The cold blue gel went onto Emma Harris’s stomach. Dr. Alan Cooper moved the plastic transducer across her skin, his silver pen tapping against his metal clipboard on the small side desk.
“Everything looks right on schedule,” Dr. Cooper said, his voice holding its usual clinical cadence. “Fourteen days to go, Emma.”
She looked up at the black-and-white screen where her daughter’s tiny heart flickered. She twisted her silver wedding band around her finger, the metal cold against her skin.
Dr. Cooper stopped moving the probe. His hand began to shake, a small, rapid tremor that vibrated against her hip. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, and spoke in a flat whisper.
“You need to leave here today, Emma.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he stood up straight and wiped the gel from her stomach with a paper towel. He handed her a black-and-white ultrasound photo, then slipped a folded yellow note into her palm.
“Two dollars for the coffee downstairs, Emma, don’t forget to pay at the front desk,” he said, tapping his clipboard again. “I will see you next Tuesday.”
She stood in the hallway of the Oakhaven Clinic holding the paper, her legs feeling like lead.
She paid the twelve dollars for the hospital parking garage at the automated machine.
She sat in her Buick with the engine idling, the heater blowing dry air into her face. She unfolded the yellow note.
The handwriting was a rushed scrawl. It said: Trust what you know. Stay away from the house.
She stared at the words until they blurred. Michael was waiting for her at home, and he had spent the last three weeks painting the nursery. He was only trying to make everything perfect for the baby.
At half past five, she walked into her kitchen, her keys heavy in her hand.
Michael stood at the stove, stirring a pot of marinara sauce. He was forty, his dark hair neat, his low, flat tone instantly filling the room.
“How was the appointment?” he asked, not turning around.
“Dr. Cooper says she is healthy,” Emma said, keeping her voice deliberate and short. “Right on schedule.”
Michael set the wooden spoon down and turned to face her. He adjusted his watch strap, tightening it by one notch.
“Did he schedule the induction?” Michael asked.
“No, we are going to wait,” she said.
Michael stepped closer, his boots loud on the linoleum. He reached out and pressed his flat palm against her stomach, his fingers spreading wide across her maternity shirt.
“We do not want to wait too long,” Michael said. “Everything needs to go exactly as we planned.”
She wanted to pull away, but she forced herself to stand still. He was only being protective.
By eight o’clock, the dishes were done and the house was quiet. Emma sat on the living room sofa, her feet propped on a pillow.
Michael stood by the doorway, his hands in his pockets.
“You need to stay off your feet now,” he said. “I have been working on the nursery upstairs.”
“Is the paint dry?” she asked.
The forty-five dollars of pale yellow paint had been drying for two days, but Michael had spent the afternoon up there with his toolbox.
“It is nearly ready,” Michael said, his eyes fixed on her face. “I made some adjustments to the door.”
A sudden chill went down her spine, though the radiator was clicking beside her.
“What kind of adjustments?” she asked.
Michael did not answer. He turned and walked toward the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs.
She stood up slowly, her hand resting on the wooden banister as she looked up into the darkness of the second floor.
Michael was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling in the shadows.
The smell of toasted rye bread filled the kitchen at seven the next morning. Michael stood by the counter, already dressed in his blue work shirt, pouring dark liquid from the glass carafe into her favorite ceramic mug.
