Page 145 of Red King

Paisley

The room is dimly lit. It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The doctor takes the condom-covered conductor and squirts some gel onto it. “This is going to be a little uncomfortable,” she tells me as she moves over to my legs. The chair she’s sitting on has wheels.

“It’s fine.” After many rounds of IVF, this is nothing. I don’t tell her that.

I have a thin blanket placed strategically over my lap. She disappears under it.

“Sorry, it’s a little cold.” She pops her head up and smiles at me, then gives Arctic a cursory glance. I think she’s both checking him out and is a little afraid of him, too.

Arctic holds my hand tightly. He looks like he might faint at any second.

I squeeze his hand, and he gives me a tight smile. “We’re about to meet our baby.” His voice is a little choked up.

“I can’t wait.”

We all look at the mostly black screen.

“Let’s see what we have,” the doctor says.

As she works, we both hold our breath, waiting for the first glimpse of our baby. The screen turns blurry, and finally, we see—

“Holy fuck!” Arctic snarls.

The doctor squeals and pulls the conductor out of me, her chair rolling back.

I sit up. “What was that, Doc?” My voice is high-pitched. “What…?” I look at Arctic, whose mouth is open. His eyes are wide.

“Was that…?” Arctic points at the screen before looking at the doctor and then at me.

“Sorry about that.” Dr. Ashton smiles. “You gave me a fright. Let’s try again, shall we?”

I lie back down and try to relax, even though my heart is beating a mile a minute.

She slips the conductor back inside me and goes through the motions a second time.

Dr. Ashton laughs. She looks at me and then Arctic. “It is twins. Congratulations.”

Sure enough, there are two gestational sacs, clear as day.

“Two,” Arctic whispers.

They still look like blobs, but blobs with legs and arms. Our babies. Babies! Both of them flicker.

“Is that their hearts beating?” I ask, my eyes filling with tears. This is unreal.

“It sure is. Let’s listen to Twin-A.” A heartbeat sounds, filling the room. It’s fast and strong.

I laugh, even though tears are rolling down my cheeks.

I look up at Arctic, and he’s crying, too.

“I can’t believe it,” I whisper.

“I can.” Arctic clutches my hand so tightly, it almost hurts. My fingertips have gone white, but I don’t care.

“Twin-B,” the doctor says, and there is another galloping heartbeat. “Two healthy babies. They’re measuring around nine weeks.”

I gasp. “That’s not possible.”

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