It’s a rapid, whooshing rhythm, impossibly fast, like a hummingbird’s wings or a train rushing past at full speed. It fills every corner of the exam room, drowning out the news anchor’s voice, the hum of the ultrasound machine, the roar of blood in my ears.
“There it is!” Dr. Enriquez announces. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat. About a hundred and sixty beats per minute, which is absolutely perfect.”
Mine wants to crack in two.
“Would you like a printout?” Dr. Enriquez asks. “Something to take home and treasure?”
Distantly, I hear myself say, “Yes.”
Because maybe someday, someone will describe it to me. Maybe someday, I’ll run my fingers over the glossy surface and imagine I can feel the curve of that round head, those moving arms.
Maybe someday, this will feel real instead of like ano
