First Ultrasound

The clinic called at 6 a.m.

I was already on my knees in the back of Lou’s Diner, scrubbing dried egg and coffee grounds out of the grout between the tiles. My hands were red, my lower back ached like I’d been kicked, and my stomach felt strange—not sick, not hungry, just… waiting. Like it knew something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Remy Vale?” A woman’s voice, crisp and cool as stainless steel. “This is Dr. Lin from Sterling Fertility. Your first ultrasound is scheduled for today at 10 a.m. Do not eat or drink anything after 6.”

Sterling Fertility. I’d never heard the name before, but it sounded expensive. The kind of place where appointments are whispered, not booked. Where people like me only go when they’re being paid to.

“Okay,” I said, voice rough from the bleach fumes. “I’ll be there.”

I hung up, wiped my hands on my already-stained jeans, and looked at myself in the cracked mirror above the utility sink. My skin was pale under the fluorescent light, dark smudges under my eyes from another night of lying awake wondering if I’d made a huge mistake. My hair was pulled back in a messy bun held together with a pencil. No makeup. No armor. Just me, raw and tired, wearing my mom’s old gray hoodie like a shield.

I had two hours before my shift ended. Enough time to shower in the diner’s employee bathroom—cold water, one bar of soap shared by six people—change into clean clothes, and catch the bus across town.

At 9:45 a.m., I stood outside a sleek glass building in West LA I’d never been near before. No big sign out front. No name. Just a small brass plaque near the door that read: “AQUA West – Private Wing.” It looked more like a tech startup than a medical clinic. Cold. Controlled. The kind of place that didn’t want to be found.

A security guard in a black uniform checked my ID, typed my name into a tablet, and nodded once. “Go in. Mara will meet you.”

Inside, the air smelled like lemons and money. White marble floors, soft recessed lighting, no sound except the quiet hum of air conditioning. No reception desk, no magazines, no other patients. Just silence and space—both of them expensive.

A woman in a cream-colored pantsuit appeared like she’d materialized from the walls. “Remy?” Her smile was perfect. Her nails were French-manicured. Her eyes didn’t blink much. “I’m Mara. Follow me.”

She led me down a hallway with no windows, past doors with no labels, just smooth wood and brushed steel handles. My sneakers squeaked on the marble. I felt like an intruder.

The exam room was small but spotless—white walls, a padded table covered in crinkly paper, a monitor on a rolling stand. Dr. Lin was already there, mid-forties, silver bob, no jewelry except a simple watch. She didn’t offer her hand. Didn’t say “nice to meet you.” Just nodded.

“Lie back,” she said. “We’re checking embryo viability and gestational count.”

Count. Like they were inventory. Like they were units.

I pulled my hoodie and T-shirt up to my ribs, winced as the cold gel hit my bare skin. The wand pressed down, and suddenly—there it was.

A grainy black-and-white swirl on the screen. Then a flicker. A pulse.

“There’s the first,” Dr. Lin said, her voice flat, professional. “Strong heartbeat. Good placement.”

My breath caught. Nate, I thought. The loud one. The one who’ll fight for air.

Then—another flicker. Smaller. Slower. But unmistakable.

“And a second,” she said, pen hovering over her clipboard. “Fraternal twins. Both heartbeats present. Strong.”

I didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just stared at the screen like I could memorize the shape of their tiny chests rising and falling. Two lives. Two souls. Both mine for now.

“Would you like to hear them?” she asked.

I nodded.

She turned on the Doppler.

*Thump-thump. Thump-thump.*

Two rhythms. Slightly out of sync. Like two people learning to walk in the same skin.

I closed my eyes.  

Hi, I whispered in my head. I’m here. I’ve got you.

Dr. Lin turned it off. “Twin pregnancies carry higher risks—preterm labor, preeclampsia, gestational diabetes. You’ll need weekly monitoring. But the donor’s legal team has approved an adjusted compensation package.”

“Donor’s legal team.” Not he. Not the father. A team. A corporation.

“How much?” I asked, voice steady even though my hands were trembling in my lap.

“Total payout now $1.2 million. Half will be wired today upon your signature.”

A million two hundred thousand dollars for carrying two heartbeats for eight months. For signing away my right to ever know their names, their faces, their lives.

“Sign here,” she said, handing me a new page. “Confirms you acknowledge the updated terms.”

I took the pen. Wrote Remy Vale in my messy cursive—the same signature I used on my GED, my first paycheck, my eviction notice. Same girl. Higher price.

Mara reappeared with a manila envelope. “Your advance. $600,000. Wire confirmed.”

She didn’t explain taxes. Didn’t ask if I had a bank. Didn’t care. To her, I was a function, not a person.

I took the envelope. It felt light. Empty. Like it held nothing real.

On the bus ride home, I held it in my lap like it might combust. I knew what would happen next. My father would hear. He’d come knocking. He’d take what he wanted—$500K, $550K—and leave me with scraps and silence. And I’d let him. Because fighting him cost more than I had left.

Back at the apartment, I slid the envelope under my mattress, beneath the photo of my mom and me at Disneyland. Then I called Rosa at Lou’s.

“Can I take the night shift too? Starting tonight.”

“Remy, mija, you’re gonna collapse.”

“No,” I said. “I’m just trying to build a life before they take it away.”

I hung up and lay down on my thin mattress, hand flat on my stomach. Already, it felt different. Fuller. Like it belonged to someone else.

They know you’re there, I thought. Both of you.

At 2 a.m., walking home from my second shift, I passed a billboard on the 101. A man mid-dunk, muscles coiled, eyes sharp—Kai Sterling, the caption read. Olympic Gold. NBA MVP. AQUA West Partner.

I stopped dead.

Looked at his face. His jawline. The set of his shoulders.

And for the first time, I wondered: Is that you?

I didn’t know then that he hadn’t seen the ultrasound. That his “gratitude” came from a lawyer, not his heart. That he had no idea his blood was growing inside a girl who scrubbed diner floors for $12 an hour.

But I did.

I put my hand on my stomach and walked faster.

Because now, they had a face.  

And I had a promise.

Two heartbeats.  

One secret.  

And a million reasons to vanish before anyone could take them from me.

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