Page 125 of Ink Me Three Times
Nothing serious. Just, you know, girl stuff. Routine. No big deal.
He grunts from the couch, halfway through a bowl of cereal and a YouTube rabbit hole about off grid solar setups. “Cool. Want me to drop you off?”
I shake my head and fake a yawn. “Nah, I’m good. Gonna walk. Need air.”
Which is technically true. What I don’t say is that every breath feels shallow lately. My lungs have forgotten how to function under pressure.
Pickle watches me from the window as I leave, his squishy face pressed to the glass. I flip him a mock salute and start walking.
The women’s clinic is tucked behind the bakery, next to a store that sells antique rocking chairs and aggressively wholesome signage. One of thoseLive, Laugh, Lovekinda places. I almost turn around right there.
But I don’t.
I go inside.
It smells of lavender and sanitizer. The front desk lady is overly cheerful and wears a pin that saysUteruses Before Duderuses, which is… oddly comforting. I fill out paperwork with shaking hands, then wait. And wait. And wait.
My name gets called and suddenly I’m in a little room that’s too cold, staring at a motivational poster of a mountain peak that saysYOU CAN DO HARD THINGS.
Cool. Great. Love that for me.
The room is too quiet.
Library after hours in a haunted housequiet.
But the nurse is nice. Warm eyes, soft voice, a kind of quiet calm that makes me feel like maybe I won’t vomit or spontaneously combust in the next five minutes. She doesn’t ask a ton of questions, just the basics, which I answer in clipped syllables while trying not to stare too hard at the ultrasound machine parked in the corner, a harbinger of doom.
But then before I know it, I’m stripped down, wearing a gown of paper, a preparing for the vaginal wand of regret and medical grade horror. There’s no pretending anymore.
The tech hums softly to herself as she preps the wand and glances at the screen. “Just relax. Let’s take a quick look.”
Relax. Sure. Great advice for someone seconds away from seeing their own life implode in real time.
I brace myself for the flutter of movement. For the grainy little blob. For the confirmation of what I already know.
The ultrasound tech goes still, hand frozen as she watches the screen. Her face doesn’t do anything dramatic, no gasp, no wide eyes, but something changes. Just a flicker. A tightening around her mouth. The tiniest inhale.
But I catch it.
Because I’m watching her as if she’s holding a live grenade and deciding whether or not to pull the pin.
My stomach flips. “What?” I say. My voice sounds weird. Croaky and far away, like someone else is talking through me. “Is something wrong?”
She doesn’t answer at first. Just narrows her eyes at the screen, moves the wand again. Clicks. Clicks again.
And then she says, so casually it almost kills me, “Well… looks like you’ve got a full house.”
I blink. “What does that mean?”
She tilts the monitor slightly toward me, points. “One here…”
Okay.
“…and another here…”
Okay?
“…and one more over here.”
