Now I’m seeing true anger on her face. She leans back. “You said you used protection!”
“I did!”
“Natalie . . . ”
“No. I promise on all eight of the Planet of the Apes movies; I used protection. Like we used all the protection available.”
“All right. Fine. No need to get graphic. Well, I don’t know what to tell you. The only contraceptive that is one-hundred percent effective is abstinence, which you clearly did not practice, so . . . ”
“Oh, God.”
The clock is still ticking. It seems to be louder now, though I know that can’t be true. I have the irrational need to rip it from the wall and throw it against the door. Maybe the commotion would make the people outside shut up. How can they be joking around when my world is currently imploding?
“You know, Micah won’t let us leave until he tells you the results himself. Your rights and all that. He’ll insist I leave the room too. HIPAA kind of demands it.”
“You have my permission to hear it, and I’ll sign any paper he has in permanent marker if it’ll make him feel safer.”
“Do you want me to say it?”
“No,” I groan.
What will I tell my brothers? What will I tell Papa? He’ll be heartbroken.
As if summoned by our conversation, Micah reenters the room.
“I’m sorry, we need this room,” he says, his tone sheepish, a blush lighting his cheeks.
I think he has the hots for Meg. Well, good luck with that, dude. She’s going to marry my brother so she can be an official aunt to . . . well . . . Huh, I can’t even admit it to myself.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
He flips open my chart, even though we all know he doesn’t need to look to remember the results.
“Would you like Meagan to leave the room for a moment?”
“No.”
I sound robotic. Lost.
Micah clears his throat nervously. He is rather cute; hopefully, Meagan doesn’t find him as cute as Alex. She’d be scoring well to get a NP. Of course, Alex is an architect, so he makes pretty good money too.
My thoughts go off on a tangent. Anything to avoid this.
The bliss of ignorance is never permanent. Mine is shattered as Micah finally, audibly, confirms my worst fears.
“Congratulations, Ms. Donetsk. You’re pregnant.”
~ Two Months Later ~
“I’m beginning to show, aren’t I?”
I smooth the baby doll style dress over my stomach and cup the little mound that’s beginning to grow noticeable. It shouldn’t be. Could it be twins? I’m only four months along in my first pregnancy.
“Why are you making me answer that?” Meagan groans from her seat on the couch.
She lifts the remote control and turns the volume up on the emergency room drama playing out on the TV. I turn away before I throw up. Again. Those gory reenactments grossed me out before pregnancy, now they can have me over the toilet quicker than you can say, “disembowelment.”
I step away from the hall mirror and move to the toaster to make my signature banana, cinnamon sugar, peanut butter sandwich.
It took two months, but we’ve settled into our new townhome. It’s been an uproar of changes for me since the day I lost that stupid promotion to the even stupider blonde, Kimber. The night with Gavin and the revelation of my pregnancy two months after has ensured that nothing will ever be the same.
The bread pops up from the toaster, golden and crispy.
“Oh! This is the one with the shark bite victim! He gets like fifteen stitches in his abdomen!”
Well, there goes my appetite for breakfast.
“Want a sandwich?” I ask, feeling morose that I’m going to have to wait for my stomach to settle before I can eat my own breakfast.
“Nah, just the toast is fine. Oh, he’s a gusher!”
“Meagan!”
I haven’t even eaten anything this morning, yet I think I’m going to hurl.
“It’s OK, Peanut,” I say to my stomach, rubbing it soothingly.
The day I found out I was pregnant, it felt like my world was ending, but it didn’t take two whole days for me to come to love the baby. Life is going to be hard once the baby comes; I know that, but the thought of the little one still feels me with joy.
The only thing keeping me from true and total happiness is the thought of revealing my pregnancy to my family. I still haven’t found the guts to tell them. Heck, it was bad enough telling them about Jeff . . .
“You’re not getting any younger, Lapushka. Your Papa longs for grandbabies.”
This conversation was the height of irony, considering the secret I kept while revealing the news of my breakup with Jeff.
“Come on, Pops! Nic’s gotta be first. Macy warming up the oven yet, bro?” Alex said, saving me from having to reply to Papa’s too close to home statements.
Alex suffered a slap to the back of his head from Papa for the trouble. Not to be outdone in the defense of his woman, Nic seconded the blow by punching Alex’s arm.
“Macy is not even on preheat, dude. We’re enjoying the honeymoon phase for a while.”
Maxim, Macy, and I shared a chuckle when Nic’s words also earned him a slap to the back of the head.
“There are ladies present! Women are not kitchen appliances. Apologize!”
“We’re sorry,” the twins said in unison.
Papa grunted in approval. Then the conversation shifted to matchmaking and the different suitable Russian men that Papa thought would provide a stable, traditional marriage for his little ducky.
It took the rest of the afternoon to convince him that I could and would find a man on my own.
Back in the present, Meagan is slathering an unhealthy amount of butter on her toast. She tears off a piece and pops it into her mouth before moaning in foodie bliss. My stomach turns once again.
Her blue eyes widen in a, “What? I’m not pregnant,” expression.
“If you choke, you’re going to have to practice the Heimlich on yourself.”
She smiles and finishes chewing the bite, exaggerating her enjoyment of it with closed eyed groans and huge chomping movements that seem absurd from her small mouth.
I’m tempted to stomp on her tiny, little feet.
“Don’t doubt I will!” she crows as she goes for another piece of toast.
It’s just as well; I’m supposed to take my prenatal vitamins on an empty stomach anyway. I prepare a glass of ice water from our new fridge. It’s a special kind of luxury to have a fridge that dispenses filtered water on demand. Our old apartment featured an olive green hand-me-down fridge that didn’t even light up when we opened the door. It used to make midnight snacking a bit of a mystery.
I gulp down the pills, and for the eight-hundredth-time wish they were smaller. Meagan watches me with a smug smile. Little devil.
It’s my turn to cook tonight, so I survey the fridge for possibilities. There are two cheese slices, an overripe tomato, and a half carton of orange juice inside.
“We need groceries,” I complain.
“It’s your turn,” she mutters after another bite of toast washed down with a gulp of orange juice. “Make sure you get milk too. You haven’t been drinking enough of it.”
“I don’t like milk!”
My voice sounds petulant to my own ears.
Meagan grins. Leaning down toward my stomach, in a baby voice she says, “But Peanut does! Don’t you, little Peanut? You luvvvv milk.”
“You know I hate it when you do that.”
Only I am allowed to talk to Peanut. It’s my right as the baby oven. Now I’m comparing myself to appliances!
“I know. I promise to stop if you drink some milk. My half of the grocery money is in the dish.”
The dish is a homemade stethoscope saucer we concocted one night after we first moved in. It took a week of pottery lessons to finish the thing, but now it’s a one-of-a-kind work of art. Two lopsided ear tips are hoo
ked together with curved tubing that leads to what is supposed to be the little chest piece diaphragm dish. I eye the clay stethoscope on the far counter and then turn back to Meagan with my best pathetic expression.
“But I’m in the family way!”
The women’s lib movement is important to me, truly, but I might pull out the I’m pregnant excuse every now and then anyway.
“Yes, but I’ve gone shopping the past three turns, and I have a date tonight.”
“You should just marry Alex and be done with it. Peanut needs you as an aunt.”
She flinches away from me and turns back to her toast. She hasn’t wanted to talk to me about Alex in a while now. I have a sinking feeling that I’ve somehow created distance between them with my secret. She won’t respond to my questions about why she’s been avoiding my brother, and so I’m left with suspicions and no real answers.
I don’t know what it is about pregnancy, but I’m feeling urgency toward things that I used to think had all the time in the world. Once the baby’s born, there will be so much turmoil that I want at least some things to be settled in advance.
“I’ll get the groceries,” I relent.
She nods and downs the rest of the second slice of toast.
“There’s an extra twenty in there for your dinner. I’m eating out with Brody, so just treat yourself tonight. There’s no point in you going through all the trouble of cooking.”
“Thanks, Meg. Peanut and I thank you.”
“Sure. Just don’t forget the milk.”
“All right, all right already,” I grumble.
She transitions from mom mode to nurse mode so quickly that sometimes I can’t keep track. I need to learn that particular trick soon; I think it’ll come in handy once Peanut arrives.
“When are you going to tell your family? Because, in answer to your earlier question; yes, you’re starting to show.”
“I’ll tell them when Peanut is born.”
“Ha! Max will wrestle it out of you way before then. When’s the last time you talked to the little punk anyway?”
“No fair.”
I’ve been avoiding Maxim with the same focus that Meagan has been avoiding Alex. The only family member I’ve been talking to is Nic, because he’s so distracted with love for his new wife that he doesn’t notice the little things right now. I wouldn’t be talking to any of them, except for the fact that the only way to keep my family from barging through my front door to check on me is if one of them is getting regular updates.
“I’m just saying, Nat. It’s going to be kind of obvious when you go to the annual family picnic pushing your baby in a stroller. And how am I supposed to throw you a baby shower if I can’t tell anyone? Gwen’s shower was phenomenal, but I know we can beat it.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Gwen’s baby shower was a hard pill to swallow, even more difficult to down than the massive prenatal vitamins I take every day. Her family was there to support her. Her mother cried tears of joy as Gwen opened her gifts. Her husband even agreed to a coed baby shower, and if that isn’t the sweetest, most modern gesture ever, I don’t know what is.
If I were to have a baby shower right now, the guest list would consist of two: Meagan and myself, although I guess I could count the baby too. Oh, and there’s also Micah, the NP and my gynecologist. Oh, and my primary care physician is in on the whole thing too. If they all came, well, we might have enough people to put a dent in the cake.
“I don’t want to be the one to tell them, but you need more support than just me in the months ahead. Once the baby is born we’ll need babysitters, diaper donations, and who knows what else." At my disbelieving look, Meagan shakes her head and continues, “I don’t work in peds.”
I’m still not buying it. I know for a fact that she’s been reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting every night before bed.
“The point is, we’re going to need some help.”
She leaves the rest unsaid, but I hear it anyway. We’re going to need some help because the father isn’t in the picture. That’s another point of contention between us. Meagan insists that he has a right to know about the baby, and part of me agrees. The moral part, that is. But there’s also a scared, hurt, and angry part that says Gavin is a scoundrel, and he doesn’t deserve the knowledge of this baby.
Meagan didn’t read the texts from Gavin’s wingman, Hawke. Meagan didn’t listen to the voicemail from some guy who referred to himself as elder Duncan. I have a sinking feeling that Gavin is a member of some strange cult or something, what with all the references to pack and trying to get a pup on some poor, unsuspecting female. Unfortunately, that pup is mine, and I’m the poor, unsuspecting one, which rankles more than I can admit. Since when did I let myself become such a victim? First to Waller Funds and Mr. Edmunds, then to Jeff and Kimber with their cheating, and finally to Gavin and his man whore escapades; I keep losing. It’s starting to mess with my self-esteem.
“It’s better this way, trust me.”
It’s almost Valentine’s Day, and I officially hate the holiday. The local grocery is filled with oversized pink and red teddy bears, heart shaped chocolate boxes, and gushy romantic greeting cards. The whole thing has me nauseous; maybe even more so than that ER show’s gruesome episodes.
The only good thing about this time of year is that it’s still cold here in Astoria, Oregon. That means that my sweater layers mostly cover up my mounded tummy. However, as the months pass and it warms up, I’ll have more trouble concealing my condition. Even with the covering, every time I walk by someone I recognize, I can’t meet their eyes for fear they’ll realize I’m pregnant. Although if anyone tries to insinuate that I am, I can always go the offended, “Are you calling me fat?” route. Yeah, that’s a good plan.
I check things off the list quickly, wanting to escape the store as soon as possible. I add ice cream, because that’s a form of dairy, right? Milk isn’t the only option to add calcium to your diet, and it would be against nature for a pregnant girl not to buy ice cream.
Wheat bread, peanut butter, blackberry jam, celery and butter for Meagan, and dark chocolate bars for me. Yum. I throw in some lean chicken breasts, steamable vegetable packs, and some fresh fruit to finish up the food portion of my shopping list.
I linger for a while in the baby clothes section. I don’t know the sex of my little peanut yet, I’ve been requesting that the doctor keep that to himself for now, but I have a gut feeling that the baby is a boy. I’d like to name him Campbell or Liam. The fact that my two favorite name choices are of Scottish origin means nothing. Or maybe it does. It would be nice if my son had some connection to his heritage.
Maybe if I ever get a promotion, and Meagan becomes a RN, we can afford to go on a trip to Scotland with little Peanut. He’ll be twenty-five by the time we save the funds, but a trip to Scotland is a trip to Scotland.
Man, I am so not ready for the questions that are bound to arise as Peanut grows. How am I supposed to explain a one-night stand to a child? What will I do when he has a father/son campout? Who’s going to attend his Boy Scout meetings? Who will teach him to fix a car and throw a perfect spiral?
You could always contact Chloe and get Gavin’s phone number. Better late than never.
No. I’m fine. We’re fine; that’s what uncles are for anyway. Everything’s fine.
And to prove just how fine I am, I’m going to teach myself to change a diaper tonight. From the toy aisle I toss a cute, brown eyed baby doll into my cart. Then I head to the baby care aisle for diapers.
As I ponder the difference between Pampers and Luvs, I catch sight of a memorable, hunky build further down the aisle. The man turns with his cart, uncanny amber eyes scanning my body with a familiarity one only gains after a romp in the sheets. The impact of that stops me in my tracks, diaper brands forgotten.
Torn clothes, hot hands, heavy breaths . . . it all floods my mind’s eye, leaving me unsteady and a bit breathless.
No. No way.
He begins to walk toward me, his stride confident.
It looks like him . . . but it can’t be him! It was dark that night. Yeah, that’s it. Just my mind playing tricks. A one-night mistake wouldn’t insist on approaching the co-mistakee. Would he?
Regardless of what the man should be doing, there is no doubt his determined stride is taking him straight for me. I turn back to the Pampers and try to look inconspicuous. Impossible. How can I look inconspicuous when the unknowing father of my future child is making a beeline for me?
He’s going to confront me. He has to be wondering, and despite the fact that I’m not far along and this will be my first child, I admit that I’m beginning to show enough that my sweaters may not be as much cover as I’d imagined. My bulge is at least somewhat noticeable, enough to have someone I’ve slept with recently taking a second glance and trying to complete calculations.
He comes to a stop in front of me and his buggy slides neatly to the side, blocking me in. The hickey mark that never faded beyond a watermark shadow beneath my skin warms at the sight of him. I take one more glance at the Pampers and turn away. I don’t need to look at those yet anyway. I just wanted to practice on the baby doll wedged in my basket.
I’ve never changed a diaper before and it’s high time I figured the process out. I don’t have younger siblings to base this experience off, as I was only four when Maxim was born. But I’ll figure it out. Who needs real life experience? That’s what YouTube is for.
Besides, it’s best not to think of my siblings right now. I made Meagan promise not to tell them about what’s happened, but I have no hope that the reprieve will last after our conversation this morning. They could be on their way from their prospective homes to confront me even now. They have a habit of trying to control my life, and they will not be pleased with the fact that I won’t disclose the name of the father, or that I’ll insist on having this baby alone.
“Miss?”
Maneuver around the buggy and keep walking. You owe him nothing.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I grit my teeth and turn to face the object of all of my nightmares . . . and all of my fantasies. I don’t respond to him, but raise one brow, something I learned to do at a young age when dealing with my overbearing brothers. They’ve taught me well, and there is no way this man knows who he’s dealing with.
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