Meline
There were seven seagulls in the painting above the exam table. One of them looked like a check mark. I know this because I counted them three times while my doctor pressed the ultrasound wand against my stomach and her face changed in a way I had not been prepared for and did not yet have a word to describe.
I am going to explain why my brain went straight to the seagulls, because it matters. When the big things stop making sense, the mind grabs at small ones. Seven seagulls in a terrible piece of beach art from a dentist’s waiting room.
That was what my brain offered me during the six minutes that changed the shape of my entire life. The baby was fine. I want to say that first because the twelve weeks I had spent being terrified about the baby are part of this story and they deserve their own sentence.
Strong heartbeat. Good positioning. Everything looks excellent, Meline.
Dr. Petrova had said exactly that, and I had cried, obviously, because what else do you do when you are forty-five and three years of fertility treatments have finally produced a result you were not sure your body was still capable of. Three years.
More needles than I care to count. Twenty-seven thousand four hundred dollars in out-of-pocket costs, paid in careful installments while I smiled at patients all day and handed them clipboards and asked for their insurance cards and tried to look like a woman whose life was going according to plan. I am an intake coordinator at a physical therapy clinic in Wilmington, Delaware.
I hand you a clipboard. I ask about your insurance. The glamour is relentless.
I had found out on a Thursday morning in my bathroom at six o’clock while Garrett was somewhere in South Jersey doing whatever route planners do at six in the morning. I took four tests. All positive.
I sat on the edge of the tub and laughed until I hiccuped. My husband, Garrett Mercer, was going to be a father for the first time at forty-eight. I had called him from the bathroom floor and he had said, in a voice that sounded genuinely stunned, “Are you serious?
Meline. Are you serious?”
He had sounded happy. He had sounded like the man I married.
At the twelve-week ultrasound, he could not come. Route emergency. A truck jackknifed near an overpass outside Bridgeton and fourteen pallets of sparkling water needed rerouting, because apparently sparkling water waits for no one.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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