AIMÉE FELT THE cold jelly lubricant on her stomach, the rolling scope pressing on her pelvis. Near the bed, the sonogram machine made bleeping noises. What if something was wrong? “Voilà,” said Dr. Weil, a grinning, grey-haired woman. “Now you can see your baby.” Aimée turned her head, following the doctor’s finger to an off-white moonscape on the screen. “Where?” Dr. Weil pointed to a pulsing blob. “See, that’s the little heart working. The legs, the head. Bon, makes it real, n’est-ce pas?” Aimée gasped, just like women always did in the movies. But there it was, a real baby. Something melted inside her. “That’s why I prefer waiting until the second trimester for a sonogram,” Dr. Weil said. “Not all my colleagues advise waiting. But the baby’s formed, and you can see that everything is going well.” A little hand floated. Moved as if waving. The tiny fingers like jewels. So sweet it made her heart ache. “Little Leduc’s facing away, so we can’t tell the gender.
