Page 65 of Julian's Curse

She squeezed a bottle of warm thick liquid on my stomach. Minutes passed. The technician moved the transducer over thegel-slicked surface of my belly, the small device pressing into my skin with practiced precision.

“Your bladder is nice and full,” she seemed satisfied. Indeed, it was, because it hurt a lot when she pressed on it. The screen flickered with a grainy, black-and-white image, an abstract mess of shapes and shadows. I stared at it, knowing it meant valuable information, but there was no way I could make sense of it. The technician remained focused, adjusting the transducer as she scanned, her expression unreadable. The only sound was the soft click of buttons and the low hum of the machine.

Briefly, she turned on the sound. For a moment, there was nothing—just a quiet, steady hiss from the speakers. And then, through the static, I heard it. A distinct, rhythmic thumping. Fast, steady, and unmistakable.

Thum-thum. Thum-thum.

My heart stuttered in my chest. There it was—a heartbeat. But it didn’t make sense. I knew I had miscarried. Ifeltit. The bleeding, the pain. Tears welled up in my eyes, and she noticed.

“Was this planned?”

I knew I looked young—the kind of young that made people ask questions, sometimes even younger than my actual age. No wonder she was asking then. And I wasn’t wearing Julian’s ring either. As much as I wanted to wear it, to have that symbol of him, of us, when I went to face Sophie’s kidnappers, I knew I couldn’t. They’d strip me off it the moment they’d see me.

“Not really,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “I contemplated abortion. Twice. But I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it.” I paused. “After that, I felt determined to keep this baby.” Pain, there was more pain in my heart now.

How ironically bitter it all was. When I’d finally reached the certainty that I’d carry Julian’s child no matter what, it had slipped away. The sound, it had to most likely be my own heart.

She looked at me with sympathy, and I let go of any lingering hope. “Go use the bathroom, then come back without your bottom half.” I followed her instructions in the hope I’d soon be done with the exam.

The transvaginal part of the ultrasound felt even longer. We barely spoke after that. She conducted what seemed like a routine exam to her, then quietly let me go, saying little else.

I knewJulian by now was probably going crazy. Now unplugged from the ivy, I let him know via message that we were not just waiting on results.

“Sophie is okay so far,” he let me know. “Everyone is here, the Dickens family, and even Miss Hart.”

I could only imagine how chaotic the scene must have been at the hospital. I felt a deep sense of gratitude toward Amanda. She had played a crucial role in speeding up the search by sharing the information I’d given her, and in doing so, she had most likely saved Sophie’s life.

The curtain opened again, and a sharp-looking doctor in his 40s stepped in, his expression professional but soft. For a brief, fleeting moment, I wished I could stop him from speaking, from delivering the final, inevitable news. A part of me clung desperately to the hope that maybe—just maybe—the baby had somehow survived. But in fact, I already knew this would be just a formality. He glanced at me briefly before turning his focus to the chart in his hands.

“The test results confirmed a miscarriage,” he announced gently. “HCG’s dropped and there’s no more sign of a gestational sac on imaging.”

I nodded, then blinked my eyes extra hard to not look like a wreck.

“There’s no internal bleeding, and I think you are at the tail end of it,” he consoled me. “It happens in 25% of pregnancies, and it does not mean anything about your fertility.” He assured me next.

I couldn’t help but wonder if Julian’s addiction had contributed to the loss. Or could it have been my stress? Did I perhaps drink more coffee than was allowed, unknowingly? I’d been so careful…

“I want to quickly scan your liver, and then we’ll get you out of here,” he informed me, his voice calm and steady as he wheeled a portable machine toward my bed.

It didn’t take long to finish the test. “Just as I expected,” he affirmed, glancing at the screen. “Despite the pain in your upper quadrant, there’s no internal bleeding in your liver either.”

I nodded, then thanked him. A sense of detachment was slowly creeping in, and I could feel myself becoming more and more disconnected.

“The nurse will bring your checkout documents,” he relayed before vanishing. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Lucie.” He gave me one last glance.

Next, I went through the motions of the checkout process, my senses numb. I had been expecting this moment, but even so, I wasn’t ready for it. As I collected my things, I lingered in the room for a moment, the weight of the silence pressing on me. No one would understand it, but I needed to stay here for just another minute. Say goodbye to the hope of what could have been, to the future I’d dreamed of but never got to hold.

Julian pulled me into a warm embrace, after placing my favorite coffee drink on my nightstand. “Hey sleepyhead, it’s a nice day. Would you want to go for a walk?”

I’d been cooped up inside for what felt like days, surviving on peanut butter cookies while pouring myself into what was shaping up to be the first manuscript I’d ever finish. I had finally taken Mrs. Falloway’s advice to heart: write for my own purpose, not just to make a living.

California had in place a law that allowed workers to take five days off to recover from reproductive loss. I thought this was progressive and incredibly humane, because truly, I was in no place to show up for life, and I doubted that other women in my situation were too. I grieved in ways that worked for me, even if at times my behavior worried Julian.

While he had taken my miscarriage hard, he recovered faster than I did. He seemed to feel certain that we could get me pregnant again, which frankly, was likely true. And he was ready to try again with me, in a way that would align with my happiness. He’d also be sober, which was the responsible way to have children.

So yes, there was a bittersweet silver lining to everything. I could get busy again, without feeling overbearing nausea and fatigue. And I no longer had to worry about the statistics in the articles I’d read. They remained my best justification for my loss.

I cried the hardest when I was alone in the tub, hidden from the world. There, with nothing to shield me—naked and exposed—the pain felt sharper, more real. It was as though the water reflected not just my body, but my soul laid bare. It was as if I could see myself, stripped down to the core. I felt my uterus become hollow as the bleeding gradually ceased over the following days.

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