Page 74 of Omega’s Fold

“Just need the date of birth.”

He gives it. She types. She prints a wristband with my name on it and snaps it round my wrist. The plastic is cold on my skin.

“Take a seat. The sonographer will call you through.”

We sit. There are six chairs against the wall and nobody else in them. There is a low table with a stack of leaflets. One of the leaflets is about the importance of folic acid. Another is about whooping cough vaccinations. A third has a picture of a young couple holding a baby and looking at each other, the kind of stock photograph that could be selling anything.

Julian is looking at the leaflet. The door at the end of the room opens. A woman in her forties with her hair pulled back puts her head out.

“Mr. Briggs?”

I stand up.

“Through here. You can bring your partner.”

We follow her through.

The room is small and dim. There is a bed with a paper sheet on it and a machine beside the bed and a screen on the wall above the machine. The sonographer washes her hands. She talks while she is washing.

“How are we today, Mr. Briggs? Any concerns since the last scan?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. Pop yourself up onto the bed for me. Shirt up to here. The gel will be cold but I’ll warm my hands. Partner, you can sit on that stool there. Whichever side you’d like.”

Julian sits on the stool to the left of the bed.

The sonographer puts the gel on me and I shiver.

“Just going to put a little pressure on. There. There we are.”

She moves the wand. The screen goes black, then grey. There is the sound of the machine, a soft electronic hum and then a thicker sound like rushing water.

“There’s the heartbeat,” she says. “Lovely strong one.”

I cannot speak.

“Have a listen.”

She turns a dial. The room fills with it. It is fast, too fast for an adult heart, fast and even and clean and it is the sound of my child.

Julian makes a noise.

It is not a word. It is a small sound at the back of his throat, and then he puts his hand on the rail of the bed beside my hand without touching my hand, and his fingers close on the rail.

“And here,” the sonographer is saying. “Here’s the head, here’s the spine, this is a foot, this is — yes, there we are, here is the other foot. Good positioning. Good size. Have a look, Dad.”

She angles the screen.

The picture comes clear.

The baby is curled. It is on its side with its knees tucked up. I can see the white curve of its head and the dark of its eye-socket, and the hand, clear as anything.

Julian’s hand is on the rail.

“Would you like to know the sex?” the sonographer says, kindly. “Sometimes I can see at this stage and sometimes I can’t, but I can tell you if you’d like.”

Julian looks at me.