Arzeen shakes her head and turns away.

“Our prayers are working,” another senior says, clenching her prayer beads to the ceiling.

“Let’s get the test results first,” Arzeen cautions.

“True, but it can’t be a bad sign, no, that his body is waking up like this?” the senior adds.

“True.” Arzeen sits down between Layla and Shamma.

After more and more people arrive, Arzeen arranges for the group to move from the waiting room to a family room. “We’ll be more comfortable in here,” she says to Layla, making Layla even more thankful for the girl’s constant presence today. The room is a rectangle, like a small hall. It has three pea-coloured couches and padded folding chairs, some of which are clustered into small groups. The door to an adjoining room, an extension to the main room, is held open with a chair that is stacked with winter jackets. The smaller room is also filled with people from the community, many holding paper plates filled with snacks brought by the constant flow of visitors. Aluminum platters of nylon-bhajia, potato-kachoori, and chutneys are spread on the tables of both rooms along with boxes of Timbits, used Tim Hortons cups, and dirty serviettes.

For the first time since Layla arrived at the hospital four hours ago, she feels that she can finally breathe. Soon, they will have some news.

“How many months, dhikri?” Shamma asks, rubbing Arzeen’s belly.

“Seven months, Aunty,” she replies, beaming. “I’m due at the end of April.”

“How old are your twins now?” Shamma asks.

“The boys just turned three. I can’t believe it.”

“And this one?” Layla asks. “A boy or a girl?”

“A girl,” she says, rubbing her belly, “and we couldn’t be happier.”

They tried for close to a year for a second child. Layla was sure she was too old. She was almost forty. Then the doctor gave them the news. She was pregnant. When Ashif found out, he begged her to have a boy. “No sisters!” Layla laughed. “It’s not up to me, bheta. God will give us what he thinks we deserve.”

She had done everything right, went to all her checkups, did everything the doctor said. At seven months, she had an appointment to see an ultrasound of the baby. But instead of the boom-boom-boom of her little girl’s heartbeat, there was nothing. Her baby was dead.

The placenta had attached too deeply, the doctor explained. She would still have to deliver the baby. Layla did not remember taking the pills or being rushed into the operating room, though she did remember Mansoor’s face as he ran beside the stretcher, his fingers clenched around the steel railing. She moaned and pushed until finally they had to cut her open and remove the baby. And all her womanly parts, too.

“Would you like to hold her for a bit?” a nurse offered.

Layla nodded. She pulled away the pink blanket, examined the baby’s face, her tiny arms and legs, counted her fingers and her toes.