“Why do I need an ultrasound?” Brooke asked, as she complied with Linda’s request. “If I’m just . . . if I’m not . . .” She clamped her lips together, unable to finish the sentence.
Linda stood next to her and placed a reassuring hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “We need to confirm the gestational age,” she said. “Make sure everything’s where it’s supposed to be, and that it’s not an ectopic pregnancy.”
“Oh,” Brooke said. “Okay.” She settled back against the pillow and turned her head toward the wall, where a poster of a tropical, sandy beach hung directly across from her. To let women imagine being there instead of on the exam table, Brooke supposed. To imagine being anywhere but here.
Linda helped Brooke get her heels in the hard plastic stirrups, put a warm blanket over her legs, and then pushed up her gown to expose her stomach. “Sorry, this is going to be a little cold,” she said as she squeezed a clear gel from a white bottle. But even with the warning, Brooke startled when the substance hit her skin. Linda grabbed a wand from the white and gray machine that sat on a cart next to the table. The screen was turned away from Brooke’s view. Linda pressed the end of the wand against Brooke’s abdomen. She was silent as she typed with one hand, maneuvering the wand from one of Brooke’s hip bones to the other.
“What are you doing?” Brooke asked. Her voice trembled, even though she tried to keep it steady. Had her mother thought about doing this when she got pregnant with her daughters? Did she lie in a room like this, and then change her mind, only to ultimately decide to dispose of them anyway? If she had this baby, was she destined to do the same?
“Just taking some measurements.”
The knot in Brooke’s chest pulsed. “Can I hear the heartbeat?” she asked.
Linda didn’t answer, but Brooke saw her flip a switch on the machine next to the table, and a moment later, after Linda moved the wand and pushed it harder into Brooke’s belly, the echoing whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of her baby’s heart filled the air.
“Oh,” Brooke said. Her hands clutched the crinkly white paper between her body and the table. Her eyes flooded with tears. “It’s so fast.” She paused, then turned to look at Linda. “Is that normal?”
“Yes,” Linda said, holding the wand steady. She didn’t say anything else, waiting, it seemed, for Brooke to tell her what to do next.
A whirlwind of indecision spun in Brooke’s mind. This was the best thing to do. She wasn’t equipped to raise a baby on her own. Her health insurance was shit. She didn’t make enough money. Ryan would think she was trying to trap him into finally divorcing Michelle. He’d leave Brooke. And then what would she be? Alone like she’d always been, with no idea how to be a good mother because she’d never had one herself.
“You okay, sweetie?” Linda asked, breaking into Brooke’s thoughts.
“I’m not sure,” Brooke said, much more comforted by the older woman’s presence than she had been by Jill’s. If she had had a grandmother, Brooke would have wanted her to be someone like Linda.
“You’re not sure if you’re okay, or if you still want to go ahead with the procedure?” Linda pulled the wand off Brooke’s belly, and the sudden silence that filled the room poured over Brooke like liquid lead. She found herself wanting to hear the baby’s heartbeat again and again.
“Both.” A few errant tears slipped down Brooke’s cheeks, and Linda reached for a box of tissues. “Thanks,” Brooke said as she took one and wiped her face.
“Of course,” Linda replied, setting the box back on the counter. “Women cry in here all the time. They change their minds, too. It’s one hundred percent your decision.”
Brooke nodded, keeping her eyes locked on Linda’s. “I know,” she said, feeling a tornado buzzing around the knot in her chest. Her own heart pounded, and she suddenly realized the link between her baby’s heartbeat and hers. They were already connected. This thought shot through her in an electric bolt, and shivers raced across her skin. What she’d mentioned to Jill earlier—that at Brooke’s age this was likely the last chance she’d have to become a mother—seemed even more poignant now. This was her chance to break the cycle her own mother had started. This child wasn’t disposable. It needed a mother. It needed Brooke. Whatever it took, however much she might have to sacrifice, she could have this baby and be the kind of parent it deserved. She could give it everything her own mother never gave to her.
Fifteen minutes later, Brooke was dressed and had climbed into her car. It was raining again, a slow and steady drizzle, but the changing leaves on the trees surrounding the lot looked like they had been dipped in fire, their roots plugged in and their volume turned up. Her head still spinning, she grabbed her phone from her purse and called Ryan.