Page 138 of Slapshot Baby

But I will turn to stone for this baby.

The local anesthetic burns going in, then spreads outward into numbness. The ultrasound wand presses onto my skin and there's my baby on the screen again.

"You're going to feel pressure now," Dr. Fernandez says.

The needle enters.

There’s no pain but the push is there. The needle feels deep and invasive. Every cell in my body screams to flinch, to curl around my baby, to protect the thing I grew from the thing trying to save it.

Instead I grip the table edges until my knuckles ache and force my breathing into measured counts.

Breathe In. Two, three, four. Breathe out. Two, three, four.

"Good. Stay just like that. Your baby's tolerating it well."

The baby's heart rate flickers in green numbers on the monitor. I lock my eyes onto those numbers and let everything else disappear.

I no longer hear the murmur of the team talking over me in calm, clinical voices.

Just focus on my baby.

Minutes pass like cold syrup. The clock on the wall ticks. I try counting ceiling tiles but my eyes keep sliding back to the monitor.

My legs cramp. My lower back locks from the forced position.

I try to be brave but my chin starts trembling after a few minutes. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes and slide into my hair.

Kai should be here.

The thought cracks through me with the force of something I've been holding back for months.

Not I wish Kai were here. Not it would be nice.

He should be sitting beside this table with his hand over mine, his calm voice cutting through the beeping and the sterile air. His thumb drawing circles on my wrist. His steady brown eyes telling me he's got this, the way he told me he's got everything since the day I decided to trust him.

He should be here and he's not because I won't let him be.

The baby moves, a flutter against the needle's path that makes Dr. Fernandez pause.

"Hold still, little one," I whisper through wet teeth. "I know you hate this. I hate it too."

When the needle finally comes out, I feel the absence like a fist unclenching inside my torso.

"The transfusion went well. The baby's heart rate is strong."

I nod. My face is soaked and I don't care anymore who sees it.

They keep me for observation in a recovery room with a fetal monitor strapped to my belly and a nurse checking every fifteen minutes.

I lie there with my hand on the small adhesive bandage where the needle went in.

The wanting is back and louder now. Not the polite, managed longing I've been packaging for months. The raw kind that presses against the inside of my chest and makes it hard to breathe.

I want Kai's palm on top of mine, his thumb traces patterns on my skin.

I’ve spent months being strong enough to carry this pregnancy alone. Lying in this recovery room, the fetal monitor strapping my baby's heartbeat to my belly, I don't feel strong. I feel hollow.

The drive home takes forever because I keep the speed ten under the limit and my hand keeps flying to my stomach at every bump.