Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(76)

My heart lurches, slows, and then gives a hard thud against my breastbone.

Then my whole body runs cold.

Because I’m bleeding.

There’s blood running down the inside of my thigh.

I’m bleeding.

I blink at the bright lights.

“Gemma, what the hell? How hard is it to give a two-minute introduction?”

“I’m bleeding,” I whisper out loud, forgetting about the lights, about the people, about everything except the fact that there’s blood running down my legs. And that means…that means…

Does that mean?

“I don’t give a shit if your arm is cut off and is a dangling, bloody stump. Pull yourself together and give me the introduction an effin’ star deserves. Are we clear?”

The room spins and I press my hand harder against my abdomen.

Don’t go, baby. Don’t. Please.

“Gemma? Are we clear? What, you need a quote? Here you go: my world is a better place because you’re in it. There ya go. Now pull your shit together.”

I look over at Ian’s face, but I don’t really see him. The room is a blur.

“Thirty seconds and we’re live,” someone calls out. “Quiet, everyone.”

“Don’t embarrass me,” Ian growls.

I barely hear him. There’s blood trickling down my legs, underneath my black stockings. The tech begins the countdown, then holds up his fingers for the last of the count.

We’re live.

I look at the camera. My face appears on the monitors.

It’s bone white and there’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead. My eyes are glazed. Ian smiles at the camera and digs his fingers into my arm.

I blink and put a bright, bright smile on my face as another cramp tears across my abdomen.

My baby. She’s not…she didn’t stick. She’s not…

“Welcome to the Live Your Best Life Conference,” I begin. “We are so pleased to welcome you to the biggest event of the year.” Black dots dance in front of my eyes and I put on a smile that I’ve seen Josh give the world a thousand times. The one that says the world is my playground, the world is here to amuse me, isn’t the world grand?

Ian clears his throat, and I keep on. “Where world-renowned, self-help guru Ian Fortune will help you become the best version of yourself.”

Another cramp hits me and I smile, and I smile and I smile. “Because when you stay positive and believe that the universe will bring good things, the universe will comply. If you ask the universe for what you want, you’ll get it. So, please give a round of applause for the man who has bettered millions of lives, because what he says is true, accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. Because there’s always a silver lining. What is meant to be will be, and it is good. Ian Fortune is a wise man and I’m grateful for his words: you choose how you respond to a situation, you choose whether or not something is positive or not. I choose to make life beautiful. I choose the positive. The world is a better place because you’re in it. Thank you.”

I stare into the monitor, at my dazed expression and my colorless face and lips.

“Thank you, Gemma, for the introduction,” Ian says. He gives a wide grin and gestures for me to leave the stage.

I walk toward the edge of the room. My body is numb, the only thing I can feel is the blood running down the inside of my legs.

I barely notice the monitors full of hundreds of comments.

Lavinia hurries toward me.

“I’m going,” I say in a choked voice. “I have to go.”

She frowns at me. Then says, “I think that would be best. Good luck, Gemma.”

I look back at Ian, he’s in his element, giving one of his favorite talks to the cameras.

I grab my purse, my coat and hurry out the door. On the way downstairs I dial Dr. Ingraham.





“The embryo never attached,” Dr. Ingraham says.

He’s looking at the ultrasound. I am too. I stare at the screen. I can’t make anything out, only gray and black and white shapes that mean nothing to me.

“But the blood test said I was pregnant.” My voice breaks, but Dr. Ingraham is kind enough to ignore that. I rub at my eyes. “Aren’t I pregnant?”

He shakes his head no. “This is what we call a biochemical pregnancy. It happens when you have a positive blood test but not a positive ultrasound. This can happen with early detection in pregnancy. If you hadn’t had the blood test, you would never have known this wasn’t just a normal period come a few days late.”

I stare at him in his white coat and his latex gloves, what he’s saying isn’t sinking in.

“I was never pregnant?”

He shakes his head and pulls out the ultrasound. “You were. It wasn’t viable. I encourage you to look on the bright side. We now know you can get pregnant, next we’ll have to work on you staying pregnant.”

I stare at him. The air from the vent blows over my bare legs and the paper gown flutters. The exam table is cold against my skin.

“We can start another cycle as soon as you’re ready,” he says.

I blink and my heart thuds loudly in my ears. “I’m not pregnant,” I say again.

He frowns and pulls off his gloves. “It’s an early miscarriage. It will feel just like a normal period.”