Page 45 of Summer’s Echo

Echo

The clinic looked like any other doctor’s office—neutral-colored walls and sterile white floors.

Soft, impersonal décor attempted to mask the gravity of why most of the women here had come.

Photos of smiling families lined the walls, their joy a stark contrast to the reality of this place.

Women of all ages sat quietly in stiff chairs, waiting for their name to be called.

Some carried the unmistakable glow of anticipation, their hands protectively cradling their growing bellies, their eyes bright with the promise of new life.

Others, though… Their faces were drawn, heavy with quiet sorrow, women weighed down by the life-changing decision they were making.

When I walked through the clinic doors, her eyes found mine instantly.

Surprise flickered across Summer’s face, but more than that, solace.

She hadn’t expected me to come. She knew my father had forbidden it.

But Maxell covered for me, saying he just wanted to get me out of the house.

I dropped him off at his girlfriend’s place and drove here instead, gripping the steering wheel like my life depended on it.

She studied me, and I studied her. She wore the same dispirited expression that hung in the air of this stuffy, emotion-charged room.

Ms. Teresa sat beside her, holding her hand, mumbling what looked like a silent prayer.

When her focus settled on me, she nodded, motioning for me to sit.

I swallowed, my throat tight and dry, then lowered myself into the seat beside them.

I looked at Summer, and she quickly turned away, as if the lines of dejection were written too clearly across my face.

“Quest Knight,” the nurse called. Summer rose to her feet, and my brows knitted together, confused by the name she was responding to.

Then I remembered the small crowd of protestors in the parking lot, their voices chanting over one another: “My body, my choice.” “Your baby has a heartbeat.” I now understood the need for anonymity.

Quest . She had used the name of our sacred place.

That realization nearly stole the breath from my lungs.

It was the name of the place where we became more than just best friends, we fell in love. The place where we made this baby.

“Echo, you go with her,” Ms. Teresa said, pulling me from my thoughts.

I snapped my gaze to her, surprised. She knew how my parents felt about this.

She knew I wasn’t supposed to be here. And yet, she wanted me to go with Summer.

I nodded, rising to my feet, though my legs felt weak and wobbly beneath me.

Summer didn’t look at me as we followed the nurse through the door.

The moment we stepped inside the exam room, a faint, unfamiliar scent filled my nostrils.

Something sterile, but also sharp—burnt rubber and disinfectant.

I swallowed the nausea threatening to rise.

The room was cold, unnervingly quiet. We still hadn’t spoken a word to each other.

Summer undressed in silence, draping the thin paper gown over her trembling body before lying on the exam table.

I sat beside her, my fingers clenching into tight fists against my thighs.

My eyes wandered, landing on the poster hanging on the wall.

The Phases of Pregnancy. It was brightly colored, offering an oversimplification of something so impossibly complex.

On the section marked Week Seven , our baby was no bigger than a blueberry.

Too small for Summer to feel movement. I squinted, reading the fine print beneath the image.

Facial features begin to take shape, with dark spots forming where the eyes and nostrils will be, and tiny buds appearing for the ears.

A debilitating pang lodged in my chest. Since finding out Summer was pregnant, I had dreamed of a baby girl.

I had imagined her with Summer’s round face, almond-shaped eyes, and deep dimples that made everything brighter.

But now… My dream morphed into a nightmare.

This was real, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Hello. I’m Dr. Moss. I’ll be performing the procedure today.” The voice was light, almost too cheerful for this moment.

I turned to see a short woman with chin-length blond hair, looking no older than us. She extended her hand to Summer first, then to me. Summer barely lifted her fingers, her grip weak, her entire body drained of emotion.

Dr. Moss glanced at the clipboard in her hands, her voice calm and routine, like this was just another day. “I see that you’ve chosen a vacuum aspiration. Is that correct?”

Summer’s nod was small and hesitant. “Yes. Yes, that’s correct,” she said breathily. I watched her closely, searching for any sign that she might change her mind. She didn’t.

“Okay. It’s a simple procedure,” Dr. Moss said.

My head snapped back. Simple? There’s nothing simple about this shit.

I wanted to yell it, wanted to grab her clipboard and throw it across the room, but instead, I quietly choked on the rage burning its way up my throat and turned my eyes back to the poster on the wall.

The Phases of Pregnancy. The one I’d been staring at for the past ten minutes, memorizing details I never thought I’d need to know.

Our baby—our blueberry—the one I would never get to know.

Dr. Moss kept talking. Her voice was pleasant, but still professional and detached.

“A local anesthetic will be inserted into your cervix. You may feel a little pressure from the vacuum, but the procedure should only take about ten minutes. As long as you’re feeling okay after an hour, you can go home. ”

I felt my fists clench involuntarily. Home. Like it was that simple. Like we would just walk out of here and pretend none of this had ever happened.

“The nurse will give you post-op care information, but you should be good to go.”

Summer’s voice was soft but laced with fear when she finally spoke. “Will there be a lot of pain after?”

Dr. Moss shook her head, smiling a little too easily. “Nothing a Tylenol can’t handle.” She gave Summer’s shoulder a light tap, a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring, then walked toward the door. “The nurse will be in to get you prepped, and I’ll be back in a few.”

Summer gave a small, polite smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes, then shifted her stare to the ceiling, crossing her arms over her stomach protectively. Her expression was unreadable. And if my mind was this fucked up right now, I couldn’t begin to imagine what was happening inside hers.

“Are you scared?” I asked the question lowly, though I already knew the answer.

She nodded immediately, blowing out a chilling breath. “Yeah.”

Silence. I exhaled, rubbing a hand down my face before I looked at her again. “You want to think about it some more? This pamphlet says you still have time.” I fidgeted with the edges of the tri-fold paper, my last, desperate attempt to change the course of this moment.

Summer didn’t move. Didn’t react. She just kept breathing, slow and steady, as if she were convincing herself to stay in this body, to see this through. “No,” she finally answered, her voice blank, emotionless.

I turned away, jaw pinched tight as I took in a deep breath, trying…failing to stop myself from pushing, but my heart had other plans. “What if you regret it?”

Her breath hitched. Her hands curled into tight fists, the paper sheet crinkling beneath her grip. Then she turned to me, and my chest caved in at the single tear that spilled down her cheek. Her voice was so soft, so devastatingly final when she spoke.

“I will regret it. Probably every day for the rest of my life.” An aching sigh left her lips. Her gaze drifted back to the ceiling, her fingers curling into her stomach, as if she were mourning something she hadn’t even fully grasped yet. “But I’d regret resenting this baby… resenting you more.”

And just like that, everything inside me shattered.

I nodded, reluctantly absorbing the reality in front of me.

A chalky dryness coated my throat, making it hard to breathe; each swallow felt like sandpaper scratching my insides.

There was a hammering in my chest, a silent, desperate plea lingering on my tongue.

But I wouldn’t say it because I believed it was her body, her choice.

Even if it shattered me. Even if every fiber of my being wanted to beg her to reconsider.

Instead, I reached out, sliding my hand on top of hers, then slowly lowered my head to rest there.

She convulsed, veiled grief rippling through her body.

I knew she was holding that sob hostage, trying to keep it in.

But under my touch, it broke free. We sat like that for what felt like an eternity, locked in a sorrow that neither of us knew how to escape.

I blinked. And somehow, it was over. Ms. Teresa entered the room as Summer was being observed post-procedure.

Everything moved in a dazed blur. An hour later, she was free to go, sent off with instructions to rest for the next day or two.

We stepped outside into the thick, humid air.

The crowd of protestors had mostly thinned.

Some signs were still scattered along the pavement.

Ms. Teresa slid into the driver’s seat of the car, giving us a moment.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets, knowing I would melt if I touched Summer right now.

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were cold, but the air was stifling, thick with heat and grief.

Neither of us knew what to say or do. Until she spoke.

“I love you.” Her voice was fragile, yet sure.

“I love you.” I didn’t hesitate. I swallowed hard, then exhaled. “I’m still on lockdown, but I can sneak away if you need me to.”