With trembling hands, I took out the box, flattening the bag against the counter to waste time. It took me a moment to gather my courage and remove the test itself from the package. Then I read through the simple instructions over and over, delaying the inevitable. When I finally couldn’t stall any longer, I followed the directions to the letter and set the test back on the sink, ready to endure the longest three minutes of my life.
I already knew what it would say. I knew it down in the pit of my stomach; I wasn’t just late because of the stress of the path month or so. My period came like clockwork - it always had and always would - until one day it just hadn’t.
Matthew hadn’t been the only one to make a stupid mistake at the party that night.
A combination of alcohol, fear and love had clouded my judgment and I hadn’t thought about the consequences of having unprotected sex. And Chris hadn’t, either. Until it was too late and things were already in motion. We’d needed each other’s comfort that night more than either one of us wanted to admit. Though he’d pulled out before we thought anything had really happened, the odds were obviously against us.
How far the mighty had fallen.
If people could see us now, a few years removed from our glory days of high school, no one would be envious. Matthew was gone, sentenced to six months in jail after accepting a plea bargain. And here I was, locked in his guest bathroom, preparing to accept my future as a teen mother. As a single parent.
Matthew and Chris were both mad at me for standing up to my father. Misplaced machismo, I reckoned. It was their shared opinion that I should have relented and stayed at home, refusing to stand my own ground. Let my parents take care of me, at least until I was done with school. But at what price? I couldn’t bear the thought of distancing myself from my brother. Worse yet was the thought of going behind my father’s back to help out Matthew, only to be caught. The punishment would have been worse for that than the reality of today.
Instead, I’d only lost Matthew temporarily. I could go and visit him in jail once he got settled in, on the appointed days and hours, of course. He needed to know that someone was in his corner, that someone still loved him. Six months could fly by, right? Then my sentence would begin, the hauling him back and forth wherever he needed to go for the next two years. It was a price I was willing to pay in order to keep him in my life.
Reluctantly, he’d agreed to let me help him. It had taken some convincing, some eye rolling and eyebrow raising in our patented conversation style, but he’d come around. After all, he couldn’t stomach the thought of his baby sister being homeless when he owned a home of his own. No matter that it was still a dump; anything was better than living under an overpass.
The past month had been busy, arranging everything so that I’d be prepared for him to go away to jail. We’d met with the court-appointed attorney, he’d swallowed down his punishment and we’d made plans for what would happen when he wasn’t here. I was named power of attorney, with full control over everything: his finances, his property, his own medical care if it came down to it. The last part was the only thing that scared me. I hated to think what would happen to him in jail, of him getting beat up or something worse. He’d nonchalantly breezed over that part, but I saw the fear in his eyes. He couldn’t hide that from me.
The fact of the matter was that he trusted me completely. He had to at this point. If I wanted to, I could royally screw him over. But he knew that I wouldn’t. So he’d handed over the keys to the castle and given me free rein.
Fortunately, he’d saved quite a bit of money so the house payments would be taken care of almost entirely until he returned home. I’d been using his car up until the point that it gave up the ghost and died. I’d parted it out, pooling resources from my own savings with those funds to buy myself an almost as rusty and used up Cavalier. Money from student loans would finance the rest of my living expenses. He promised he’d pay me back and I didn’t doubt him.
Conversely, Chris doubted me. I felt it radiating off of him more than I heard it coming from his lips. He doubted the fact that I could handle taking over my brother’s cause while going to school and single-handedly saving the world. His faithlessness in me was staggering.
This led to our ultimate demise. It happened quietly, without a defined break. All of a sudden, he stopped interacting with me. Sure, he’d come around from time to time, but it always came under the guise of checking on me. Like he’d promised Matthew he’d watch out for me. Like I had no clue what I was doing.
I knew exactly what I was doing. I was shutting him out. He could protect me all he wanted to; I could be his charity case, but I’d no longer be his girlfriend. It was obvious that we couldn’t survive without my brother’s intervention. Perhaps Matthew had never been a third wheel but the only thing that had ever held us together.
Depression came and went in waves. There were so many things, so many changes in my life that it was impossible to determine its cause. Sometimes I thought it was due to the end of my relationship, other times it was related to Matthew’s legal issues, a particularly rough day of classes, or my own anger at myself for giving away my life of luxury. But it was always there, leaving me with a resounding feeling of numbness invading my entire body.
And now this.
It was little surprise to see the two lines appear on the test strip, confirming my suspicions. On our last night together, Chris had left me with a parting gift.
I methodically placed the positive test back into the box, then put the box back inside the bag. I couldn’t throw it away in the house. Chris came over randomly to check on me and I couldn’t fathom him finding it in the trash and investigating. He didn’t deserve to find out that way. That was the coward’s way out. I was slightly above being a coward, though fractionally so.
I would tell him eventually, when the appropriate words came to mind. When I had had enough time to wrap my head around everything myself. Before he’d be able to tell just by looking at me, he’d know. Then we’d sit down and discuss rationally how we were going to handle things. Who’d pay for what, whose last name the baby would have, custody arrangements. Knowing him, he’d want to do the right thing and marry me, to be an honest man.
I didn’t want the right thing, not when it was prompted by obligation instead of love. As much as I’d dreamed about walking down the aisle with him during our courtship, the thought of him proposing now sickened me. Because when he looked at me now, everything had changed. I wanted to be the object of his affection, not of his pity. And for that, no matter what happened, I was better off by myself instead of outwardly having what I wanted, but having it for the wrong reasons.
So I snatched up the bag that sealed my fate and carried it out to the car. I climbed in and drove aimlessly for miles, letting my mind wander until I felt nothing at all. I stopped at a fast food restaurant and shoved the evidence into a trash can, walking away with my shoulders slumped, guilty.
Yes, I would tell him someday. But it wouldn’t be today.
Chapter Seventeen
(Past Tense)
I surprised myself at becoming so attached so quickly to my secret. The gloom and doom that I’d imagined would come with the realization of my plight had never fully appeared. Something resembling happiness had taken over me. Maybe it was the promise of a new life, of a chance to be a better parent than I’d had. But there was something almost heady about knowing that there was a little person growing inside of me. I’d spend several minutes each morning looking at myself in the mirror, checking for any outward signs of my condition. I’d rub my fingers lovingly along my abdomen, pretending that the baby could feel the contact.
I still wasn’t up to letting the father know about our little miracle, though. Instead of facing Chris head on and telling him the truth, I’d hide from him. I suspected that he was doing the same. I was certain he came over to the house still, but he saved his visits for when I was at class. I’d come back home and see traces of him left behind, a ch
air pushed back from the table, the mail sitting on the counter, but never see him in the flesh. Was it possible to be both saddened and relieved at the same time?
Since I was certain that my father had taken me off of his insurance the moment I’d packed my bags, I wasn’t about to call my regular doctor. I’d gotten the name of a clinic from student services at school, under the explanation of the information being for a friend. The lady that had helped me smiled sympathetically at me as she handed out the business card, both of us knowing that I was full of shit. But she wished my hypothetical friend the best anyway.
I’d sat on the card for a few days before calling the number, debating on whether or not I should tell Chris so he could go with me. After mulling it over for about a week, I made the call and decided to go it alone. I was still being a chicken.
Based on the date I assumed that I had gotten pregnant, I calculated that I was roughly eight weeks along. The lady that saw me decided we’d do an ultrasound just to make certain. Even though I was positive that my estimate was correct, the idea of seeing my baby was intriguing. Again with the guilt complex as I realized that this was something that I should be sharing with Chris. But it wasn’t like I could call him up while I was straddled on the table in stirrups and have him rush in there.
“With the fetus being so small, we may not be able to hear the heartbeat yet, but we’ll probably be able to see it,” the lady told me as I hopped up into position.
“Okay.”
She explained that she was going to do some measurements first, then she’d turn the monitor in an angle where I could look over and see it as well. I laid back and tried to relax, to bide my time during the boring part until I got to the exciting stuff. She kept typing and typing, moving the probe around the lower part of my stomach.
“So when again did you say you thought you conceived?”
“About eight weeks ago. I’m almost positive it was then. Why?”
She didn’t respond to my question, instead excusing herself and leaving the room. After what seemed like an eternity, she returned with another lady, walked her over to the screen and then spoke in hushed tones about what they saw.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to push down the hysteria that began creeping into my body. ‘When am I going to be able to see?”
The two women exchanged a glance that chilled me to the bone.
“We’re just not getting a good picture of the fetus today, hon,” the new woman said.
I found her condescending tone only a fraction as annoying as I normally would. My rational thoughts were quickly being drowned out by the sound of my own heart beating, the blood rushing frantically through my veins.
“We definitely see something there,” the first woman told me, as though that was supposed to calm me down, “but we’re going to run some blood tests on you to date the pregnancy. The size just isn’t matching up right now with what you’re telling us.”
I wanted to yell at her that I knew exactly how far along I was. I hadn’t had sex since that night, so it wasn’t like I could be any less pregnant. If my calculations were faulty, it would be the other way and I’d be further along than I expected. But I held my tongue and let her do her job. She advised me to get dressed again, then go sit out in the waiting area until my name was called.
How I wished that Chris was waiting beside me. I craved for his touch, for him to hold my hand and whisper that everything was going to be okay. But I slunk out to the waiting room alone, to sit and think about all the horrid possibilities myself.
Blood was drawn and more waiting ensued. After what seemed like hours, lady number two called me back into her office. I noted that she didn’t lead me back to an exam room, but to her office proper. She offered me a seat opposite her desk and closed the door behind us. The look on her face as she turned around to sit in her own chair was the only thing I needed to know. Still, her lips moved just the same.
“Blake, I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t hear much after that. Actually, I heard everything she told me, but my brain stored it for later so that when I had stopped freaking out I could make sense of it. She passed me a box of tissues as she spoke. I needed them.
The gist of the situation was that I was going through what she called a missed abortion. When I turned my nose up at the term, she explained that it was a form of miscarriage where the fetus stopped growing, but stayed inside the womb for a period of time after. She estimated that my baby had died at about five weeks along, though she didn’t use those words. She was very technical and detached, while I was practically on the floor, bawling my eyes out.
She wanted to schedule me for surgery as soon as possible. Eventually, she told me, my body would take care of things on its own, but it was supposedly best for me to let medicine intervene. If I let things happen naturally, she reasoned, I could have complications. I was relatively sure that I was already having complications with my pregnancy, but I chose not to voice that opinion.
I refused to schedule a procedure. There were a number of factors behind my decision: no insurance coverage, fear of going through an operation, being absolutely alone with no one to help me out. But the single most important reason was that I couldn’t fathom it being over. I felt okay; I didn’t feel any different than I had when I’d held the positive pregnancy test in my hand. And even though she assured me that my hormone levels were all messed up now and she was most certain that I was for all intents and purposes no longer pregnant, I couldn’t fully believe her.
What if I did the unthinkable and ended my pregnancy when it wasn’t truly over? I hadn’t seen the ultrasound screen myself; they hadn’t let me look. What if they had somehow missed the heartbeat?
So I left the clinic, my earlier hopes and dreams crushed into a million tiny pieces. I’d been so hysterical, the lady had asked me if there was anyone that I could call to take me home. I knew she expected me to name off someone - my mother, a friend, the father, but the dead look in my eyes and my hollow tone of voice when I told her there was no one convinced her of my sincerity and she let that idea drop. I promised her that I’d pull myself together before driving home.
I sat in the front seat of my Cavalier, watching as big, fat snowflakes hit my windshield. As I’d done so many times in the past couple weeks, I absentmindedly rubbed my abdomen.
“I won’t give up on you,” I said softly, “not until you tell me that it’s time.”
The time came sooner than I wanted it to. In the back of my mind, I had always known that the ladies at the clinic had been telling me the truth. Their combined years of experience certainly trumped my newfound maternal instincts. I didn’t know a thing about being pregnant and they had seen hundreds, if not thousands of women. They knew what I was going through, had likely seen it many times before.
Sheer force of will couldn’t bring my baby back. Lord knew I’d tried that. If there was anything that I could have done, anything I could have given away to make a miracle happen, I’d have gladly signed up. For something that I had no idea that I’d wanted, the thought of not having it hurt like crazy. In such a short period of time, I’d grown attached.
And now it was slipping away.
When the cramping started, I knew exactly what it was. I was such an emotional wreck, I decided to stay home from class. I’d thought when things happened that I could be stoic and just live through it, but I found myself wanting to do nothing other than curl up in a ball and cry. I tried to pretend that it was just a normal period, but I couldn’t lie to myself. I knew I was saying goodbye.
I stood in front of the full length mirror in the bathroom, dressed in a ratty pair of sweats and a hoodie, my face reddened by tears. One last time, I touched where my little bump would have grown, pressing my fingers against it like I could hug what was inside.
“Never forget how much I love you,” I whispered. “I’ll never forget you.”
The sound of the front door slamming shut brought me back to reality. My breath cau
ght in my lungs. Chris was here. He wasn’t slamming the door because he was angry, his action was due to the fact that you had to put all of your weight behind it in order to convince it to close. He obviously expected me to be at school, which I would have been most days at this time.
I jumped to attention, rubbing the moisture from my eyes. I hadn’t put in my contacts this morning, knowing that it would have been pointless. I was blind as a bat without them, but it wasn’t like I’d be seeing clearly through the blurriness of tears, anyway. I rummaged in the cabinet drawers until I found my glasses, sliding them on in an attempt to hide my red eyes. I studied my reflection, shrugging. Better than nothing.
“Blake?” Chris called from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, “Are you home?”
His question was stupid, but I allowed him to ask it without ridicule. He’d no doubt seen my car parked out front. The garage was still unusable.
I debated staying in place, snapping the lock on the bathroom door shut and hiding inside. But knowing him, he’d search the entire house until he found me, breaking the door down in the process. And there really was so much wrong with the house that I wanted to preserve everything that actually functioned.
“Yeah,” I said shakily.
I found him right where I thought he’d be, standing in the kitchen that resembled a war zone more than a place to entertain and cook a meal. With everything that had gone on since Matthew’s arrest, renovations hadn’t been at the forefront of our agenda. Once things settled down, I’d get back on task. With this latest development, I needed something to throw myself into.
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