Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2)

by Charlotte Roth

  With a strong grip on the picnic table, I sat up straight and looked at Miss T. I tried really hard to nod, but it felt as if my head had been cut off from the rest of my body. It wasn’t responding.

  Miss T stood up. “We are not wasting one more minute,” she said. “We are leaving right now and heading for the nearest drugstore,” she continued. “I think we passed one going east. And then we are going to get you one of those pee-on-a-stick things. They are pretty accurate these days. We, I mean, you need to know. And then, when we know what’s going on, we will take it from there.” She grabbed a box of Ziplocs from her bag and started clearing the extravagant picnic table.

  “Bu-bu-but,” I finally manage to stutter, looking at all the wasted food.” Wha-wha-what about all of this—I mean... the picnic? What about Mount Rainer?” I looked up at the mountain, mocking me from above.

  “It will be here tomorrow. Besides, I guess we can’t really eat anything, not after this, right?” She grabbed the basket from the bench.

  I nodded. She was right; I couldn’t eat a thing. I still had half a grape stuck in my mouth.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, we had wrapped up all the food and were sitting in the car.

  “It’s all downhill from here,” Miss T announced as she put on a fresh coat of her favorite lipstick. She stopped and looked at me. “I didn’t mean with the whole thing, you know. I meant literally, going down the mountain.”

  I nodded and forced a smiled. “I know. Downhill.”

  She smiled. “Ready?” she said as she backed out of the parking lot.

  “Yes,” I said. But I wasn’t ready at all. I was going down Mount Rainer in a Porsche, about to buy my first pregnancy test at seventeen. She couldn’t be more right; it was only downhill from where I was sitting. All downhill.

  PART II

  Two blue lines

  “Ella. Ella.”

  I sat up straight and stared at Miss T. She was sitting in the driver’s seat with the engine turned off. I rubbed my eyes and looked out the front window. Apparently, we had reached ground level. Miss T had managed not only to get us down the mountain, but also park the car – in a booth, next to two other cars. Without my help.

  “You fell asleep.” She smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “I guess,” I said, rubbing my neck. Somehow, I had managed to fall asleep – pregnancy-and-going-down-the-hill-with-Miss-T-driving drama and all.

  “We’re here,” she announced, clearing her throat.

  I looked out the front window. A big sign saying, “Bartell Drugs” almost made me blind with fear. Suddenly my legs went soft.

  “Ready?” She opened the door and climbed out.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to swing my Jell-O legs out of the car. I was getting good at lying.

  “Let me.” She grabbed her purse from the backseat and paced around the car and opened the door for me. “Here, grab my arm,” she said, offering her little tiny arm.

  “You want me to go in and get it?” she asked as we crossed the parking lot.

  I hadn’t even thought about the whole process of buying it—as in grabbing it from the shelves, putting it in the basket, and worst of all, paying for it at the cash register—meeting the eyes of whoever was behind the counter, my face turning redder than ever before. I nodded.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. It’s just...” She paused and looked at me with smiling eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ella,” she said, covering her mouth, “I know it’s not funny, not funny at all, and I didn’t mean to laugh, but it’s just so absurd. I mean, look at me,” she said with a girly giggle. “The tiny little wrinkled woman buying a pregnancy test out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s beyond weird.” She shook her head and wrapped her scarf around her neck.

  “Weird,” I agreed, not knowing what else to say or whether I should cry or laugh about the situation.

  At the entrance, she turned around and pointed down at a pattern of red bricks, forming a little circle on the pathway. “You stay right there,” she said before she headed for the store. I agreed and stepped into our little circle of trust and then I waited for what felt like dog years—waited for her to come back, for the pregnancy test she was carrying with her, for my future, for everything.

  When she finally returned, she looked like the suspicious shoplifter who got away; she was almost running with her hand buried deep in her purse, hiding the pregnancy box, which she had wrapped in her big red scarf. “I got it,” she whispered as she passed me—in the red circle—without stopping. I followed in her footsteps, apparently aiming for the Chevron station right across from the parking lot. “Here,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “In here.” She waved her hand underneath the scarf. I grabbed the brown bag with the box from underneath the scarf, ripped the box open, and started reading the instructions.

  “It’s all in Spanish. I can’t.” I stopped walking and bent over. Why was this happening to me? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Why? I took a deep breath and looked up at Miss T. “I only know how to spell the words ‘hiro de budda’ and I’m pretty sure it’s not in there.”

  “Turn the page, dear. I’m sure there is an English version in there somewhere.” She wrapped her tiny arm around me and smiled. For a moment I had to resist the urge to throw myself at her and cry, but I wasn’t ready yet. I hadn’t given up hope yet. I took another deep breath and I turned the page and there it was, in plain English, thank God. I started to read, picking up the pace at the same time.

  “It says I have to pee in some kind of cup.” I looked down in the box. Besides the foil-wrapped pregnancy test, it was empty. “But there’s no cup in here.”

  “Hold on.” She stopped and grabbed something from her purse. “Here! Use this.” She held up some kind of a small plastic container in her hand.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s for my dentures.” She cocked her head to the side and gave me a toothy grin.

  “But, but I couldn’t, I mean, pee in your denture container? That would be like, um, like peeing in your mouth.” No way was I doing that!

  She shook her head. “Don’t be silly, dear. It is only pee. Your pee,” she added. “Besides, it’s washable. And it’s all we have right now.”

  I looked up at the big Chevron sign and sighed. I guess it wasn’t the time to be pee-cup picky. I nodded and grabbed the cup. “Thanks,” I mumbled as we continued walking. I guess she did have dentures after all.

  “You want me in there with you?”

  “Yes, no, I mean, um, yes, I mean wouldn’t it look weird if we both go running off to the restroom together?”

  “Who cares? We are a two-hour drive away from Seattle. We don’t know anyone here. Do you think those guys in matching t-shirts over there really care about the timing of random women going to the restroom?” She pointed toward two biker dudes standing a few feet away from us, smoking.

  “Okay,” I thought out loud, “I’ll go in there myself and pee on the thing and when it’s time to read it, you can come in.”

  She nodded and grabbed my hand. “No matter what happens... remember you’ll be okay. Okay?”

  I nodded. “I’ll knock,” I said, and on that note, I left her there to go pee in her teeth container.

  THE TEST SAID TO WAIT at least two minutes for an accurate result, but before I even had time to wash my hands and knock for Miss T to come in, I had already seen it, seen them—the slow appearance of two very innocent blue lines just waiting to come at you like a powerful wave slowly dragging you down, just a breath away from drowning. I grabbed the stick from the sink and slumped down on the toilet seat, forgetting all about good toilet hygiene and beer-drinking men peeing uncontrollably on a public toilet.

  This wasn’t happening. There had to be some mistake. I couldn’t be. How could there be two lines already? How could there be two lines, period? I looked at the instructions again. “At least two minutes,” it said. I looked at my phone: A minute and thirty seconds. It was too soo
n. Too soon. Everything was happening too soon. I leaned back with my eyes closed. Maybe one of the blue lines would disappear the last thirty seconds of the test? I held my breath as I slowly peeked at the test one more time. Still two lines. Even in Spanish, I understood what that meant: Two lines and you are knocked up – knocked up and fucked up in every language!

  There was a soft knock on the door. “Are you okay in there?” Miss T asked gently.

  “It’s open,” I finally managed to say. What was I going to say to Mom and Dad? What would they say? And what about Hans, who had disappeared on me somewhere in Europe? The only thing I knew about him was that he was a gorgeous architect student, his grandmother had gone to school with Paul McCartney, and he had a couple of yodeling sisters.

  Cautiously, Miss T opened the door. “Are you okay?” She looked at me like she already knew, which, of course, she already did. She entered.

  “Two.” I whispered, waving the stick unenthusiastically in the air.

  “Two?”

  I nodded and looked down at the dirty toilet seat. It was even more disgusting than I had imagined. I looked up and swallowed hard. I felt like throwing up, but I couldn’t. Not in here. Not now.

  Miss T sat down on the tiny waste bin next to me. “About two months?”

  I looked at her and tried to do the math again—not exactly my biggest talent—especially not in a time of utter despair. “I don’t really know. But there are two lines for sure. Two lines. Too fucking much.” I looked at the test again. The two blue lines were even more visible than thirty second ago. Fuck. This isn’t happening!

  It felt as though I couldn’t breathe. Desperately, I turned toward Miss T and grabbed her by her collar. “I. Can’t. Breathe,” I think I finally cried.

  Quickly, she leaned over and grabbed the brown paper bag from the floor and handed it to me. “Here, take a deep, deep breath in this.”

  I grabbed the bag from her and started blowing heavy puffs of air into it. “Does... this... actually... work?” I tried to say between breaths.

  She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s what they always do in the movies when someone is hyperventilating or is having an anxiety attack or some kind of emotional reaction to some life crisis.”

  “Am I?” I stopped breathing in the bag and looked at her.

  “What?”

  “Having an anxiety attack right now?”

  “I don’t know, but this sure could qualify as a life crisis.” She grabbed her purse from the floor. “Now, we have to go. We are leaving this very minute. You are going home, and you are going to tell everything to your mom and dad.”

  “I am?” I said, finally feeling air moving to the back of my lungs.

  “Yes,” she said, very determined, and stood up. “No time like the present to say things you really don’t want to say anyway. Besides, how bad can it be? You have the best mom and dad in the world. It’s not like they are going to kick you out, right?” She smiled and started washing her hands.

  Slowly, I found my feet and dragged myself over to the sink. I placed myself behind Miss T and took in my reflection. I already looked so different, so pale, so thin and so ... pregnant.

  “Come on, already,” Miss T said, heading for the door. “And bring the thing with you.” She pointed at the test in my hand. “No matter what happens next you will want to save it. Trust me,” she said, wiping off the doorknob.

  I grabbed my bag and followed Miss T, making a bee line for the car. When we reached it, she turned around and pointed a finger at me. “One stop only: Starbucks, and you are having a glass of milk. Lots of protein.”

  All the way home, all I could think about was Mom, and how she would react when she learned her seventeen-year-old daughter was pregnant. I wasn’t sure I felt more embarrassed by the fact that I had become pregnant as a result of a one-night stand with some German exchange student I hardly knew and never would see again, or by the fact that I had become accidently pregnant while trying not to, while Mom had been trying for over fifteen years without any luck. How could I tell her? How would I ever be able to look her in the eyes after this?

  I buried my face in my hands.

  “I can’t tell her, Miss T. I mean, Mom of all people. How can I tell her?” I looked up at her and shook my head. “It’s not fair.”

  Miss T faced me—all eyes on me, no eyes on the freeway—and nodded her head. “Ella, you have to. She trusts you, and she loves you. I see the way she looks at you and the way she talks about you. Nothing could undo all of that. Nothing. If you don’t tell her, she will end up being even more sad: sad that you didn’t feel that you could share this with her, that you didn’t feel that you could confide in her. It’s what moms are for, you know.” She smiled and returned her eyes to the road.

  “Would you like to? I mean, would you like to know if I was your daughter?”

  “Yes,” she said in a determined voice. She cleared her throat and looked at me again. “You know, we were never blessed with kids of our own. I guess that’s why I became a teacher, so I could nag somebody else’s kids all day long.” She smiled and looked at the road ahead of us. “But if you were my daughter, yes, I would like to know. And I must add that I could not imagine a better daughter than you, math genius or not, pregnant or not.” She slowed down and looked at me again, with tears in her eyes. “I mean it.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “If you were my daughter, I would like to be the first person to know.”

  I nodded and looked out the window. It had started to rain again. Sweet Seattle rain, as Mom had whispered one morning.

  I pulled down the mirror and looked at myself and ran a finger over my dry, cracked lips. I looked like someone who had been cast as a really bad version of me, but still, I didn’t look half as bad as I felt. There I was: seventeen, accidentally pregnant, and surrounded by Mom, Martha, and Miss T who all had longed for this for so many years. It felt like I was betraying each of them. No way could I tell her—not until I knew what I wanted. I had to talk with someone first, some counselor or something, and it had to be before Mom found out.

  I shifted in my seat and looked at Miss T. “You know, Miss T?”

  “Yes?” she said and started to shift lanes.

  “I need to figure out something before I talk with Mom and Dad. I need to know what I want, how I feel about all of this, and what I need to do. Please don’t make me go tell them right now,” I pleaded. “Please, I need more time.”

  Miss T nodded like she was waiting for me to go on.

  “And I need to ask you one more favor.”

  “Yes,” she said again, clearly a little nervous about her involvement.

  “Can we take your car tomorrow?”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  “Oh my.” She turned toward me and gave me what I believed to be a smile. “On one condition,” she said with a firm voice. “You’re driving.”

  Oh my.

  The yellow brick road

  “You put your left foot on the clutch.”

  “The what?”

  “The clutch. It’s the one that... Never mind. It’s that one.” Miss T moved her foot and stepped on it. “You always have to step on it when shifting gears and also when you make a full stop. Otherwise it’s just like driving with an automatic, not that I have ever tried that, but that is what Georgie always used to say.” She laughed. “Oh dear, Georgie would be laughing his behind off right now if he could see us; the old bird giving how-to-drive-a-stick lessons to a teenage girl. Quite entertaining, I would say.” She adjusted the rearview mirror. “Or fucking hilarious, as you kids say all the time, right?” She looked at me and winked.

  “Miss T,” I said, sizing her up. “I didn’t think teachers even knew that word,” I teased.

  “Thou shalt never judge a book by its cover.”

  “Or a driver by her car. Right, Miss T?”

  “Touché, Miss C.”

  IT WASN’T REALLY THA
T hard driving with a stick. The only hard part was that awful scratching sound it made every time I shifted gears. My stomach literally turned at every pitchy squeal. I found myself saying sorry a lot; sorry to the drivers behind me, sorry to Miss T for not doing the whole clutch thing right, and sorry to Georgie, “up there,” for getting into the driver’s seat of his old precious Porsche from Renton in the first place.

  When we finally got there, Miss T had fallen asleep with half a tuna sandwich in one hand and an old, worn-out map of Washington in the other. She had insisted on bringing the map. “In case we get lost or that thing of yours picks up some foreign satellite signal and we end up in Tukwila instead,” she had said pointing at my iPhone, looking at it like it was some kind of a radioactive device.

  I didn’t know whether to gently touch her shoulder or do the cheerful “rise and shine,” so I attempted both in a very clumsy way, and she woke up looking at me like I was some strange woman who had just arrived from planet iPhone. “We’re here,” I announced.

  She took off her sunglasses and dabbed at her face with her handkerchief. She looked at me again with a pair of narrow eyes. “Where exactly is here?”

  I pointed at the sign and read out loud: “Federal Way Public Health Center.”

  She sat up straight and looked at me, suddenly wide awake and with a firm grip on her little red Coach purse with white dots on it. “What is this, Ella?”

  “It’s, um, the Teen Clinic. I, um, have an appointment at two to meet with a counselor.” I looked at her and smiled.