The room was dark except for the gray glow of the ultrasound monitor.
Dr. Sarah Jenkins adjusted the probe against my abdomen, the cold blue gel sending a brief shiver through my lower back.
The paper sheet beneath me crinkled loudly every time I took a deep breath.
“Everything looks exactly where it should be,” Dr. Jenkins said, pointing a black plastic pen at the screen.
A small, flickering point of light pulsed in the center of the dark circle.
“There is the heartbeat,” the doctor said, her voice quiet in the dim room.
“One hundred and forty beats per minute,” she added, tapping the keyboard to log the measurement.
I looked over at Claire, expecting to see the tears she had shed on my porch when she begged for my help.
She was staring at the monitor, but her face was perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the numbers at the bottom of the screen.
“Is it too early to tell the development details?” Claire asked, her voice flat and clean.
“We are just checking the viability today,” Dr. Jenkins said, sliding the probe to get a clearer angle.
“But the early measurements are very strong,” she added, looking over her reading glasses at my sister.
Claire gave a quick, tight smile that did not warm her distant expression.
“A strong start is what we need,” Claire said, her hands resting flat against her knees.
“We can talk about the screening schedule once we finish up here,” Dr. Jenkins said, handing me a paper towel to wipe the gel away.
I rolled my silver wedding ring around my finger, the metal cold against my skin.
“Are we doing the genetic testing next month?” I asked.
Claire did not look up from her lap, her fingers tracing the seam of her trousers.
“We will do whatever the standard procedure requires,” Claire said.
“The clinic has several options for early screening,” Dr. Jenkins said, turning back to her computer screen.
“Some families prefer to know the details as early as nine weeks,” she added.
Claire stood up and smoothed her coat before the doctor could print the black and white images.
“We only need to know what is medically necessary,” Claire said.
The monitor clicked off, plunging the corner of the room into shadow.
The autumn wind was lifting dry leaves across the asphalt when I walked out to the parking lot.
The gravel crunched under my orthopedic walking shoes as I headed toward my Buick LeSabre.
Evan was leaning against the side of his black sedan, his fingers busy adjusting his leather watch strap.
He held a thick stack of legal documents under his arm, the white paper edges ruffled by the sharp breeze.
“Claire is still in the restroom,” I said, stopping a few feet away from his bumper.
Evan did not look up immediately, his eyes scanning the top page of his papers with a fierce, quiet intensity.
“We need to get these signed and processed by Friday,” he muttered, his voice clipped and dry.
“Are those the surrogacy agreements?” I asked, taking a step closer to see the heading on the top page.
He pulled the papers back against his ribs, adjusting his watch strap again with a quick, nervous jerk.
“Just the standard legal protections,” Evan said, his eyes scanning the empty driveway behind me.
