I press my palms together and then flatten them on my thighs. “What if it’s too early,” I whisper, not sure who I’m asking. “What if they don’t see anything and I have to sit here while she says all the maybes.”
Ben’s chair creaks softly. The next thing I feel is his hand covering mine, warm and careful. He doesn’t grip. He doesn’t make it a capital-M Moment. He just sets his hand over mine to keep me from drifting.
“Then we’ll listen,” he says. “And if we have to come back in a week, we come back in a week.”
The words soothe me in a way I didn’t even realize I needed. The living, breathing fear that’s been in my belly since that night with the cinnamon rolls ebbs away for a moment.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and I call out for them to come in.
A woman in a navy coat and clogs smiles at us. She’s in her fifties, maybe, with a streak of silver at her temple and quick, bright eyes. “Paige?” she says, like she’s known me for years. “I’m Dr. Montez. Nice to meet you.”
I shift my hands free so I can shake. “Hi.”
She glances at Ben. “And you must be…”
He moves his hand back to his knees, all polite edges. “Ben. Hoffman.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.” There’s no judgment in the way she says it. “So—first visit. Congratulations.” She settles on the rolling stool and clicks the mouse to wake the computer. “I see you’re somewhere around six weeks based on your dates. How are you feeling?”
“Nauseous,” I admit, relieved I don’t have to pretend. “And tired. And like my body is not my body anymore.”
“Mmm.” She nods, the sympathetic kind of nod that makes me want to cry because it’s so ordinary. “Classic first trimester. The nausea often peaks around nine weeks and gets better by twelve to fourteen. Not always, but often.” She glances at the screen. “Any vomiting? Able to keep fluids down?”
“Some vomiting. I’ve been able to keep fluids down, though.” I flick my gaze to Ben. “That ginger drink you made the other night didn’t make me want to die.”
“Keeper,” she says brightly, and then keeps going. “We’ll talk options before you go. Vitamin B6, doxylamine at night if you need it, a few other tricks. You said no spotting or cramping so far?”
“None.”
“Good.” She scrolls. “Your pressure was lovely. We’ll get bloodwork today. Basic pre-natal panel, blood type and Rh, rubella and varicella immunity, HIV, hepatitis, syphilis. We’ll send urine for culture. When was your last Pap?”
“Last year. Normal.”
“Perfect. We’ll skip that today, then. We’ll do an ultrasound first, make sure there’s a pregnancy where we expect it to be, measure crown–rump length, and see if we can catch cardiac activity. At this gestation, we use a transvaginal probe—it’s more sensitive this early. Is that okay?”
My throat is dry. I have no idea what most of those things are, but I say: “Yes.”
She wheels the covered cart closer. “Ben, you’re welcome to stay by her head if she wants you here. We dim the lights for the screen, so you’ll be able to see, too.”
He looks at me again, checking. I nod. He stands and comes to the head of the table, close enough that I can smell the faint clean scent of his soap. He doesn’t reach for me again, but the idea of his hand there is almost as comforting as the hand itself.
Dr. Montez pulls a curtain over the exam table.
“Okay, you’ll feel pressure,” she says, matter-of-fact as the machine wakes up. I can’t really see what she’s doing, but I hear the tearing of a packet. “If anything is painful, tell me and I’ll stop.”
I nod. The sheet of paper whispers against my legs as I relax my knees outward. Ben shifts closer to the wall, not looking down, looking only at my face. His jaw is tight. The muscles there twitch once, then go still.
There’s a coolness that makes my breath puff out, and then pressure, more odd than painful.
“Almost there,” Dr. Montez says softly. “Okay. You’re going to see black and white blobs for a moment while I find my landmarks.”
The lights dim. The monitor flickers into life. Static. Then… shapes.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I hear my own inhale.
“Uterus,” she narrates. The probe angle changes slightly. “Gestational sac.” The black oval sharpens, lifting out of the fog like a small lake seen from far above. “There we are. Yolk sac.”
I find it, I think. It’s an even smaller bright ring floating in the black, like a tiny halo. My eyes blur. I blink hard.
