by Portia Moore
“Lauren, are you okay? You’re turning pale,” Angela says with a worried look on her face.
“I’m fine,” I say trying to convince myself.
“Are you going to go get it?” she asks. I look at the bathroom door; my heart starts to beat faster.
“I can’t. You look,” I tell her, sitting down.
“Are you sure?” she asks me again.
I nod. “Okay.” I close my eyes and hear her footsteps move further away. When I hear them coming back, I squeeze my eyes tighter. She taps me lightly on the shoulder. I look up, trying to read her expression.
“Good news,” she says with a soft smile.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, God,” I say, it's as if twenty pounds lifted off me.
“This is just so much off my mind. You don’t know how scared I was. If I was pregnant I can’t even think about what I would do. I don’t even know what I’m going to do now. Having a baby, that just would have made things so much more complicated,” I say hugging her. Suddenly, I notice that she’s not hugging me back. I lean back and see her face is blank.
“Maybe I should have said bad news,” she says covering her forehead. “I’m such an idiot, I’m sorry!”
“What?” I ask, confused, and she hands the test to me. My stomach drops when I see the deep pink plus sign.
“No. NO!” I throw the test on the floor. “I can’t have a baby right now! This can’t be happening!” I say frantically, my tears returning.
“Lauren, calm down,” she pleads.
“Calm down? I can’t be pregnant! I don’t even know where my husband is. This can not happen! It has to be wrong,” I shout. “I can’t be a mom right now. It’s wrong, right? Most of the time they’re wrong.” I try to convince myself. Angela grabs my hands.
“Yes, it could be wrong. These things aren’t 100 percent, but you have to prepare yourself for the possibility that it might not be,” she urges, which makes me cry harder.
“I can’t raise a child alone. I’m not ready for a baby.” I shake my head defiantly.
“Lauren, listen to me, okay? You can do this. You don’t need Cal. If he comes back, I’ll be so happy for you, but if he doesn’t, screw him. You’re a strong, wonderful, kind, beautiful woman. If he doesn’t know that, he doesn’t deserve you. He certainly doesn’t for making you feel like this, and he won’t deserve the wonderful, beautiful baby you might be having. You are not going to do this alone. You’ll have me and Hillary and Raven. We’ll all be here for you.”
I look at her; she seems genuine, but she doesn’t understand. I stand up and walk over to the sink and splash water on my face. I stoically walk out of the bathroom and grab my purse, heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asks worriedly.
“I need some air. I’m going for a walk,” I tell her as I open the door.
She starts to get up. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, I need some time alone.”
“Lauren...”
“I’ll be fine. I’m fine,” I tell her with a dry chuckle as I close the door behind me.
November 7th 2010
“Lauren, you’re taking forever babe,” Cal complains, standing in the door way dressed in a square collar silver button up covered with a black blazer and matching slacks. I slip on my black leather pumps and observe myself in the mirror, making sure the clingy silver dress that’s hugging my body hasn’t bunched up.
“You look fine.” He’s left his former resting spot in the doorway and is now behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist pressing his body up against mine. I shimmy out of his arms and grab my flat iron, determined to get the one portion of my hair to cooperate.
“If we’re going to be late, let’s make it for a better reason.” His voice is in my ear and his hand has slid beneath my dress. I whip around and push his hand away playfully.
“No, Cal. Not tonight,” I warn him backing away. I have got to learn to get ready faster because it seems when I don’t and we’re heading towards being late, he decides to use it as an excuse to make us even later. He blocks my path and I’m trapped between my vanity and his chest. He takes the flat iron from me and sets it down.
“We’re already late,” he says and in one swift swoop is lifting me onto the vanity.
“But,” my sentence is stopped by his lips covering mine. Only we would be late for our own engagement party. I start to give in when I hear our house phone ring. The only person that calls the house phone is the building concierge.
I pull away from his kiss. “It’s just going to keep ringing.” He groans and turns to grab the phone, answering it as he walks back to me.
“Yeah,” He says impatiently as his lips find my neck again. A second later, he stops and gives his full attention to the phone call.
“What’s her name?” he asks.
I’m watching him but he turns so I don’t see his reaction when the person on the other end answers.
“I’ll be right there,” he says and hangs up the phone.
“What happened?” I ask, maneuvering myself off of the vanity and adjusting my dress.
“I think it’s a solicitor or something,” he says, adjusting his blazer coolly.
“A solicitor?” I follow him as he heads out of our bedroom downstairs. “At 5:00 on a Saturday?”
My tone is joking but the expression on my face is revealing the seriousness of the question.
He stops in his tracks and looks at me.
“I’m going to see who it is,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” I inform him.
“No, finish getting ready. It won’t take me five minutes,” he says casually resting his hands in his blazer pocket. I stare at him searching his expression for a hint of nervousness or twinge of guilt. He sighs in exasperation.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Well you get this strange call that there’s some woman downstairs to meet you and you say it’s a sales woman.” Cal never rushes to do anything and then he gets a call about a woman being downstairs to meet him and I’m just supposed to say ok honey?
He seems amused at my reaction. A smile spreads across his face and he reaches out, pulling me to him.
“You’re sexy when you’re jealous,” he says, his arms encircling my waist. I move his hands off me feeling slightly embarrassed. I’ve never been jealous over a man before, but I do tend to be with him. Wherever we go he’s like a magnet for female attention. He’s never been disrespectful to me or encouraged it, but it gets annoying, really annoying.
“She isn't here to see me; she's here to see you,” he retorts, stepping towards me again, and I arch my brow in surprise.
“Me?”
“Yes, you and if it has anything to do with shopping, I figured I’ll save time by having her come back later,” He teases. I don’t shop that much to have personal shoppers tracking me down. I try to think who would come here to see me.
“Go finish getting ready and you can meet me downstairs,” he says and a moment later he’s out the door. I head back to my dressing room adjust my dress and run my hand through my hair. I start to grab my flat iron but there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach—the kind you get when you feel like you’ve left something behind. I set my flat iron back down and grab my purse and jacket. I rush down the stairs almost breaking my ankle in these pumps and head out the door. I push the elevator button multiple times and it seems like an eternity before it opens.
I push the main floor button and wait for the doors to close. As it starts its mile long drop, I take a deep breath. I don’t know why I’m nervous but something isn’t sitting right with me about this. When the doors open I try to exit quickly without running. I start to walk past the desk when Lamar one of the concierges greets me. I want to be rude and wave and walk past, but I always stop to say hello. In the distance I see Cal speaking to a woman. Her back is to me, showcasing a mane of long, red hair hanging down her back, she seems
to be shifting from side to side.
“Lauren, your dress is fab,” he says quietly, so the other tenants don’t hear him.
“Thank you. Lamar, did you call upstairs for me?” I ask. My attention is on Cal and the woman.
“Yes. Mr. Scott answered and said he’d be down instead,” he replies, his attention turning to my shoes.
“Did she say who she was?” I ask a little impatient that his attention is more on my outfit than the matter at hand.
“She said she was reluctant to do so,” he says, brow arching. Mine matches it in understanding. I reach into my purse and hope that I have some money in it, happy to find a twenty-dollar bill, already folded. I bite my lip and rest the money on the counter, covering it with my hand.
“Anything else?” I ask, looking Lamar square in the eye. He looks around before taking it and leans closer across the desk.
“She seemed to be a bit on edge when Mr. Scott appeared instead of you and they went outside. She didn’t look too pleased to see him though.”
“What did she look like?” I ask mechanically unable to let the words escape my mouth, and Lamar’s eyes light up as if I asked a question that made his day.
“Well, she doesn’t seem like she’s from around here,” he says with a frown.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know how everyone dresses around here? She didn’t look homeless or anything but she seemed out of place. More like she got lost on her way to the suburbs and wandered in,” he chuckles.
“How old do you think she is?” I ask, curiously.
“She was an older woman. Maybe early fifties,” he says, and then he pauses. “But there was something about her that seemed familiar like I’ve seen been her before, but maybe not.” He shakes his head, dismissing the thought and turns his attention back to the computer as the manager approaches the desk.
“Is everything okay, Ms. Brooks?” Ms. Riley asks me with a wide smile.
“Yes everything is fine,” I say leaving the desk and hurrying towards the door. By the time I reach it and step out the red headed woman is walking down the street and Cal is walking back towards me.
“What was that about? Who was she?” I ask Cal, buttoning my jacket.
“Nothing,” he says, opening the door for me to go back inside. I hesitate a moment, and the woman turns back and looks towards us. She’s far in the distance, but her expression is sullen.
“Are you coming?” Cal asks impatiently. In the second I look at him and back at the mysterious red headed woman she’s disappeared into the sea of people.
“Nothing?” I say pointedly.
“I took care of it; she didn’t want anything important,” he says. He sits on one of the plush chocolate brown chairs in the lobby. I assume he’s waiting for our car to be brought around.
“Well, what happened? What did she want with me?” I ask, sitting beside him.
“She really wasn’t making any sense. She seemed hopped up on something. I told her to leave,” he sighs, pulling out his cell phone.
“Well maybe you should have let me talk to her,” I say, nudging him so he can give me his full attention.
“I didn’t want some crazy woman to upset you about some nonsense before our dinner tonight,” he says simply.
“Why would she upset me? How did she know me and that I’d be here? I don’t understand.”
“Look. She wasn’t making any sense. She probably pulled your name off an article of some event we’ve been to with Dexter. You have to be careful about just anyone trying to see you. When you’re associated with the Crest Fields, people see dollar signs and will sell you any sob story thinking you can write them a check. Most people have some type of agenda and I’m sure she did but she won’t be back. You can’t just trust anybody now, okay?” he says, grasping my hand at the last part of his speech.
I nod and try to accept the explanation that he gave me. It makes sense but that nagging feeling doesn’t go away and the woman’s face doesn’t disappear from my thoughts easily.
June 7th 2011
I walk into the office, and the first thing I see is a woman trying to hold her baby and read a magazine at the same time. She smiles at me, and I try my best to return it before approaching the receptionist’s desk.
“Hello. Welcome to Dr. Green’s office. How can I help you?” she says with a wide smile.
“I need a pregnancy exam,” I say bluntly. They young woman seems caught off guard by my candor.
“We can do that,” she smiles, after taking a few seconds to recover. “I’ll need your name, and for you to fill out this form, and I can schedule you an appointment,” she says, handing me a packet of papers.
“No, you don’t understand. I need one now,” I tell her quickly.
Her eyebrow rises. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to make an appointment,” she informs me nervously.
“This—this is an emergency,” I tell her quickly.
“An emergency?” she questions.
I see I’m not going to be able to maintain my composure. I plaster a big smile on my face and lean closer to her. “My husband walked out on me last week, and I have no fucking idea where he is. I took a pregnancy test this morning, and, you guessed it! Positive! So, I need a doctor in there to tell me that the test was wrong, and that I don’t have another thing to add to my list of things to worry about. I don’t have any money with me, but I have these credit cards and a checkbook. I’ll pay anything,” I take out my wallet, and put it on the desk.
“I’ll sign a piece of paper saying if you happen to kill me during the exam you’re not to blame, but I can’t go another minute guessing, okay? I can’t guess about another thing in my life. I’m not crazy, but every minute that passes, I’m inching further to it. So if you don’t want me to go ballistic in this office and cause more of a scene than I already have, you’ll tell the doctor you have a very desperate woman out here in need of his or her assistance!” After that spiel, I take a breath and hope, by the look on the woman’s face, she doesn’t call the police.
“Uhm she can have my appointment, I’ll go later.” The woman who smiled at me earlier looks at me sympathetically.
“Thank you,” I tell her desperately. A door opens, and a nurse comes out, addressing the receptionist. “Who’s next?” The receptionist points to me.
***
It seems like the doctor has been out of the room forever. I guess the secretary is telling her what a nut I am. I probably shouldn’t have come here so soon, but I felt like I couldn’t breathe if I don’t know what my situation is for sure. When the door opens, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“How are you, Mrs. Scott?” she asks, sitting on a stool across from me.
“Well, I’ve been better,” I mumble.
“When is the last time you’ve had a normal period?” she asks, her eyes still examining the clip board.
“About two months ago. Well, three weeks ago I had it, but it only lasted for a day.”
“You told the nurse that you took an at-home pregnancy test, and it was positive?” she asks, scribbling on the chart.
“Yes, but I hear that it can be wrong, right? At-home kits aren’t a hundred percent.”
“No, at-home kits are not one hundred percent, but they are pretty close. Most are up to 97 percent accurate.”
“But there’s still a three percent chance that I’m not,” I say quickly.
She finally stops writing and her eyes connect with mine. “Mrs. Scott, I am going to be honest with you. You seem like right now you need honesty and not vague reassurances from me,” she starts.
“Brooks. I’d prefer if you called me Brooks,” I say quietly. I guess I’ll have to get used to it.
“Miss Brooks, an at-home pregnancy test or the pregnancy test I would give you measures for a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin, the pregnancy hormone. An at-home test uses urine to detect the level in your body. I gave you a qualitative hcg blood test which would measure the ex
act amount of the hormone in your bloodstream. This test is extremely accurate—it could detect the hormone as soon as a week after ovulation. Pregnancy kit tests are least accurate if you had taken the test a week after you ovulated, which could possibly have given you false results taking it to early. But from your statements in my professional opinion, if you’ve missed your period by six weeks, the test is most likely accurate. From the symptoms you’ve described such as extreme fatigue, morning sickness, there is a strong possibility…” her voice starts to drown out after a while. I know that I’m pregnant because when things are bad they only get worse.
***
When I open the door, I see Angela talking on the phone.
“I’ve got to go,” she says quickly and hangs up. I close the door and lean against it.
“Lauren, I was so worried about you. I didn’t know where to look. Your aunt keeps calling, and I don’t know what to say. You’ve been gone five hours,” she scolds me in a worried tone.
“Eight weeks,” I say simply
“What?” her tone softens.
“I’m eight weeks pregnant,” I say, feeling completely numb. I slide down the door and cover my face. Out of all the tears I cried, I’m surprised I’m not dehydrated. I think I’ve literally cried myself out. She doesn’t say anything, but sits beside me and takes my hand.
“I went to the doctor’s office down the street. After I found out, I walked around for hours, just trying to clear my head, but it helped,” I say, clearing my throat.
“I can’t cry anymore or feel sorry for myself. I’m having a baby, and I’m going to have to deal with it. There are so many people who have had children in worse situations than me, so I can’t just cry about it anymore. But I am so angry because I shouldn’t have to do this alone. I can do this by myself, but I shouldn’t have to!”
“You’re not going to. You’ll have me, your aunt…”
“He should be here! I need him, and he’s not going to be. I remember the night, this happened. When I was going to leave him, and he carried me upstairs like I was a six-year-old with a temper tantrum and locked me in my room… and that night he came home and brought me a dozen pink roses. I was so angry with him, and I still gave in. I still wanted him. He made love to me the entire night and left the next afternoon.” I stand up. “That was the night he did this to me. And just like then, he leaves!”