The traffic was fairly light as they drove to the clinic.

It was a bright afternoon, cool, and the trees along the street stood out green and proud against the blue sky. Sophia sat reclined in her seat, her hands resting atop her belly.

This can’t be happening, she thought. Not again.

Peter reached over from the wheel and set his right hand on her knee and patted it gently, affectionately, caressed it now and then. Sophia rolled her head away from the window. He looked over and met her gaze.

He smiled. “You just relax, hon. Everything will be just fine, you’ll see.”

She nodded but only slightly. Then she said, “I know…it’s just,” she rolled her head back to the window and watched the clouds and the passing trees, “it’s just that I don’t feel the same. Something is wrong. She hasn’t moved in two days. I…I just don’t feel pregnant anymore.”

They stopped at a red light. Peter leaned and took her hand in his. “Listen, Sophia. Are you listening?” She looked over at him. Her eyes were on the verge of tears. “I know you’re worried, and it’s okay to be worried. But we’ve got to be positive.” He tensed his fingers, lightly, around her hand. She smiled, and this time nodded with some conviction. The light turned green and the car began to roll again. 

The traffic was still fairly light, nothing to get in a fuss over. They passed a funeral home on their right. A procession of cars, headed by a white hearse, was parked in the circle driveway in front of the building. People, dressed in black, were getting into those cars. How sad, thought Sophia. But the trees were green and the sky blue. Everything will be just fine.

When they arrived at the clinic they signed in at the window and sat down and waited, waited, chairs filled with swollen women and people talking. Waiting there, Peter and Sophia sat quietly, patient though inwardly anxious. She sat clutching her stomach, massaging it here and there like a magic ball that might yield a sign of hope. But the baby had not kicked or rolled in two days now; not even a tender nudge. Sophia needed those nudges, too, for having been pregnant five months now she knew her baby, knew how it responded to her voice when she’d sing it lullabies while lying in bed at night, or tell it nursery rhymes while in the shower in the morning. But it had not moved in two days.

Still waiting, names were called but never “Sophia Breuer.” A couple walked in from outside and the woman was plump and pregnant. The man was holding a girl toddler on his hip while another young girl walked closely against his leg. They signed in, found seats, and Sophia watched that family, watched those two little girls, dressed in little white dresses adorned with butterflies, their black-buckled shoes hugging white-stocking feet. The mother took a handful of colorful toy blocks from the bag on her shoulder and scattered them neatly on the carpet. The husband set the toddler girl down, and both parents watched their daughters build and play. 

Just one, thought Sophie without resentment. Just one baby. That’s all I want. She was not bitter, nor did she harbor any resentment toward those who had been so lucky as to have given birth. One child was all she needed. One and that was all.

The toddler girl began to crawl away from her playthings, not too far, just to the window beside her father’s seat. She put her little hands upon the sill and pulled herself up, then stared out at the world beyond the window, stared in fascination as a robin skipped in the shrubs nearby. She uttered baby babble and pressed her hand to the window and the robin skipped a bit closer. Small little prints, those hands left, and the child’s breath fogged the glass, faded, then fogged again with each fresh breath. Just one. Just like her. 

The nurse opened the door leading to the back. “Sophia Breuer.”

Sophia stood up from her chair and Peter walked beside her, his hand riding light and warm at the small of her back. 

“Right this way, Mrs. Breuer,” said the nurse, and led them to a small room that smelled of baby mixed with fresh cleaning scents. The fluorescents were bright and harsh but that was okay because the sunlight streaming through the window made warm, shadowy patterns on the floor and walls. Again they waited, but not too long, until the doctor came in with Sophia’s chart, and with a smile beneath his gray moustache. He sat on the stool, crossed his legs. 

Sitting on the examination table, Sophia told him all about her condition. Told him how worried she was and how desperately she needed to know. Peter stood quietly beside her, listening intently, nodding affirmations with every word she spoke. The doctor listened with genuine concern, nodding, jotting down notes with his pen. He asked important questions, which Sophia answered quickly and at length.

After finishing up his annotations, the doctor stood and closed the chart and asked Sophia to dress in the medical gown that he handed her from the cabinet. He then left Peter and Sophia alone and she changed into the thin papery gown. It made her feel naked and overweight and unattractive, though she was anything but, with her reddish-blonde hair and jade eyes.

Peter said, “You know what, Sophia?”

She looked up at him, not saying a word.

“I think you’re beautiful and I love you.”

She smiled and he kissed her warm cheek and helped her climb onto the padded table. The paper lining crunched and crackled beneath her backside.

The doctor came back in a moment later and stretched on a pair of latex gloves. Then he walked over to Sophia lying on the table and parted the gown and began to prod softly at the round of her stomach. He then lubed a speculum and then his fingers. He examined her briefly and was quickly finished. Peter stood holding his wife’s hand, anxious for a report.

“Everything feels normal, about twenty weeks. But since the baby hasn’t moved in forty-eight hours, and considering that you’ve had two previous miscarriages, I want you to go ahead and have an ultrasound—just to be on the safe side.” He removed the gloves and tossed them into the wastebasket. “The nurse will be in shortly.” He turned to leave the room, but stopped at the door and said: “And Mrs. Breuer—I really wouldn’t worry.”

Sophia redressed and the nurse came and led them down the hallway, which was lined with photographs of healthy babies and happy parents. Sophia felt a surge of dire will to bring life into this world.

They waited alone in the room, the ultrasound machine looming before them like a messenger of death. A moment later the ultrasound technician entered and closed the door. She was a younger girl, mid-twenties, her hair blonde and up in a pony-tail. She smiled and greeted Sophia and sat at the machine. Sophia knew the drill. She lay down on the table, lifted her shirt over her belly. The tech squeezed transmission jelly on the belly. The jelly was cold. The tech then pressed the transmitter against Sophia’s stomach. Everyone turned their attention to the monitor. 

A garbled, black-and-white image filled the screen. The tech reached over with her free hand and typed at the keyboard on the machine. The resolution became clearer. Sophia didn’t want to look at first but she had to look because the baby hadn’t moved in two days and she desperately needed to know. She braced herself for what she might see, and then looked up at the screen. She saw the grainy image of the fetus. Saw the prenatal darkness of her womb. Peter saw it too, as did the tech. They watched in silence for a moment. Then:

“And there she is,” said the tech. “There’s baby. She has a healthy heartbeat. One-hundred forty beats per minute.” She looked over at Sophia. “Do you see it, mom?”

She saw it: the rapid pulse of her daughter’s heart. And suddenly her dread began to liquefy and drain from her body. Peter also felt his anxiety dissipate, though the size of a father’s relief in a situation like this is all but dwarfed by that of a mother’s. They looked at each other, and somehow they knew that from here on out, everything would be okay.

They drove home in silence. They passed the funeral home, and the mourning procession had gone on to some other place. Then they passed an elementary school. Children were playing in the schoolyard, laughing and dashing with youth and vigor. One child glided down a slide, her hands aloft, and landed and tumbled on the ground. She stood up and dusted herself off. She was all right. She then climbed the ladder for yet another round. Peter sat looking through the windshield, his hand resting upon his wife’s thigh. Gazing at the girl on the slide, Sophia felt a firm kick and smiled. 

The traffic was fairly light, nothing to get in a fuss over. The afternoon was cool and bright, and the trees stood out green and proud against the blue sky.