Page 137 of Slapshot Baby

The room is aggressively quiet without the tech in it. Just the hum of the machine and my baby's heartbeat pulsing through speakers that somebody set to a volume designed to be reassuring but is actually terrifying when you're alone.

My fingers curl around the edge of the table. The paper beneath me crinkles.

I've been on my feet since six this morning for the final walkthrough in Brentwood before the painters arrive tomorrow.

Spent hours checking trim colors against natural light while my lower back screamed and my ankles swelled inside the wide-leg pants I've been wearing to hide the fact that my body is slowly, visibly betraying me.

I almost rescheduled this scan for next week.

But the scans are the one thing I don't skip. Not ever.

Dr. Fernandez enters the room. "Ava, let's take a look."

She takes the wand and presses it to my belly. Her eyes sweep the screen, her free hand adjusting something on the machine.

"What's happening?"

"There's a small collection of fluid around the baby's abdomen."

My hand flies to my stomach, fingers spreading wide.

"What does that mean?" My voice comes out too high.

"It's called hydrops. When the antibodies attack the baby's red blood cells and the anemia progresses, fluid can build up in the tissues. The good news is we're catching it early."

The word early sits in the air between us. I don't trust it. I trusted steady titers and look where that got me.

"We need to do intrauterine transfusion today. A needle guided by ultrasound will deliver red blood cells directly to the baby through the umbilical cord."

Cold slides down my spine. "A needle in my belly."

"Through the abdominal wall, yes. You'll be awake. We use local anesthetic. It takes roughly an hour."

My heart starts racing. All I can imagine is a needle inside me pointed at my baby.

"When is the transfusion?"

"Within the hour."

She squeezes my arm and leaves. The tech follows.

My baby's heartbeat pulses through the speakers. Fast, steady, impossibly small.

My phone is in my bag on the chair across the room. I wonder for a brief moment if I should call Kai.

My throat burns. My eyes burn worse.

"Hang on," I whisper to my belly. My palm presses flat against the gel-slicked skin. "I'm going to fix this."

The prep moves fast. A nurse hooks up an IV while another swabs my lower abdomen with antiseptic that makes my eyes water. Dr. Fernandez returns in scrubs with a neonatal specialist beside her.

"Try to stay as still as possible. Movement is our biggest variable."

"I'm good at staying still."

I'm terrible at it. I fidget in theaters, tap my foot in meetings. I once rearranged a client's bookshelf mid-consultation because my hands needed something to do.

Staying still when I'm scared is against every instinct wired into my body.