“You two decide,” Seema says, as she follows the nurse out. “Or maybe you could both come.”

Tahera shrugs, and leads, and Leigh trails behind, stopping to hand over the lilies to Nafeesa.

“Come get us when you’re doing the scan,” Fiaz says, “so we can get a peek at little Ishraaq.”

In the examining room, Seema turns to Tahera to help her undress, while Leigh looks on, her role usurped. She knows why, of course, but she has to fight a rebellious urge to take Seema in her arms, to kiss the engorged curves of Seema’s body, to stroke her thickened aureoles and massage the swell of her labia until Seema cries for mercy, for forgiveness. She averts her gaze and has to be content with their fingers brushing when Seema hands Leigh her undergarments, as Tahera knots the back of her gown.

51

Seema arranges herself on the table, exposing her belly, while Dr. Connelly and Tahera discuss Tahera’s background. If Tahera’s hijab and jilbab make Dr. Connelly uneasy, she doesn’t show it. Besides, speaking about her practice, Tahera is transformed into a professional, her manner assuming authority.

Dr. Connelly begins by palpating Seema’s belly, her pressure firm and insistent. My mother feels me kick as the prodding fingers awaken me. Usually Dr. Connelly conducts her examination in silence. But today she repeats aloud to Tahera the notes she’s jotting down, and Tahera explains to Seema the more technical observations. Her explanations are lucid, and her professional voice is reassuring. Dr. Connelly remarks that Tahera’s patients in Irvine are very lucky, and Seema is absurdly gratified, proud of the doctor her sister has become. Even Leigh, initially resentful, seems mollified, her questions answered comprehensively between the two doctors.

Though declaring everything normal, today Dr. Connelly wishes to also conduct a pelvic exam, wanting to take no risks this close to term, given Seema’s advanced age and risk profile, which includes a history of irregular and heavy menstrual bleeding. Seema dreads these. With her legs thrust open, and fingers and speculum intruding into her body, she feels defenseless and exposed. But Tahera concurs with Dr. Connelly, so she reluctantly agrees.

She steels herself, biting her lips and holding her breath against the waves of discomfort, even pain, as Dr. Connelly probes inside her. The reminder that what she’ll actually have to go through will be a thousand times more harrowing sets her heart palpitating, and I react to her panic, twisting and squirming as I never have before. Sensing my distress, my mother forces herself to relax, glad for Leigh’s hand to grip, grateful for the security Leigh’s hand returns. And with Tahera here, she doesn’t need to try to make sense of the terms, even those new and unfamiliar—consistency, effacement, softness, station—that Dr. Connelly calls out in her crisp clinical way along with measurements.

Seema closes her eyes and lets Leigh’s clasp and Tahera’s voice—still continuing her reassuring commentary—carry her away from the room, beyond the rain pattering against the windowpanes.