I did not pull the paper sheet up over my exposed stomach. I did not shrink back against the vinyl pillows. The trembling that had seized my hands fifteen minutes earlier in the waiting room had burned away, replaced by an unfamiliar, glacial stillness that settled deep into the base of my spine.
“Look at the screen, Diego,” I said. My voice did not crack. It was quiet, level, and entirely devoid of tears.
Diego let out a short, nasal bark of laughter. He stepped around the cart, planting his heavy leather boots beside the rolling console, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at the eighteen-inch high-resolution monitor.
“What am I supposed to be looking at, Laura?” Diego sneered, pointing a gloved finger at the central pixelated gray mass. “A six-week embryo? An eight-week fetus? Go ahead, Doctor. Tell me the gestational age. Tell me it’s seven weeks along—right in the middle of that weekend she spent in Chicago visiting her sister while I was recovering from bilateral vasectomy surgery with ice packs on our couch.”
