I wanted the worst diagnosis for him, or no diagnosis at all. Nothing to muddle the decision.
I admitted this to Martha months later, my voice low and ashamed—if our unborn sonhad to be sick, I wanted the sickness to be bad. We’d found out something was wrong at the twenty-week ultrasound, the OB walking briskly into the unlit room, looking at the temporarily black monitor, staring through a glass darkly. She took the ultrasound wand, guided it over Martha’s naked abdomen, summoned the gray pulpy image of our developing child, curled asleep, and said, “There is something wrong with the heart of this baby.”
Short fiction
Spring 2023