Robert looks panicked. And it takes me longer than it should to realize that I’m the mom. I don’t want him to leave, but Dr. Katim says, “Nothing to worry about.” She grabs a tissue and wipes my belly. She doesn’t get all the goo. There’s a clump of it right by my belly button that she can’t seem to see. She pushes some buttons on the machine. “Just a few simple tests, but it’s all a little unflattering. We’ll try to keep some sense of mystery in your relationship, right?”

She looks down at her clipboard and makes notes while Robert gets up and kisses me goodbye. He walks slow and rubs his forehead as he leaves, like he can’t quite believe the static he saw. I wipe my belly with the palm of my hand and wipe my hand on the corner of my paper gown.

As soon as the door closes, Dr. Katim looks up from her clipboard, like she was only pretending to read it. “April,” she says, and kicks her legs to wheel her chair closer to me, “I wanted us to have some privacy, because I don’t know what the situation between you and Robert is.”

“He’s the father,” I say. “He’s my—” I can’t think of the right word, because he’s more than my boyfriend the way Matty was my boyfriend, but we’re not married. I get a sinking feeling that’s just drowning without the happy. “Is my baby okay?” I ask, even though I think I know what she’s going to tell me.

“Your baby looks perfectly healthy, has a strong heartbeat, and has to be at least eight weeks old.”

She grabs a printout from the machine and shows it to me. It’s a photo of the static, but when I look closer, I can see shapes. I think maybe even a face.

“See here,” she says, using her pen to point to a spot in the snow. “That’s one of your baby’s elbows. I can see feet and hands and even the beginnings of fingers.” Thin streaks of blue ink from a glob on the point of her pen drag across the photo as she points to different parts of my baby. “These are levels of development we can’t see until eight weeks. So we’re a bit off from Robert’s estimate.”

She gives me the picture. My hands shake.

“I didn’t put the fetal age on the picture,” she says, “because I want to let you have that discussion on your own terms.” She reaches out and puts her hand over my hand. “If there’s a discussion to be had.”

“Are you okay?” Robert asks when I get to the waiting room. “Is the baby okay?”