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Your body remembers what it made.
Sensitivity warning for those who have experienced miscarriage or pregnancy complications.
The doctor’s voice had that particular softness people use when delivering bad news to strangers. “I’m very sorry. There’s no heartbeat.”
Tee made a sound in the back of her throat. Brian reached for her hand. She pulled it away, pressed it against her mouth. She looked like she was trying to plug a leak.
“These things happen,” the doctor continued. “First trimester loss is common. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Brian nodded. Nodding was what you did when your brain stopped being useful.
His mind snagged on the words no heartbeat. Three weeks ago, it had been a fast, slippery sound. It reminded him of something small running in place. Tee had cried. Brian had felt a rusted hinge in his chest finally give.
After his accident, the urologist had said infertile the way some people say irreversible. Brian had nodded then, too. He’d signed the Renovo-Gen paperwork because they already had Leo. He refused to be the guy who let one bad day keep his son from having a sibling.
Now there was nothing.
“We should schedule a D&C,” the doctor said. “Unless you prefer to wait for your body to complete the process naturally.”
Tee was shaking. Brian put his arm around her. She felt hollow under the fluorescent lights. Her bones felt porous against his side.
“The D&C,” he said. “Just schedule it.”
In the parking lot, Tee wouldn’t get in the car. She stood by the passenger door, staring at the asphalt.
“Tee.”
“I heard it,” she said. “Three weeks ago. It was real.”
“I know.”
“Then where did it go?”
Brian didn’t have an answer. He unlocked the doors. She finally got in.
They drove in silence. At a red light, Brian checked his phone. Text from his mother: Leo’s been great. Fed him lunch. Call when you’re on your way.
Brian looked at his hands on the steering wheel. Thick fingers. Blunt nails. The hands that assembled an IKEA changing table from instructions that looked like a ransom note. The hands that held Leo the first time, clumsy and terrified. The hands that had begged science for another chance.
The light turned green. Someone honked. Brian drove.
They picked up Leo from his mother’s house. The eighteen-month-old ran to Tee, arms up. She bent to pick him up and her knees almost gave. Brian caught Leo instead.
In the rearview mirror on the drive home, he watched Tee stare out the window. Leo babbled in his car seat, oblivious.
Day 1
Five days later, Brian sat in a different waiting room. Leather chairs. Expensive throw pillows. A waterfall feature gurgled in the corner.
The receptionist smiled without looking up. “Dr. Bagan will see you now.”
The hallway was lined with photographs. Families in fields, kids with perfect teeth. Everyone looked aggressively healthy.
Dr. Bagan stood when Brian entered. Tall. Precise. Her handshake was dry and brief.
“Mr. Simpson. Sit.”
He sat.
“I saw the report in the portal,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“How is your wife?” she asked.
“Tired,” Brian said. “Sad.”
Bagan nodded, eyes on her tablet. “I want additional bloodwork today.”
“Why?”
“Routine follow-up,” she said. Her thumb paused against the screen. It didn’t move on.
Brian leaned forward. “Is something wrong?”
“Not—” She caught herself. “I don’t want to miss an overcorrection.”
“Overcorrection.”
She looked up. Her gaze held his. “Sometimes the body doesn’t stop when we want it to.”
Brian’s mouth went dry. “What does that mean? Overcorrection of what?”
“The treatment targets cellular regeneration,” Bagan said carefully. “Sometimes the process is more active than anticipated.”
“More active how?”
“That’s what the bloodwork will tell us.” She looked back at her tablet. “Your wife became pregnant. The treatment worked.”
“And then she lost it.”
“Miscarriages happen,” Bagan said. “But I still want the data, so we don’t miss something important.”
Brian wanted to ask more, but Bagan was already standing, moving toward the door. A nurse appeared with a tray.
Brian stared at her for a moment, then lowered his arm to the armrest. The nurse swabbed the inside of his elbow with something cold.
The needle slid in. Four vials filled.
He drove home. Tee was asleep on the couch. Leo was in his playpen, throwing blocks at the TV. The sound was off on a cooking show.
Brian’s stomach dropped. The playpen was shoved against the wall like she’d moved it in a hurry. Tee’s phone was on the floor, out of reach.
He crossed the room and touched her shoulder. She didn’t stir, but her chest rose and fell. Breathing. Just exhausted.
Brian picked up the blocks. “Hey, buddy. Shhh, okay? Mama’s sleeping.”
Leo looked at Tee on the couch, then back at Brian. “Mama?”
That’s when Brian saw it. A bruise on Tee’s forearm. Yellow-green, like old paint. He leaned closer. Five distinct marks, like fingers. He didn’t remember her hitting anything.
Leo threw another block.
Day 2
Leo woke Brian at six, crying. Tee didn’t stir. Brian got up, changed the diaper and carried the baby downstairs.
He made eggs one-handed while Leo clung to his neck. “Down,” Leo demanded. Brian set him in the high chair. Leo immediately started crying. “Up. Up.”
“Buddy, I need to finish cooking.”
“Mama,” Leo said, pointing at the ceiling.
“Mama’s sleeping.”
“Mama,” Leo said again, louder.
Brian plated the eggs. Picked Leo back up. Fed him bites while the kid squirmed and whined. When Tee finally came downstairs past noon, she moved carefully.
“How are you feeling?” Brian asked.
“Just tired,” she said. She poured coffee. Her hands shook. The cream swirled in the mug but didn’t mix. “I think I’m getting sick.”
Leo reached for her from Brian’s arms. “Mama. Mama.”
Tee’s face crumpled. She turned away.
Brian stepped behind her and kissed her temple. She flinched.
“Sorry,” she said immediately.
“It’s fine,” Brian said. His stomach tightened.
She went back upstairs. Brian heard the bedroom door close. Leo started crying again.
Brian looked at his hands. Flexed his fingers. His wedding ring felt tight. He tried to spin it. The gold band caught on his knuckle.
Day 3
Leo wouldn’t eat breakfast. Threw his cereal on the floor. Screamed when Brian tried to clean it up. Tee stayed in bed.
By evening, Leo was clingy. Wouldn’t let Brian put him down.
Brian carried him upstairs to check on Tee. She was in the bathroom, staring at her arms in the mirror. More bruises. Five marks on her left bicep. Four on the right.
“I don’t remember hitting anything,” Tee said. She pulled her sleeves down. “Do you?”
“No,” Brian said.
Leo reached for her. “Mama.”
Tee stepped back. The motion was small but sharp.
That night, Brian woke and she wasn’t there. He found her in the bathroom. She sat on the closed toilet, holding tissue to her nose. Leo was crying in his crib down the hall.
“Nosebleed,” she said. “It’s fine.”
The tissue soaked through fast. She folded another. That one soaked through too. Tee’s eyes flicked to his in the mirror.
Leo’s crying got louder.
Tee pressed the wad harder, like pressure could negotiate. “It’s just dry air.”
Brian watched the red spread through her fingers.
“Let me get Leo,” he said.
She folded another without looking.
Day 4
Tee didn’t get out of bed.
“I need a doctor,” she said. Her voice was dried out. “Brian, something’s wrong.”
Brian called his mother. No answer. Called Tee’s sister. Voicemail. He helped Tee down the stairs, one step at a time. She paused on the landing and dabbed her nose with the cuff of her sleeve. The fabric came away faintly pink. He strapped Leo into the car seat and drove Tee to the ER.
Three-hour wait. Leo climbed on the plastic chairs, knocked over a magazine rack, screamed when Brian tried to make him sit still. Other people stared. Tee sat with her eyes closed, too weak to help.
When they finally saw a doctor, Leo was asleep in Brian’s arms. Tee’s upper lip was raw from wiping. The doctor had coffee breath and tired eyes.
“You’re severely anemic,” the doctor said quietly. “Dehydrated. Any heavy bleeding?”
“Some,” Tee whispered from the exam table.
The doctor made notes. They hooked her to an IV in a curtained bay. Brian sat in the chair beside her, holding Leo. The toddler was heavy, drooling on his shoulder. Tee fell asleep almost instantly.
Brian’s phone buzzed. A text from Renovo-Gen:
Dr. Bagan needs to discuss your lab results. Please confirm your availability ASAP.
Brian shifted Leo carefully and called from the hallway. The receptionist answered on the first ring.
“Tomorrow,” Brian said quietly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
“Dr. Bagan will make time,” the receptionist said. Her voice was tight.
Day 5
Brian dropped Leo off at his mother’s in the morning.
He’d scrubbed pink out of the sink before he left. It still clung under one thumbnail.
He now sat in Bagan’s office. She didn’t smile when he walked in.
“Your results show variance outside expected parameters,” she said, and turned the tablet toward him. Numbers. Graphs. “Cellular regeneration beyond the modeled range.”
Brian stared at the screen. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not certain yet,” Bagan said. “But there may be interactions. Between your treatment and close contacts.”
“You mean, my wife?”
Bagan’s jaw tightened. “I’m seeing correlations in the data,” she said. “I’m not prepared to draw conclusions yet. I need more tests.”
“Correlations,” Brian repeated, like the word tasted bad.
She paused. “I’m recommending you minimize physical contact until I understand what’s happening.”
Brian stood. His chair skidded. “You said it was safe. You said restoration. You didn’t say there were risks.”
Bagan’s thumb tapped the edge of her tablet like a metronome. “There are always risks. We had no data to suggest this one.”
Day 6
Brian’s phone rang. Bagan.
“Mr. Simpson,” she said. Wind noise in the background. Her breath was too quick. “Listen to me. I just saw your wife’s ER panel. Is she with you? At home?”
Brian stopped in the hallway. “Upstairs. Sleeping. They said anemia. Fluids.”
“It’s not anemia.” Her voice dropped. “It’s depletion.”
Brian’s throat tightened. “From what?”
“From you. The treatment isn’t staying contained. It’s clearing what it left in her.”
Brian’s fingers went numb around the phone. “Left in her.”
“Cells,” Bagan said. “Pregnancy leaves residue.” A car door slammed. “It fixed the sterility problem by teaching your body what ‘you’ is. Now it’s too good at it. When you touch her, it’s erasing anything of you that’s in her.”
Brian stared at the carpet. “So it’s… taking it back?”
“Yes. Through contact. Don’t touch her.”
“So what do I do?”
“Keep your distance. Watch her breathing. If she starts bleeding again, call 911.”
She paused. “Your son. Where is he?”
“With my mother,” Brian said alarmed. “He’s been there since yesterday morning.”
“Good.” Bagan’s relief was audible. “Keep him there. I’m almost there.”
The call cut out.
Upstairs, a loud thud shook the floorboards.
“Tee?” Brian ran up the steps.
She didn’t answer.
He found her facedown on the floor. Blood had pooled beneath her cheek, spreading slowly across the wood. Her nightgown was dark at the chest and sleeves, as if the color had been poured into the fabric.
Brian backed away until his shoulders hit the wall. He called 911.
The EMTs arrived first. Twelve minutes. They went upstairs while Brian stood in the kitchen, staring at nothing.
One came down. Young guy. Face pale. “Sir, I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
They brought Tee down in a black vinyl bag.
Brian watched through the window as they loaded her into the ambulance.
Dr. Bagan’s car pulled up just as the ambulance doors closed. She got out fast, spoke to one of the EMTs. Urgent, quiet. The EMT shook his head. Gestured to the ambulance.
Her shoulders dropped.
The ambulance pulled away. No lights. No sirens.
Bagan walked to the front door. She didn’t knock. Brian opened it before she reached the steps.
She looked at him. Started to say something. Stopped.
Brian’s phone pinged.
A text from his mother: I hope Tee is feeling better but Leo has a nosebleed and it’s not stopping. I’m taking him to urgent care.
Brian stared at the screen.
Bagan took a step closer and read over his shoulder.
Like this story?
It’s part of my short story collection, Farrago: Volume 1. Purchase the twenty-two story collection here:
Wow. This is very well written. Intense. Suspenseful. Scary.
Oh, my god this is brutal! What a scary concept! Well done!