by Paula Mabbel
“What's that?”
“Nothing.”
I couldn't keep a straight face. We both burst into laughter, him almost choking on a piece of crispy bacon.
“Are you alright?” I asked, filling a glass of water and handing it to him. He nodded.
“OK, then. Eat. Nothing can get you out of this. Also, I'm driving you tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“To the airport, silly. See? You can't think when you don't eat.”
*****
I put the phone down, trying not to laugh out loud. “He's coming back tomorrow!”
Debby gave me a look as she was passing my canvas. “He's coming back home,” I mouthed. She feigned excitement then frowned at me. I seemed to be disturbing the class.
The rest of the hour I struggled to focus on my sketch and keep my breakfast down. Later in the day, I had to attend an oil painting exhibition with some of my colleagues. One of our teachers had been awarded some title and he wanted to boast about it with another one of his silly parties. Paintings especially selected for the evening, bad food choices and cheap wine were the things he thought appropriate for such an occasion.
I checked my phone. Two hours before the ordeal gave me enough time to shower, take something for the nausea and do my laundry.
I had managed to accomplish all of these tasks and was just leaving my apartment when another wave of nausea forced me to get back inside and run for the bathroom.
“What is this?” I asked myself, tightly hugging the toilet.
I needed to see a doctor. Until then, I had to get presentable and endure Professor Boast-a-Lot for an entire evening.
I almost didn't make it there, as I got terribly sick in the cab. I couldn't stop apologizing to the driver, even after leaving him triple the fare. He didn't seem like he understood much English.
Completely embarrassed and feeling lousy, I stepped through the heavy doors and into the tasteless living-room-turned-art-gallery that occupied the professor’s ground floor. He hadn't bothered to remove the open floor kitchen, which was now used as a makeshift bar for whatever oddity he had closed tonight.
A group of friends intercepted me before I had the chance to see the host. I didn't need much convincing to give up on that.
I grabbed a glass of wine, if only to look like I was enjoying myself, and followed the group around. We were supposed to be looking at every painting, as tomorrow the professor would ask us detailed questions about his own work.
I usually fared just fine at these events, but tonight something was wrong. And not with the style of the paintings, or the overall feeling of the party, or even with the sleazy attitude of the host. No, something had to be terribly wrong with me. I couldn't stand the smell of paint and the wine. God, I had thrown that thing away the first time I had seen a pot of plastic flowers.
I needed air, so I went outside. Debby caught on that something was up and she followed me out.
“You alright, girl?”
I nodded, clenching my teeth to settle the nausea.
“You don't look alright. Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
By the time she came back, I was bent over the railing, emptying my stomach. Again.
“Oh, God! Dianne, what happened?”
Great, exactly what I needed. Debby fussing over me at every cough and sneeze.
“I'm alright, thanks. Stomach flu, probably.” I tried to play it down. It felt like I was dying, but I couldn't tell her that.
“You should see a doctor,” she said, more like a demand than a suggestion.
“I know, I have an appointment tomorrow.”
“Good, now go home.”
“What?”
“You look like hell. Go home. I'll deal with Mr. Dick here.”
With every annoying thing Debby did, I still didn't know how to thank her for tonight. I couldn't get home fast enough, eager to cuddle up with some hot tea and a good book. I was sure everything would be fine by tomorrow. I had to be at my best for the competition, after all, so I had to feel better.
But the evening and the next morning didn't go as planned. I virtually slept in the bathroom, and I was feeling worse with every passing hour, as my stomach couldn't bear the pressure anymore. By the time the sun rose, I was barely breathing, so tired I could barely walk in a straight line.
I dared to have some water and look in the mirror. Both were very bad ideas.
Half an hour before my doctor's appointment, I managed to shower and get dressed. The prospect of another cab drive filled my mouth with bile, so I chose to walk. Maybe some chilly November air would do me some good.
It did, indeed. By the time I reached the clinic I was feeling better. Maybe it was nothing after all.
Because I had arrived late, I had to wait to be called again. And, with the noise and the smell of the waiting room, back came the nausea and the headaches. They had to usher me in sooner.
“What seems to be the problem, miss?” the old doctor asked.
I expressed my concerns regarding a stomach flu and my need to feel better by the afternoon, when I had the competition, and after some poking and prodding, the doctor finally sat back.
“Have you peed today, Miss Colt?”
Weird. “No. Why?”
“Would you mind going to the bathroom and doing one more test? I'll have a technician draw blood to confirm, but I'd like to see the results as soon as possible.”
“OK. Anything to get this over with.”
He handed me a pregnancy test and I stared at it dumbfounded.
“No, this can't be right. I'm not pregnant,” I said, happy to right a misunderstanding.
“Would you do it for me, please? I have forms to fill out. I can't just take your word for it.”
Alright, I understood bureaucracy. I smiled nicely and went into the bathroom at the end of the hall.
In a couple of minutes, I lifted the test and looked at it. Positive.
My immediate reaction was to puke. Then denial. They had to give me four different tests before I could calm down.
Everything after that was a haze. I heard the doctor saying something about a vulnerable pregnancy and that if I didn't wish to have an abortion, then he would recommend something to help me with the symptoms.
I was speechless. As if in a dream, I watched myself reach for the nausea medication, thank the doctor and a couple of nurses and push through the door to the street.
It was long after I had left the clinic that I realized that the annoying sounds that were bothering me were coming from my phone. I pulled it out and saw Peter was calling.
*****
“I'm going to tell him,” I said to myself, as he stopped the car at the valet post.
Someone opened the door for me and I stepped out. At Peter's arm, I followed him into the Russian restaurant I knew he loved. He had told me stories about the many times his parents had brought him here, and I had asked him if he could make reservations on such short notice. I wanted him to find out he would become a father in the same place he had so many happy childhood memories.
By the time we sat at our usual table, I was certain I was feeling better. With the doctor's prescription and with a successful trial for the national art competition, I knew this was about to be the best day in both mine and Peter's lives.
“How have you been this week?” he asked, making me grin.
“Fine. I got into the competition.”
“I never doubted that, baby dot. But you told me yesterday you didn't feel too well. Did you see your doctor this morning?”
“Yes. How is your father?”
“He's strong as an ox. And eager to get back to work. You know, he actually scolded me for flying there to see him.”
“Really? Wow.”
He laughed and I was glad my good news would come on top of other good news.
Before I could decide on what was the best moment to share my pregnancy, the waiter came and exchanged a f
ew words in Russian with Peter. I saw a shadow pass over his face.
“Nyet,” he said, and the waiter backed away.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, just someone I don't really want to see.”
I chose not to say anything, not to ruin the evening. Besides, he didn't look like he wanted to share what that was all about.
“Shall we have the usual?” he asked.
“Actually, I think I'm in the mood for caviar.”
“Ooh! What's the occasion? Are we celebrating your contest?”
I shook my head.
“OK, I get it, it's a secret celebration. Nevertheless, some caviar and fine vodka would do me some good, I guess.”
“No vodka for me,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Oh. How come?”
I opened my mouth to answer evasively when a man approached our table. The shadow was back on Peter's face.
“What are you doing? Am I disturbing?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
I was put off by Peter's attitude. He never struck me as the offensive type.
“Who's this chocolatey beauty?” the man kept going, and I could see now why Peter would dislike him.
“None of your business. And watch your mouth.”
“Oh, I see. So, while your girlfriend is waiting for you at home, you're out drinking with dolls. Wait until Father hears about this.”
“First of all, Father—”
I felt the blood draining from my face, and the urge to empty my stomach propelled me off the chair and towards the bathroom. I got there just in time, before making a mess in the restaurant or crying in front of the two of them.
I spent minutes trying to recover, then even longer to wipe off the runny makeup under my eyes.
I couldn't believe my ears. Peter had a girlfriend. And here I was, carrying his child and feeling stupid. No wonder he didn't want the guy near me. He had just spilled the beans on him.
I finally straightened up, deciding I looked decent enough. I had to end this evening with my head held high; I had no fault in all of this.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the restroom door and almost bumped into Peter.
“Look, I'm sorry for what he said. Are you alright?”
“I'm fine, thank you.”
“Are you sure? Should I take you to a hospital?”
“No, I'm alright. I think I should go.”
“What? Why? Because of what he said? That doesn't mean anything.”
Of course it wouldn't. What was I? Just a nice piece of tail on the side. Why would the truth of the matter mean anything?
“It's quite alright,” I said, trying my hardest not to burst into tears and make a fool of myself. “I'll be leaving now. Don't come after me.”
I walked back to the table, grabbed my purse and left. It felt like everyone was watching me, knowing what I was and pitying me for the child I was carrying.
At the door, the man from earlier intercepted me.
“Miss, if I may apologize,” he started.
“Leave me alone.” My voice was small with tears as I pushed past him and into the street. I needed a cab fast.
My lucky night, I thought when a cab stopped at my feet. As the car started moving, I caught a glimpse of the two men who had just ruined my life. I was shocked to see Peter punch the other man so hard in the stomach that he doubled over, only to meet Peter's next fist face front. He crumbled down under everyone's eyes. It was only natural no one would interfere with the head of the Russian crime empire.
*****
For the last five days and seven hours I had the same routine. Cry my eyes out every evening, wake up crying, then cry myself through breakfast. Immediately run to the bathroom and lose my breakfast, then attempt to hide the signs of my misery under tons of makeup.
At school, Debby had started to watch me more closely, making it difficult for me to avoid her after class.
Today, after a weekend of pain, suffering, gruesome nausea and violent cramps, I struggled to get ready for class. I didn't know how I survived the subway.
As usual, I greeted the restrooms first, then conveniently arrived late to class. Debby looked angry.
“We might be friends out of school, Miss Colt, but I will not stand you disturbing the class every day. Are we clear?”
“I'm sorry,” I mumbled, looking down to hide my tears.
At my canvas, I couldn't focus. Gradually, I felt weaker and weaker. For some reason, my feet were getting cold and the seat of my chair seemed wet. I checked to see if everything was alright and cried out.
“I'm bleeding!”
There was a commotion around me and I faintly remembered Debby shouting at me. Something about an ambulance, from what I could make out.
After that, there was a rain of color and darkness. When I came to, I was being hurried through the hallways of a hospital, the bright lights running above me, hurting my eyes.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard Debby arguing with the doctor, saying that she would be coming in with me no matter what. I felt too weak to argue, and fell asleep.
I didn't know what time it was when I finally woke up. All I knew was that I was feeling better and I needed water.
“Here you go,” Debby said, offering me a plastic cup.
Looking sheepish, I grabbed the cup and downed the water in one gulp. There was silence for a while, then Debby said:
“The baby’s fine. Your doctor said that the pregnancy is vulnerable and that you need to stay away from any stress.”
I nodded. “So you know.”
“Of course I know. What the hell were you thinking not telling me? And Peter? How could you keep something like this from him?”
“It's complicated, Deb. Wait, how do you know about Peter and me?”
She snorted. “I called him. Naturally, I thought that the father of the baby would be concerned for his child, right? And what do I find out? The poor bastard didn't even know his girlfriend was pregnant. Oh, wait, you're not his girlfriend anymore.”
“Oh, my God, you called him! This is what I wanted to avoid. He has a girlfriend! I don't want to cause any…”
“You're stupid and you're talking nonsense. Of course he has a girlfriend. You!”
“No, I'm serious. I heard someone say it to his face.”
I seemed to have misunderstood Debby, as she started laughing.
“You know nothing. That someone was his brother. Everyone in the family hates him, and he hates everyone. He just wanted to bust Pete's chops and you, the fool that you are, helped him. And the girlfriend he mentioned? It was his father's idea before Peter told him about you. But of course you wouldn't know anything about this. You've been ignoring the poor bastard’s calls ever since that night.”
I had nothing to say for myself. I couldn't even breathe from the sadness that enveloped me. Hot tears started running down my cheeks as various monitors started beeping and crying with me.
Debby jumped as the door opened and, instead of a doctor, Peter burst in.
“What did you do?” he barked at Debby, who slid along the wall, genuinely scared.
He turned his attention to me. I didn't want to look at him. I knew he hated me.
“Shh, baby dot. Everything will be alright,” he whispered, cradling my sobbing body into his strong arms. “Shh. It's OK.”
The attending nurses left him to hold me while they checked the monitors. As I was calming down, they too were getting quiet. Eventually, we were alone.
“Do you hate me?” I asked, unable to look into his eyes.
“No, baby dot. I hate my brother. I love you and your strong will, baby dot. Or should I call you ‘mamma dot’ now?”
I giggled with tears in my eyes, my lungs tightening again around the lump in my chest. This time, it was because I was happy.
“I love you, baby daddy.”
“I know you do, silly. I love you too. You're the light of my life, baby dot.”
*
****
THE END
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