You’re all acting strange.”
There was a childlike note in her voice now, the sound of someone being pushed toward something frightening and unexplained. The EMTs, seeing how shaken she was, brought up a wheelchair.
“Come on, ma’am,” one of them said gently. “We’ll get you down safely.” At last Katie gave in.
She sat down, still looking around in confusion. As they wheeled her out, her eyes fell on the nursery with its new white crib. And for just a second, something like panic flashed across her face.
“Mom, stay here, okay?” Evan said as he pulled on his jacket. “We’ll call you.” “I’m going with you,” Ben said firmly.
“Me too,” I whispered. We followed my sister down the stairs. I held her hand. Her fingers were cold.
“Marina, I’m scared,” she whispered. “What’s happening?” “Everything’s going to be okay,” I kept saying, like a prayer.
But I didn’t believe it myself. The drive to the women’s hospital felt endless.
I sat beside Katie in the ambulance, Ben across from us, while Evan followed in our car. Katie was silent, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. She kept rubbing her belly, as if trying to reassure herself that everything inside was still the same.
When we got to the ER entrance, they were already waiting. Evan had clearly called ahead. A gray-haired doctor with a grave expression met us.
“Evan, I understand. Take her straight to exam three. Ultrasound is ready.” It was the department chief, which told me this was serious.
In the exam room, they asked Katie to lie down. She did what they said, but her eyes tracked every movement the staff made. The ultrasound tech spread cold gel over her stomach.
“Baby, you’re okay, right?” Katie whispered, staring at the ceiling. “Mom’s right here.” A black-and-white image appeared on the screen.
I didn’t understand any of the shapes or shadows, but I saw the way Evan and the doctor’s faces tightened. The tech moved the probe over her stomach again and again. The doctor leaned closer to the monitor, changing angles, enlarging the image.
The silence in that room was unbearable. Five minutes passed—maybe less, maybe more. It felt like forever. Finally the doctor gave the tech a small nod.
The machine was turned off. “Evan, a word,” the doctor said quietly. They stepped into the hall.
I stayed with Katie and Ben. “Well?” Katie asked, hope still in her voice. “Why isn’t anyone saying anything?”
“Easy, honey,” Ben said, taking her hand. “We’ll know in a second.”
A minute later the doctors came back. Evan’s face was blank. Not calm—empty, as if every feeling had been stripped out of it.
The doctor pulled up a stool beside the exam table and sat down next to Katie. “Katie…” he began, very gently. “Doctor, the baby’s okay, right?” she interrupted, her voice pleading now.
The doctor took a breath. “Katie, I’m very sorry.” “Sorry for what?” Her smile began to slip.
“We were unable to detect a fetal heartbeat.” Time stopped. Even the air in the room seemed to freeze.
Katie stared at him, trying to process the words. “No heartbeat.” “What does that mean?”
“It means your baby has died,” the doctor said as softly as he could. Katie slowly shook her head. “No. You’re wrong.”
“That’s impossible. The baby moved an hour ago. We all felt it.”
“Ben, Marina, tell him.” “Katie,” Ben said, rushing to her and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “No!” she cried out.
“Your machine is wrong. The baby is alive. I can feel him. I’m the mother—I know.”
“Katie, please listen to the doctor,” I said, moving to her other side, tears running down my face. “You too?” she snapped, turning on me.
“Are you all doing this to me? I know my own baby.” The doctor signaled to a nurse.
She stepped out and came back a few minutes later with a thick chart. “Katie,” the doctor said again, opening it. “There’s something in your records.”
“Two weeks ago, you came into this hospital by ambulance.” Ben looked at his wife in surprise. “You came here? Katie, what happened?
