The door swung open and her next patient stepped into the exam room. McKaela had to admit to herself that this woman wasn't actually a patient. After a year of study to get her certificate, she was making $20 an hour rubbing a probe over the tummies of upper-middle class moms.
Except this woman wasn't obviously pregnant. What's the point of taking a picture of your kid if it looks like a lima bean?
"Could you close the door behind you?"
"Sure."
The woman moved stiffly, quickly. She wore a clingy white cotton shirt and jeans. A gold cross pendant sparkled at her neck.
McKaela offered a smile: "Hi, I'm McKaela. I'll be your sonotech today."
The woman smiled back tentatively, "I'm… Jennifer."
Weird little pause there. She must be terrified. A trace of an accent. British? Australian?
As Jennifer brushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ear, McKaela noticed the Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso watch. A Joaillerie Neva, in fact. Serious money, she thought. Nearly half her yearly earnings were strapped to this woman's wrist.
"Have you had a sonogram before?" McKaela kept smiling. Working with executive women and executive wives, McKaela knew how to hide her envy.
"No. No I haven't."
"Well, I know Becky filled you in, but it really doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt you or your baby. And when we're done, you get a video keepsake that you can share with your family."
"Fine. Thanks."
Jennifer tried to smile. She obviously styled her brown hair to flatter her narrow face. She wore very little makeup.
McKaela broke the short, frigid silence: "I'm going to ask you to lay on the table here and you'll have to pull up your shirt and unbutton your jeans."
While Jennifer walked around to the exam table, McKaela prepped her equipment. A visit to the ultrasound studio was like a trip to a therapist for most folks. You lay down on a couch, the lights dim, everything goes quiet except for the whir of the machine. In McKaela's two years at the center, she found that most women just opened up. She kept a box of tissues next to her station just in case.
Jennifer sat on the table and eased herself gingerly against the raised back. McKaela wished she would just relax.
"Your jeans and shirt?"
"Oh. Sorry."
Jennifer pulled at the buckle of her belt and unzipped her jeans. Her skin was pasty white. Usually the mid-to-late thirties women who came in were tanned like their Gucci handbags. And her bikini line hadn't been trimmed.
McKaela turned to close the back door of the room and switched off the lights.
"How far along are you?"
Jennifer's eyes glinted in the dim light of the display.
"I'm not really sure."
McKaela pulled the tube of gel from the warmer and squirted a zigzag of clear goo across the well-muscled belly. Then she spread the gel with the face of the probe. Grainy, organic shadows resolved in the display.
McKaela pointed to a shape filled with a black void. "Here's your bladder."
She slid the probe farther up. "That's your uterus. And… oh… one, two, three, four, five… did you have fertility treatments?"
McKaela leaned forward and squinted at the display. "And, wow, they all have really long t…"
McKaela tried to scream, but all she heard was the clatter of the probe against floor and a gasping gurgle. Everything went black.
The woman on the table relaxed her claws and let the chunk of throat fall to the floor with a splat.
She levered herself off the couch and stood staring at the display. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes.
She reached out with her clean hand and grasped the mouse. She accessed a menu and clicked "Delete".
The woman flipped on the lights, again with her clean hand. She made for the door, then hesitated. She looked up pointedly at the camera tucked against the ceiling, turned, and strode out the back door.
Pakeha