Chapter 23: Phones in Pockets

On Thursday morning I lay on a paper-covered table with my shirt rolled up and cold gel on my stomach.

Miles stood at my head, holding my hand with both of his.

The doctor moved the wand slowly and turned the screen toward us.

"Almost twelve weeks," she said. "There's the head. There's the spine. And that, that's a hand."

A small grey shape on the screen lifted one arm.

It opened and closed its fingers.

"It's waving," Miles said.

"They do that."

"It's waving at us."

His voice cracked on the last word, and I turned my head and saw that he was crying, without any noise, with his jaw set.

"Miles."

"I'm all right," he said. "I'm only. I didn't think I'd be allowed in the room."

"I wouldn't have let you be anywhere else."

The doctor smiled at the screen and kept her eyes politely there.

"Heartbeat's one sixty-two, perfect," she said. "Would the father like a printout?"

There was a tiny silence.

Miles looked at me.

I looked at him, and I thought of Trenton's name on the form I had filled in, and of the one door I had left open for him.

"The father is a man named Trenton," I said. "If he earns it, he'll get a printout of everything."

"I understand," said the doctor.

"But the man holding my hand will be here for the rest of it."

"Then I'll print two," she said.

Miles pressed his mouth to my knuckles.

He did not say anything for the whole way out to the car.

On Saturday, Nan's garden was full of heaters and folding chairs.

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