by Holly Rayner
She wasn’t sure why he had such power over her, especially given she’d hardly seen him since he’d ditched her that terrible Monday morning. She’d caught peeks of him talking to other colleagues in various offices all over SNO News, but she’d always darted, rabbit-like, toward the exits. She’d once spotted him laughing with Theresa, which had squeezed her heart. Was it jealousy, she’d wondered, or just a strange sense that the world was no longer one she understood?
“I’m just off them, Theresa. Seriously. The men in this town aren’t cutting it for me right now, and I need to focus on my career. I want to get promoted in the next year. If I’m still doing these silly fluff stories when I’m 27, I think I’ll just give up completely.”
Theresa shook her head, putting her hands on her hips. “Don’t get all dramatic on me. I know you live for this job, no matter what you’re reporting. And if you keep your nose to the grindstone, bigshot James will notice you and put you on the next rung. He’s done it before with other anchors. I’ve seen it happen.”
“But I’m a woman,” Mia argued.
“And he definitely notices that.”
“What do you mean?” Mia gasped. Her eyes searched her friend’s face. What did she know?
Theresa flung her hands skyward. “He just watches you sometimes, is all. We’ve all been joking about it for a while now. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to make you self-conscious.” She scratched the back of her neck, easing into a slouch. “You aren’t upset, are you?”
Mia felt explosive. He had been watching her for years, just as she had been. Sure: she’d felt anger at his sarcastic words, at the way he’d trounced around the office, but she’d never been able to tear her eyes away from him for long.
“I think—” she paused, her head pounding.
“Mia, you look pale.”
Theresa reached for the trashcan and tipped it to Mia just in time. Mia vomited into it, throwing up her coffee and her morning muffin.
The heaving finished as quickly as it started, and she was left with a sour, aching taste in her mouth. She wiped her palm against her lips.
“Yuck,” she whispered.
“Oh dear. What did you eat?”
“Just a muffin,” Mia murmured. “And some coffee.”
Theresa frowned, uncertain. “We’ll get you some mouthwash before you go on. And just tell me if you need a bucket once you’re up there. Maybe you’re coming down with one of the spring colds going around.”
“I’m not going to vomit on screen,” Mia laughed. But she saw Theresa’s expression, and her smile faltered. “I mean. I don’t think I will.”
Theresa exhaled sharply through her nose. “Girl, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to be upfront with me. But not now. Mad Jeff is gesturing you to get on set. Go. Go!”
Mia smiled wanly and power-walked toward the news desk, placing herself in the seat beside Charles.
He gave her a warm smile. “You have a good night?” he asked her, flipping the papers before him.
“All right, and yours?” She refocused her mind from her sickness.
“Can’t complain.”
“All right, folks. We’re on the air in five, four, three—”
And then, Mia was thrust into the bright lights of live TV, her stomach churning, and confusion beginning to bleed through her. Her brain was turning on her with constant, manic thoughts of James, and now, her body was falling in on itself, causing her to feel dizzy and nauseous. She hoped and prayed that she’d get through the segment without incident.
Thankfully, when she opened her mouth with her initial ‘good morning’, she was right on cue. And she knew from the expression in the production crew’s eyes that she looked great. Would she be forced to pretend to be “just fine” for the rest of her life?
EIGHT
Mia stood in her apartment building, staring blankly down at her grocery bag. She hadn’t felt like eating in ages, but had forced herself to drive to the grocery store after work and leaf through the fruits and vegetables. Just a look at the meat section had flipped her stomach over, so she’d avoided it and opted for tofu. She had hardly recognized herself in the mirror at the checkout counter, she was so pale, almost green.
“I haven’t been able to eat without vomiting for days,” she’d told Theresa the previous afternoon.
“You do look thin, little Mia,” Theresa had said, her words soft. “Are you doing okay? Do you need to go to talk to someone?”
“No, no,” Mia had said, shaking her head. “It’s like something’s not right. I’m exhausted constantly, as well. Do you think I should go to the doctor?”
Theresa had pushed her eyebrows high, creating tiny wrinkles beneath her silky straight dark bangs. “I hate to ask this, Mia, but are you pregnant? It could be morning sickness, you know.”
Mia had scoffed, scrunching up her nose. “You have to have sex to get pregnant.” And her stomach had tossed and turned, alerting her that she needed to check.
And so, now, it was Saturday—a day off, and a day of reckoning. She dug through the vegetables at the bottom of her bag to find the pregnancy test, which was stuffed between a mango and a bag of frozen broccoli, and she passed her eyes over the directions. Even in her college exploits, she hadn’t had a single pregnancy scare. Not once.
She stripped the packaging from the stick and removed the cap. She felt she should do it in complete silence, as if she were praying, so she turned off the radio and walked toward the bathroom, eyes on her feet. She tried to play a mind game with herself to make this an unreality. For example: maybe if she really, really wanted to have James’ baby, she wouldn’t be pregnant. She willed herself to want it, to need it; she willed herself to imagine holding that beautiful, bouncing baby in her arms. He or she would have James’ dark, worldly eyes. James would kiss her moments after the birth and tell her he loved her.
Yes. If she wanted it this much, then she surely wouldn’t be pregnant. Because wanting anything else in her life hadn’t gotten her much of anything. She’d always had to fight for it.
She closed her eyes, placing the cap on the bathroom counter, and knelt over the plastic stick. She took the test quickly then slid the cap over the reader once more. “Two minutes. Wait two minutes,” she reminded herself out loud, dropping the stick on the counter and marching into the hallway. She felt itchy, nervous, like she could run ten miles without stopping. Her stomach flipped inside of her, alerting her she hadn’t eaten in hours. “I know, I know. It’ll be over soon,” she whispered.
Exactly two minutes after peeing on the stick, Mia stood, righting her posture. It was time for her to look.
The bathroom was gleaming with fluorescent light. Outside, early May showers and gray skies were darkening the rest of the apartment. She reminded herself she really, really wanted this baby—and that, because of this, she probably wasn’t pregnant. This was just like that time she’d really yearned to get into Harvard, had dreamed about it. When the letter had come, explaining she hadn’t been accepted, she’d expected rejection, almost. Never want, she’d thought then. Never need.
But the stick was blaring two strong, solid red lines, even from a distance. Mia felt choked. She lifted the stick to see more clearly, and she nearly fell to the floor. Pregnant. She, Mia Daniels, hopeful top-tier journalist, was pregnant with the owner of Chance Media’s baby.
She shuffled to the kitchen, then, dropping the pregnancy stick along the way. She felt scattered. She reached for a glass, her hand shaking, and filled it with water. She drank greedily, her heart nearly palpitating in her chest. Drops of water dribbled down her chin. “What have I done?” she mumbled to herself.
***
Mia spent the rest of the day alternating between her position over the toilet, vomiting into the bowl, and pancaking on the couch, staring blankly at the news channel. She remembered how James used to deliver the news, back in his earlier days, and she’d watched him from her college bedroom. She’d s
wooned when he spoke, dashing her finger toward him. “See, Vanessa?” she’d told her roommate. “This guy. He’s really something. You can really tell he knows how to create the arc of a story. You know?”
She found herself googling James, trying to get a sense for his current location in the world. She found his Twitter account rather easily, but was soon disappointed to find that he hadn’t tweeted since the previous week, when he’d been in Austin, Texas, opening a new station. His photo grinned back at her with an earned sense of confidence; his teeth spoke of how much money was in his account—she could just smell it from the social media feed.
But, she reminded herself, she hadn’t been able to sense it on him when they’d been together, there on the floor. Just two people, celebrating Christmas at the beginning of April. Money hadn’t been an issue.
“You’ll never guess what this chick made me do once,” he was surely telling his friends, all over the world. “She made me play charades and celebrate Christmas. In the middle of April. And then, we kissed under the mistletoe. Weird, right?”
Mia brought her head beneath the blanket, feeling sure she was at the very bottom of the trough of her life. How would she wrangle out of this one? How could she just pretend that her affair with James hadn’t happened, when she was carrying his child?
She placed her fingers over her stomach, which she’d thought was just bloated from being upset so often, and drummed her thumbs and forefingers on the skin. Would she tell him? Could she tell him?
She couldn’t keep it a secret forever, she knew. Her thin frame wouldn’t allow it. But she also knew that James probably wouldn’t be at the office on Monday. At the very least, she could turn this information over and over in her head, assessing how best to break the “news” to the lead of all the anchors: James himself.
NINE
By the following Monday morning, Mia still hadn’t told a soul about her pregnancy. She imagined that if she kept it to herself for long enough, it wouldn’t be true.
She righted herself on her heels as she exited her jeep into the sunny, early-May morning, and she slipped her fingers over the slightly stretched fabric of her blouse. She gasped at the sensation; in all her years at the news station, she hadn’t had a single clothing item that didn’t fit her to the tee. Theresa had often teased her about her predictable perfection.
Mia took quick look around the executive parking lot, where she knew James would be parked, if he were in town. To her relief, the only vehicle she saw was Jeff’s sad minivan. “I’ll get an upgrade as soon as James gives me a raise,” Jeff had grumbled at the Christmas party, sipping on that wine that, four months later, had been Mia’s undoing.
She walked up to the makeup room, yanking her notes for her next segment from her briefcase. She’d be speaking about a Portland children’s home that morning—something incredibly near and dear to her, although she didn’t tend to seek these stories and hadn’t let on that she had a vested interest in the subject. She didn’t like to speak about her childhood experiences to many; she’d learned long ago that it made people uncomfortable, so she mostly left it simmering in the back of her brain. Sometimes, it slipped out after a few too many glasses of wine, and it was always met with earnest, nervous stares of faked understanding.
Unusually, Theresa wasn’t manning her station. Mia sunk into the makeup chair, assessing herself in the mirror. Dark saucers swept beneath her eyes. Her lips were chapped from constant vomiting. Weren’t pregnant women meant to glow, like angels? She sighed into her hand, feeling like a great blob. At least James wasn’t around to see her like this, she thought. She wouldn’t be able to handle it.
She heard rapid steps down the hall, a sturdy stride. Charles peeped around the corner, lending that stunning, news anchor smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the devil himself,” Mia teased. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine, fine,” Charles said vacantly. His jaw was tense, his voice tilting on nervousness. “Do you mind if I share something with you?”
Mia shrugged. “Of course.”
Charles slipped the door closed behind him and brought his fingers together. He shook slightly. “I’m sorry. I’m just so nervous to talk about it.”
“Talk about what, Charles? You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know. I know. Whew. It’s just. It’s big. You know how suddenly you wake up and you feel five years older than you did the day before?”
Mia chuckled inwardly. If only he knew what she was going through! “Sure. I definitely get it.”
“Well. We just found out. Melanie and I, we’re going to be parents.” His words fell into a whisper as he said it. And he glowed—much like Mia had assumed she would be, carrying a baby within her. Melanie was pregnant. And Charles could share this information with the world, without fear.
Mia put on a show of enthusiasm, despite her heart sinking to her belly. “Oh, my goodness!” She stood from her chair and wrapped her arms around her friend. “Oh, this is marvelous news, Charles. Congratulations to you both. It’s so beautiful that you’re able to do this together. You have each other, every step of the way. A perfect team.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” Charles didn’t notice her cryptic words—that Mia was thinking only of how alone she was with her baby growing minutely every day. “It’s still early days, but we’re incredibly excited.”
Mia frowned, remembering she needed to make doctor’s appointments; she needed to learn how to keep her body and her baby healthy. Her heart thumped in her throat, and she felt she couldn’t breathe.
“You know, I think you will be amazing parents,” she said, her voice forced. “Are you going to tell the rest of the crew?”
“I wanted to tell my co-anchor first,” Charles said, his eyes flashing. He punched her lightly on the arm. “I’ll probably take a bit of paternity leave, just to help Melanie with everything. So this will directly affect you, too.”
Mia swished her hand, like batting a fly. “Psh. I don’t need you, Charles, remember? I’m there for the hard-hitting journalism; you’re just there for the looks.”
Charles placed his hand over his stomach, letting out a guttural laugh. “If only they understood how darn good you are at your job. Maybe that’ll be it, though. When I’m gone, they’ll be able to see it. This will be your moment to shine.”
Mia gave him a false, plastic smile. She knew that this baby would force her further from her dreams, would further affirm more than anything that she was a “woman” in a man’s world.
She shuddered, barely moving her lips as Charles bid her a quick goodbye and sauntered back into the hallway, ready to track down Jeff to give him the news. Mia felt like she was walking the plank—as Charles dove into his future, he made no splash, but she’d be jumping directly into crocodile mouths.
Theresa rushed into the makeup room five minutes late, which was unlike her. Her face was blotched, angular. She huffed, tossing her purse on the countertop. She let out a throaty sigh. “Jesus, Mia. Do you know what’s wrong with husbands?”
“I don’t think I ever will,” Mia joked, trying to lighten the tension.
“Good. Because they’re lazy and only good for one thing. And they usually stink when they’re doing that, too.”
Mia let out a chuckle. Theresa was probably the only person in the world who could cheer her up like this. “What did he do this time?” Mia breathed. Her eyes flicked to her notes for her news segment about the children’s home, which she would be delivering alone.
Theresa burst into a tirade about the messiness of her kitchen, about the throw pillows on the floor (“not actually meant for throwing”), and—worst of all—Jack having promised Theresa’s appearance at a dinner with her mother-in-law. “She’s a wretched woman who, like my husband, only wants one thing. In her case, it’s grandchildren.”
Mia emitted fake laughter, knowing Theresa just needed a soundboard. It was precisely what she wanted for herself, too, but she couldn’t find the correct
words to deliver her message. And so she sat, allowed the powder to fall to her nose, and went through the robotic motions of being a friend.
Jeff appeared at the entrance of the makeup room, clutching his clipboard with tight fingers. “Mia. You’re on in three. Let’s get going.”
Mia thanked Theresa, giving her a final few words of encouragement, and then scampered out into the newsroom. She sat demurely at the center of the desk, scanning the production crew. But it was just the usual characters with bad beards and acne, their brains filled with Dungeons and Dragons and technical knowledge. No James in sight.
Jeff gave her an “Action!”, and Mia burst into the segment. Her mouth moved easily, and she articulated with prowess. As she worked, she let the knowledge of her situation fall away. She allowed herself to imagine the many different people watching her segment, each with different dreams, and different problems.