“And healthy.”
“Of course healthy.”
“We should be able to hear it. It got good reviews.”
“Here.” Melinda pulls out a sticky bun. The goo from the bottom drips back into the box. The nuts are syrupy and shiny, and the smell demobilizes Iris. Dear. God. She wants to pull it apart. She wants to bite into the sticky soft baked taste. She wants to wash it down with a freezing cold glass of milk. She could shake her mother for doing this to her. “Let me get a little plate.” Melinda prances through the kitchen, holding the sticky bun out in front of her and opening cupboard door after cupboard door with her left hand.
“Mom.”
“Huh?” She finds a stack of saucers and slides one out. She puts the sticky bun on the saucer and licks her fingers.
“I cannot. I can’t have one.”
Melinda puts the plate in front of her and smirks. “Just a bite.”
Iris looks down. She knows exactly how it will taste on her tongue, how her teeth will feel biting into its softness. She hasn’t had any dessert in weeks—since the diagnosis. Since the hospital nutritionist gave her a printout of what her daily meal plan should be: a bowl of Cheerios here, a turkey sandwich on wheat there, a small dish of blueberries before bed. She has thought about a sticky bun—just like this one—every day. But she wants Phoebe to be healthy. It’s more important. Every time she pricks her finger, she worries her numbers will be too high. She knocks the plate to the side. “Stop. Do you know how crazy this is?”
“Honey.” Melinda picks up another sticky bun with her red nails and bites into it. She shakes her head. “You’re missing out.”
Iris stands. She could have one. This morning her sugar was the lowest it’s been since being diagnosed. Back to normal, she could almost say. She goes to the refrigerator and lets ice fall into her glass. She presses the button for water. She watches her mother eat the sticky bun, the glaze around her lips. She hears birds outside and the buzz of a hedge trimmer down below. She comes back to the table and fiddles with the monitor. She slips the headphones on and holds the white wand, rolling it over her belly.
“Let me listen, too,” Melinda says.
“I don’t hear it yet.”
“You’re not a doctor, that’s why.” She taps her fingers and watches Iris. “They shouldn’t even sell those things.”
“I just want to hear her. I like the sound.”
“Don’t you need that jelly to make it work?” Melinda’s nostrils flare as she talks. She clicks over to the sink and grabs a paper towel to wipe her lips.
“It’s not that sophisticated.” Iris holds the wand and keeps sliding it slowly. Piece of junk. She is frustrated, disappointed. She hears nothing but static.
“Maybe you need to—”
“Shh. Wait.”
Melinda sighs. She crosses her arms and stares at Iris, shaking her head.
Iris’s pulse is starting to beat faster. She just wants to hear Phoebe’s heart. Every time she hears it, it’s like getting a letter she’s been waiting for in the mail. It is so quick and constant, so steady and comforting. Ah, she always thinks. There you are. She has waited for three days since she ordered this device. She wants to hear it between appointments. She wants to slip the headphones on Dave’s ears while they are in bed. She hears nothing but the continued drone of static.
Melinda paces back and forth. She finds tape on Iris’s messy desk over by the window and seals the white bakery box shut again. “You’re gonna make yourself nuts trying to find it with a machine that cost two bucks.”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Aye yai yai.”
Iris glares at her and takes the headphones off. She puts the small machine down. She feels like she could faint, and nausea creeps up her throat. When did she last feel Phoebe move? Iris can’t remember. She’s gotten so used to the kicks, the twists and turns. Phoebe was always moving. A thump here, a wiggle there. Iris feels the room turn. Her mother seems far away. Last night? Wasn’t it last night? But not today. Not one thing today. A cold sweat spreads over her body. “Mom,” she says.
“You want me to try?”
“I think something’s wrong.”
“Nah.” Melinda comes and stands by her. She puts her arm around Iris and lays her head on her shoulder. “Don’t panic.”
Iris puts her hand on her stomach. She cannot breathe. Her belly feels so still. “My sugar dropped really low this morning.”