Catherine smiles and puts the car into gear. She opens the windows as we drive off and a welcome breeze wafts in.

—

“The gel might feel a little cold at first,” the sonographer says.

The lighting in the ultrasound room is low and the screen is angled away from me at the moment. The sonographer needs to concentrate and take all the necessary measurements first. I scrutinize her face for any signs of concern: a narrowing of the eyes, a flicker of dismay distorting her features. But whatever she can see on that screen, she’s giving none of it away.

I glance at Catherine, who has, I now notice, shifted her chair farther back so that she can get a better glimpse of the screen. Now I’m scanning her face, too, my chest tight with anxiety, but she’s wearing the exact same expressionless mask as the sonographer. The one all health professionals seem to adopt.

“Okay, all the measurements are fine. Exactly what we would expect at this stage.” I breathe a huge sigh of relief. “Bladder and kidneys working well,” she says. “And there’s a very healthy heartbeat. Do you want to have a look now?”

The sonographer turns the screen toward me and, at first, I can’t make anything out. Gradually, as my eyes become accustomed to the gray speckled blobs floating against a black background, I see the unmistakable evidence of a baby. Not that I need to see it. I only have to look at my expanding waistline or sense the tiny shifts and flutters of movement that I’ve been feeling more and more this last week to know that a little person is growing inside me.

“Can you see the baby’s spine?” Catherine says, leaning forward excitedly. “Some people say it looks like a delicate string of pearls. Look, it’s pointing right toward the scanner.”

I follow the direction of her finger with my eyes.

“And the stomach looks nice and full.” She points to a small black bubble that has just come into view as the baby twists into a different position.

The sonographer glances at her when she says this, and Catherine tells her that she’s a nurse. I wondered if she would.

“No malformations, you’ll be pleased to hear,” the sonographer says, adjusting the screen again so that only she can see it.

I look at Catherine, suddenly aware that the person I most want to have beside me right now to hear this good news and to celebrate this moment isn’t here. Catherine notices the slight wobble in my lower lip because she reaches out and squeezes my wrist.

—

Back in Catherine’s car, I can barely peel my eyes away from the grainy photograph in my hand.

“I thought you might ask her if she could tell what sex it was,” Catherine says, as she reverses out of the parking space and drives toward the exit.