Chapter 19: A Hundred and Sixty

The twelve-week scan was on a Tuesday at nine, six weeks after the gala.

Marcy sat on my left with a coffee she was not allowed to bring in.

Cory sat in the corner chair by the door.

He had arrived early and stood in the hallway, and he had not spoken to me once.

He wore a plain gray sweater, and he had lost weight.

The technician, a young woman in blue, looked at the three of us and decided not to ask.

"Lie back for me," she said. "This gel is cold."

I lay back and pulled up my shirt.

The gel was cold.

The screen was turned toward me.

I stared at the gray static.

Marcy took my hand.

"There," the technician said. "That's your baby."

A white shape came out of the gray.

It had a head, and two arms, and a tiny spine.

It moved.

I made a sound I had never made before.

"Now listen," the technician said, and she turned a dial.

A fast, wet, steady beat filled the room.

It was far faster than mine.

I had waited four years to hear it.

"That's a hundred and sixty," the technician said. "That's perfect."

Marcy was crying openly.

I did not turn my head toward the corner.

I heard the chair creak.

I heard a breath that shook.

When I finally looked, Cory was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees and both hands pressed to his mouth.

He was not looking at me.

He was looking at the screen.

His shoulders shook, and no sound came out.

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