I stare into the monitor, at my dazed expression and my colorless face and lips.
“Thank you, Gemma, for the introduction,” Ian says. He gives a wide grin and gestures for me to leave the stage.
I walk toward the edge of the room. My body is numb, the only thing I can feel is the blood running down the inside of my legs.
I barely notice the monitors full of hundreds of comments.
Lavinia hurries toward me.
“I’m going,” I say in a choked voice. “I have to go.”
She frowns at me. Then says, “I think that would be best. Good luck, Gemma.”
I look back at Ian, he’s in his element, giving one of his favorite talks to the cameras.
I grab my purse, my coat and hurry out the door. On the way downstairs I dial Dr. Ingraham.
“The embryo never attached,” Dr. Ingraham says.
He’s looking at the ultrasound. I am too. I stare at the screen. I can’t make anything out, only gray and black and white shapes that mean nothing to me.
“But the blood test said I was pregnant.” My voice breaks, but Dr. Ingraham is kind enough to ignore that. I rub at my eyes. “Aren’t I pregnant?”
He shakes his head no. “This is what we call a biochemical pregnancy. It happens when you have a positive blood test but not a positive ultrasound. This can happen with early detection in pregnancy. If you hadn’t had the blood test, you would never have known this wasn’t just a normal period come a few days late.”
I stare at him in his white coat and his latex gloves, what he’s saying isn’t sinking in.
“I was never pregnant?”
He shakes his head and pulls out the ultrasound. “You were. It wasn’t viable. I encourage you to look on the bright side. We now know you can get pregnant, next we’ll have to work on you staying pregnant.”
I stare at him. The air from the vent blows over my bare legs and the paper gown flutters. The exam table is cold against my skin.
“We can start another cycle as soon as you’re ready,” he says.
I blink and my heart thuds loudly in my ears. “I’m not pregnant,” I say again.
He frowns and pulls off his gloves. “It’s an early miscarriage. It will feel just like a normal period.”
It will feel…just like a normal period? It will feel…normal?
The breath leaves my lungs, and there’s such a heavy weight on my chest that I can’t pull in any air.
“You didn’t have any other embryos that made it to the blastocyst stage,” Dr. Ingraham continues. “Your partner will have to come in again to donate another sample and you’ll need another retrieval.”
I still can’t pull in a breath. There’s no air in the whole room, in the whole world. I try to drag in another breath and finally I manage to work my lungs.
“All set?” Dr. Ingraham asks. “You can start again with your next cycle. Let us know when you’re ready to proceed.”
I swallow and nod, but I’m not able to talk past the burning tightness in my throat.
He leaves me to get dressed again. But for the longest time I’m not able to climb off the table. I just stare at the blank ultrasound machine and at the red spot of blood on the paper beneath me.
An hour later I make it home. When I close my door behind me another cramp catches me off guard and I gasp. I press my hand against my stomach.
Then I pull my phone out of my purse. I need to call Josh. He should know.
I dial his number and hold the phone to my ear. After it rings and rings he picks up.
“This is Josh.”
“Josh, hi, it’s—” I start to cry.
“Who calls anymore? Send a text. Anyway. Leave a message.”
It’s his voicemail. It isn’t him, it’s voicemail. I sniff and try to pull back my tears. I can’t tell him over voicemail, I can’t, I don’t even know how I’ll tell him in person.
I close my eyes and say, “hey. It’s me. I’m playing hooky again. Call me?”
I hang up and drop my phone to the coffee table. The beaded bracelet on my wrist clacks as I drop my hand. It’s the pregnancy bracelet Hannah gave me. The one that’s supposed to protect from miscarriage and guarantee a safe pregnancy.
I stare at it. Then I rip it off of my wrist and fling it at the wall. The bracelet breaks and the beads bounce around the floor.
I drop down and wrap my hands around my knees. The bracelet took a chunk of paint off the wall, right above Ian’s quote.
The one that says, love is the best gift I’ve ever had the privilege to give.