Chapter 18: The Twenty-Week Scan

At twenty weeks the baby kicked the technician's wand.

"She's got opinions," the technician said, laughing. "Look at that heel."

I was lying on the table with gel on my stomach, and Samson sat in the plastic chair beside me, holding my hand with both of his.

His leave was in its third week.

He had spent it learning the names of baby gear, which he said was the same as a medical vocabulary, with more straps.

"She?" I said.

"Only if you want to know."

I looked at Samson.

He nodded, very slightly, with his eyes on the screen.

"Tell us," I said.

"A girl," said the technician, and the room went blurry for me.

On the monitor, a small, serious profile turned toward us, with a nose I'd have known anywhere.

It was mine.

Samson said, "Hi," in a voice I'd never heard him use, and then he cleared his throat and said, "That's the heart, right? The four chambers?"

"All four," said the technician. "Very beautiful."

"She's perfect," Samson said, in his doctor's voice, and wiped his face with the back of his wrist.

I held his hand and thought, I'd like to remember this for the rest of my life.

Then I looked at the doorway.

The door had been left an inch open.

In the reception area beyond it, a woman sat in a chair by the fish tank, holding a magazine.

She was about forty, in a camel coat.