An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
I had to make a hefty donation into the wallet of Philadelphia's finest obstetrician, but he squeezed me in the next morning. Doctor Richter's practice is located in Center City, so even if someone sees me enter the skyscraper, they won't know which office I'm visiting.
I tug a beanie over my hair, slide a pair of sunglasses on, and exit my truck. The underground garage has an elevator that feeds straight into the building. I bypass a security guard, keeping my face down, then hit the button for the correct floor.
Twenty minutes later, an ultrasound technician squirts warm goop onto my lower belly. She moves the wand across my skin, and I watch the screen, refusing to believe anything until I see it. I haven't had morning sickness, my breasts aren't tender, and there have been no issues with my sense of smell. The lab probably got my test mixed up with someone else's.
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"There's your baby!" the technician announces, pointing to what looks like a gray lima bean. "The phlebotomist was correct. You're measuring at nine weeks."
I'm pregnant. I've had a baby inside me for over two months, and I had no clue. I've never given any thought to having children. Up until the plane crash, I was focused on my music. Payton and I hadn't reached our tenth anniversary, so I didn't know if I'd still be married, let alone ready to bring a child into the world. And since the crash, I've been preoccupied with not going insane.
I'm not ready to be a mother.
But I have to be.
Boy or girl? I ask, and the nurse standing by the bed translates. When I emailed Doctor Richter, I informed him of my mutism. He assured me his staff would be able to accommodate.
"Visually, it's too early to tell," the tech replies, pressing the wand into my abdomen. "But we pulled your blood from the lab, and we're running our own chromosomal tests. The order was expedited, so the doctor is reviewing them now."
On screen, the lima bean undulates, moving across the black background. I clap my hands to get the tech's attention, and point to the monitor.
"It's moving," the nurse translates for me, biting her lips to hide a smile.
"Ah," the tech muses, unaffected. "Yes, your baby is a jumper."
My baby, I think to myself, trying out the phrase. My little jumping bean.
"How big is it?" the nurse asks, keeping an eye on my signs.
"About the size of a strawberry," the tech answers. She maneuvers the wand, then fiddles with her keyboard. "If you want, we can listen to the heartbeat now."
