heartbeat

The Harbor Point clinic had one exam room, one ultrasound machine and four people crammed into a space built for two.

"Out," the technician said, for the third time. "The patient and one guest."

"I'm the grandmother," Bea said.

"I'm the paternal grandmother," Carmela said.

"I'm the father," said Don.

"You're a lot of people," the technician said, and looked at me. "Who do you want?"

I looked around the room.

Bea with her cane.

Carmela with her handbag held in front of her like a shield.

Don, in a plain gray sweater, white at the mouth.

"Don," I said. "Just Don."

Nobody argued.

Bea and Carmela went out to the waiting room, and I could hear them through the door a moment later, discussing me.

"She's too thin," Bea said.

"She's carrying, Beatrice. She isn't a lobster."

"You feed her lasagna and she throws it up."

"Because it has no flavor."

The technician rolled her eyes and shut the door.

I lay back on the paper sheet and lifted my shirt.

The gel was cold.

Don sat beside me in a plastic chair.

He had not let go of my hand since the parking lot.

"You're hurting my fingers," I said.

"Sorry."

"Don't let go."

He loosened his grip a quarter inch and held on.

His other hand was white on his knee.

"What are you afraid of?" I asked, low.

He didn't answer for a moment.

"My father had a heart thing," he said. "He was fine, and then he was on the kitchen floor. I was twenty. I was the one who found him."

"You never told me that."

"I never told anyone."

"Why now?"

"Because you asked."

The technician moved the wand across my belly and turned the screen toward us.

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