The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the sterile Emergency Room. The air smelled of iodine and bleach. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a low, annoying frequency that seemed to vibrate directly inside my skull.
I was lying in a hospital bed, staring blankly at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. I felt hollowed out. Physically, emotionally, spiritually empty.
To my left, the ultrasound machine had been pushed against the wall. Its screen was dark. A few hours ago, that screen had displayed the frantic, silent search of the ER doctor tracing the wand over my abdomen. I had watched the doctor’s face fall. I had watched the nurse avert her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Maya,” the young doctor had whispered, placing a gentle hand on my knee. “There is no heartbeat.”
The words had triggered a silent, internal explosion.
“What happened?” a voice had demanded from the corner of the room.