This can’t be real. No, no, no. How can this happen? We were so careful. I am on the pill and I’ve been taking it religiously. It’s about the only thing I’ve been doing religiously. After brushing my teeth for what feels like the millionth time, I head into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. I feel like I want to eat something, but nothing looks good, or even mildly appetizing. No, it’s all so… gross. Somewhere in the back of the cupboard next to the stove, that Caroline and I referred to as our pantry, I find an opened pack of dry saltine crackers. Caroline, who has always been terrified of carbohydrates, as if they were poison, kept these stashed away in the back in case of emergencies. Alcohol poisoning, dry heaving, unable to get off the bathroom floor type of emergencies.
As I pop one in my mouth, tears start to stream down my face. Suddenly, I miss Caroline more than I ever missed anyone before. I want to see her. I need to talk to her. I don’t really have any other friends. She’s the only person I can really talk to about this. And Aiden? No, I’m not ready for that.
“Caroline,” I say out loud. My voice is slow and unsteady. I’ve never talked to a dead person before, but it feels good just to say her name again. “Caroline, I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been here for you. I should’ve stuck around not just run off to the Caribbean with my boyfriend. I knew that you needed help and I just didn’t care.”
That’s not entirely true, of course. If Caroline would’ve told me how she felt or acted more out of it, I would’ve never gone. But she didn’t. She pretended to be fine. She acted as if everything was okay.
“You should’ve gone with me. I knew you wanted to. And we could’ve taken you out of your head. Then, maybe…you’d still be here.”
I wait for her to answer even though I know that I won’t hear anything. After a few minutes, I continue.
“And now? What the hell am I supposed to do now, Caroline? The test says I’m pregnant. But…that can’t be. I’m too young. I’m not ready. Aiden and I…well, I love him but that doesn’t mean I want to have a kid with him.”
I pace around the room aimlessly. Now, I’m no longer waiting for a response. No. Now, I’m just ranting out loud like a crazy person. But just putting my thoughts into words is making me feel a little better.
“Why the hell are you not here, Caroline? I need you. I need you to tell me what to do. And if not that, just to listen to me. I don’t know what to do, Caroline.” I break down and slump to the floor. Tears stream down my cheeks. “I don’t know what to do.”
I’m no longer able to speak. My voice cracks and disappears entirely. I wrap my arms around my knees and lie down in a fetal position and just cry until no more tears come. I cry for my best friend. I cry for myself. I cry for the unborn baby that I’m carrying within me. And at the end, I cry for Aiden. I don’t know what he will say, or do, in response to this, and I don’t want to find out.
I stay on the floor until I lose all sense of time. Seconds become minutes and then probably hours. The texture of the light that streams through my window changes, but I don’t recognize it as either morning, afternoon, evening, or night. And just as everything seems far away and lost forever, I turn over. My shoulders hurt from lying on the cold hard floor as I prop myself up with my hands and sit up.
“Okay, Ellie. You can do this,” I say to myself. I don’t really believe it, but then I manage to stand up.
Good job. Now, walk over to kitchen counter and make yourself some tea. Unlike a stream of consciousness, in which you barely acknowledge each word but just do things on instinct, these thoughts are completely different. They are actual, deliberate sentences with carefully chosen words. I have to say them to myself, otherwise, I couldn’t do it.
The water in the kettle boils and I dunk an herbal tea bag a few times, watching it as it first floats to the surface and then slowly sinks to the bottom of the cup. The hot water feels soothing going down my throat, and it helps me to focus. Right now, the problem is not that I have too many thoughts running through my mind, but actually the opposite. My mind is completely blank. It’s as if my brain is entirely empty and I need to think just to fill it with something, anything.
Before I go freaking out about the results of this pregnancy test, I need to make sure that I’m actually pregnant. Drug store tests are notorious for their false positives. Right? I heard that somewhere once. So, before I start imagining all sorts of eventualities and possible outcomes and decisions that I might have to make, I have to first make sure that this is accurate. Verifiable. True. And I have to get this confirmation before I tell Aiden. Because, as of right now, there’s nothing really to tell.
Chapter 2 - Ellie
When I have to go there…
I’ve never been to see a gynecologist before. It’s kind of pathetic, I know. But as I sit here in this little office with no ventilation, I realize that this is actually quite true. The thing is that I hate doctors. I’ve always hated going to see doctors since I was little, and dentists, so when I came of age, I just never went. Some girls have been going since they were in their teens, to get prescriptions for birth control pills, but I just bought it from a friend. It seemed so much easier that way. Frankly, I don’t even know why they force you to see a doctor before giving a prescription for birth control pills. I mean, c’mon. Condoms can be bought just about anywhere, so why not pills?
Of course, I’m terribly embarrassed over this whole thing. It’s not something anyone knows, except for Caroline of course. And she took this info to the grave with her. The other thing that I really hate about doctors’ offices is that I have to deal with all of this insurance crap just to get in. It’s not enough to just look up a list of doctors online in a particular specialty and read their reviews to see if it’s someone I want to see. No, I also have to check if they are in my network and how much I would have to pay for a co-pay. I already pay $500 a month for my health insurance, but in addition to that, I also have to pay a $70 copay for the visit. As soon as I arrived, they gave me a clipboard with four pages of questions to answer about my health history. Of course, there was that all frightening when was the date of your last period? Question, which I never have a good answer for and today is no exception. For some reason, this question appeared on every form that I filled out at Yale’s health clinic - the last place where I saw a physician, even when I just went in with a cold in search for a prescription for some strong antibiotics.
I browse through the magazines as I wait to be called. There are two other women who are waiting with me. One is visibly pregnant and another is trying to get her fussy baby to sleep. Fussy. Now, there’s a word. A particularly kind word actually. A more accurate description of this baby, however, would be screaming. Angry. Incredibly upset. The woman looks frazzled. Her hair is disheveled and she is without a smidge of makeup. She is dressed in sweats and there’s spit up or throw up or some other white substance near her shoulders. I glance over at the pregnant woman. She is staring at the new mother and looks terrified. After a few minutes, she asks her how old her baby is and comments on how cute it is. Frankly, it doesn’t look particularly cute to me, but what the hell do I know? I bury my nose in the latest issue of Oprah magazine, which talks about setting goals for your dreams to make them a reality.
Dreams. Now, there’s a far off concept. Not long ago, my dream was to become a writer. All I wanted was for people to read my stories and enjoy them. Making a little bit of money off them would’ve been a perk. But getting married? Having a kid? Buying a house in the suburbs? Something tells me that this is not the kind of dream that the O Magazine article is referring to. No, these kinds of things are just mundane, run of the mill things that happen to everyone right? Or most people, I guess. Perhaps, there are people out there who dream of these things. But me? No, thank you. That’s not what I want. At least, not right now. No, that’s the last thing I want, actually. What I really want is to see my books on top of the charts. I want more and more people buying them. I want to get them into bookstores and t
o see them on shelves. I want to be interviewed on TV about them. I want to be written up in O Magazine as a recommended read.
Fucking hell. I put the magazine up to my face so that the two women in the waiting room don’t see me, in case I start crying. What the hell am I doing here? I can’t be pregnant. And even if I am, I don’t want this baby. This is the last thing I want. I don’t want to spend my days and nights taking care of some other human being. Some helpless, completely dependent, incompetent person who can’t even hold up his or her head. No, thank you. That kind of life isn’t for me.
“Ellie Rhodes?” A woman with a clipboard opens the door to the waiting room and invites me to the back. My heart is racing and I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate. Then I feel sick to my stomach.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” I say.
“The bathroom is right through there. When you’re done, please write your name on the paper cup and pee in it. Then place it on the pass through window ledge. We will need to confirm whether you are, or are not, pregnant.”
I barely finish listening to her instructions before I disappear into the bathroom. After I throw up, yet again, I do as she says. I place my cup on the ledge, wash my hands, and walk outside.
Chapter 3 - Ellie
When I get help…
I leave the gynecologist’s office in a daze, her words still ringing in my ears. I feel like I’m both floating on air and being chained to the ground by some invisible force. I head straight to the pharmacy at the end of the corner. Do I need to get a confirmation of a confirmation? How accurate is the pregnancy test at the doctor’s office, anyway?
Just then a new wave of nausea comes over me. I bend over a trashcan and dry heave for a few minutes. A few people slow down when walking past me, but no one stops. This is New York at its best. I actually don’t mind. If I weren’t so sick, I’d be mortified. But right now, nothing else comes to mind except for what is the fastest way that I can get home so that I can lie down. After all of this throwing up, I finally come to the realization that what makes the nausea that much worse is actually being physically upright.
The fastest way home is to hail a cab or grab a Lyft. Then I’d be there in five minutes. But I can’t go home directly. I got a prescription for an anti-nausea pill from the doctor and I need to fill it. I need something to make all of this pain go away. It’s giving me a splitting headache. And I need a clear head to think.
I barely manage to drag myself a block over to the nearest Rite Aid. Walking past the makeup aisle, I glance at myself in the mirror near the lipsticks. Holy fuck. What a sight! My hair is sticking out in all directions - the messy bun is so messy that it’s way beyond being cool. It’s not even in the same ballpark as cool. My skin is splotchy and pale. My lips are chapped and peeling and I have big black bags under my eyes.
It’s the middle of the day, so there’s no wait at the pharmacy counter. I tell the woman in a white coat my name and that my doctor called in a prescription for Diclegis. She takes my insurance card and walks to the back. A few moments later, she comes back.
“Actually, your insurance doesn’t cover this.”
“What?”
She repeats herself.
“But my doctor said this was the best. This will make me feel better.”
“The way that your insurance will cover this is if you first try Zofran. This is a new medication so you need special approval.”
“Okay,” I say. I have no idea how to deal with this situation.
“The problem is that your doctor didn’t call in a prescription for Zofran. Just Diclegis.”
“Shit,” I mumble.
“You could give them a call and ask them to prescribe Zofran for you first. Then you can try it and if it doesn’t work, you can come in for Diclegis. Or you can pay for Diclegis out of pocket.”
I inhale deeply. My nausea is coming back with a vengeance.
“Please step aside, ma’am,” she says. “May I help you?”
There’s a line forming behind me. I can’t make this decision here right now. Shit. I dial the doctor’s number and wait on the line. In the meantime, I look up both medications online. Diclegis definitely seems safer. It’s just an antihistamine, an over the counter sleeping pill, and vitamin B6 with a slow release formulation to make sure that it stays in your system for longer. Zofran, on the other hand, well, there are people noting that it might be responsible for some birth defects.
“How much is the Diclegis if I just buy it now?” I ask, after I wait in line for my turn.
“You want to buy out of pocket?”
“Yes. I mean, maybe. I mean, I have a prescription right?”
The woman nods and shakes her head. Then she rings up my prescription.
“$750.”
“What?”
She repeats the preposterous number.
“But both of its components are available over the counter. Why the hell is it so expensive?”
“This is America, ma’am,” the woman says in the most deadpan voice ever.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ll take it.”
“Are you sure?”
I shrug. “No one is answering at the doctor’s office and I feel like I’m going to die. So, I’ll figure this out when I’m feeling better.”
I hand her my credit card and she rings me up. Signing the bottom, I suddenly realize how lucky I am that money isn’t a problem. These stupid pills are $750, and that’s a ton of money by anyone’s standards. And yet, here I am, willing to pay for it out of pocket just so I can go home and not throw up so much.
On the way out, I grab a bottle of water, a bag of potato chips, which look mildly appetizing, some sour candy, and a bottle each of Unisom (the over the counter antihistamine) and B6. Maybe I can see if taking the combination of these two meds will help me on their own and I won’t need Diclegis at all. But I’ll have it as a backup. As I wait to be checked out the second time, I feel sick again and throw up a little into a plastic bag that I grab from the counter at the very last minute.
I didn’t bother waiting to get home to take the B6 pills and the Unisom. I read the instructions for combining the two on my phone while waiting in line and hope to God that it works by the time I get home. Unfortunately, I’m not so lucky. The nausea just gets worse and worse and three hours later, I’m convinced that my over the counter solution isn’t doing me any good. So, I grab the bag of Diclegis and pop two pills into my mouth. I lie back down in bed, put Friends on Netflix and wait for the room to stop spinning.
I don’t know how many hours pass as I wait, but eventually it does, somewhat. Netflix asks me if I am still wanting to continue my binge a few times at least, and the afternoon sun has long since disappeared into the Hudson River. The next time I have to get out of bed, it’s pitch black outside and I have to turn on the light just to make it to the bathroom. Much to my surprise, however, I don’t feel that dizzy as I walk there. I only feel somewhat queasy, but not enough to throw up.
Hallelujah!
When I climb back into bed, my phone goes off. It’s Aiden. This is not his first time calling me. I’ve been ignoring him. At first, I ignored him because I didn’t want to tell him that I might be pregnant. Now, I don’t want to tell him that I am pregnant. The thing is that I need time. I need to get my head around this thing. I mean, how can I be pregnant? I mean, I know the mechanics of how this happened, but what does it mean now that I am? I need to have time to decide how I feel about this on my own. I don’t want Aiden and his opinion getting in the way.
What if Aiden is really excited about this? I mean, would that make me excited as well? Probably. But is that right? I mean, all in all, I’m not ready to be a mom. I’m far from ready. I still have my own dreams and hopes and desires. But does that mean that only people without dreams and hopes should be parents? Of course not. And yet, I’ve always assumed that the only way that I would become a parent is when I gave up on my other life. None of these thoughts make any sense. I kno
w that. And I need time to figure them out before I see Aiden again. I can’t have him and his opinions muddling this whole thing for me, at least not any more than it already is.
And then, there is that other thought. What if…what if he doesn’t want the baby? What if he is adamant and one-hundred percent certain that a baby is not for him? What then? What if he wants me to get rid of it? No, I can’t have his opinions in my head right now. I need to decide how I feel about this baby first. And only then can I let him know what has happened.
The intercom goes off. I look down at my phone. More texts from Aiden appear, asking me where I am. Could that be him outside? No, please, no. I decide to ignore it. They’ll just have to come over some other time. I’m not taking any visitors right now. But the buzzing continues. Incessantly. After a few minutes, I manage to drag myself out of bed and toward the front door.
“What?”
“Hey, Ellie,” she says. My heart drops. I recognize her voice immediately.
Chapter 4 - Ellie
When she shows up…
“Are you okay?” I ask as soon as she walks through the door. I look her up and down. She looks normal. Her hair is cut in a short buzz cut. Her nails are painted black. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a pair of Doc Marten boots. She has about five piercings in each ear, going all the way to the top of her earlobes, and a big forearm tattoo which I can only make out a little bit as it peeks out from under her shirt.
“Can I crash here for a bit?” Brie asks. “Mom and Dad are driving me nuts.”
I inhale deeply. Well, that’s a surprise, I think sarcastically.
Auctioned to Him Book 8 Page 12