“Are you OK?”
I nod. I don’t want to scare her or for her to call Eric. I look at the clock: eleven thirty in the morning.
Crap.
Simona won’t take her eyes off me.
“I stayed up reading last night, and now I can’t seem to stay awake.”
“C’mon, sleepyhead. I made churros for you, but they’ll be cold.”
When the door closes, my stomach contracts, and I run back to the bathroom. I’m in there a good while, and then I go right back to bed. Suddenly, I think about the churros, and I get nauseous. The mere thought of them makes me want to die. I get up. Since when do churros disgust me?
I’m dizzy.
I look in the mirror, and, out of nowhere, I remember that when my sister was pregnant, she was also disgusted by churros. My stomach flips over again, and I bring my hands to my head.
“No . . . no . . . no . . . It can’t be.”
My mind is blocked, my stomach goes nuts again, and I run to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I’m lying on the floor, my feet resting on the sink. Everything is spinning around me. I just realized I haven’t had my period in longer than I would like.
I need air.
I think I’m going to have a heart attack.
When I finally get my head to stop spinning, I put my feet on the floor and sit up. I look at myself in the mirror.
“Please . . . please . . . I can’t be pregnant,” I moan pitifully.
My neck itches.
My God, I have a rash!
I scratch and scratch, but I have to stop. I can’t help myself, and I scratch again!
I go back to bed. I open the drawer on my nightstand and check my pillbox. I’m horrified to realize it’s been several days since I took the last one. I remember my last period was barely there. I was surprised, but I know I was taking the pill.
Oh God . . . oh God!
I curse and throw a little tantrum. I’ve been so busy with everything lately, I didn’t realize what was happening. I open the pill leaflet and read that the margin of error is 0.001 percent.
I’m so unlucky that I’m going to be that tiny percentage?
I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. Eric’s smell comes to me, and I love it. When I finally pull myself together, I get dressed and decide to go to a pharmacy. This is urgent!
“Don’t eat the cold churros, Judith,” Simona says when she sees I’m downstairs. “Wait and I’ll get you some food. By the way, Emerald Madness starts in fifteen minutes. I’m going to leave these shirts for Mr. Zimmerman in your room. Then we can watch it together, OK?”
I nod and walk right past her.
“Is something the matter, Judith?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’re pale,” she says.
Oh Mother of God, if she only knew!
“I stayed up reading until four in the morning. I missed Eric.”
Simona smiles. “Don’t worry, Judith. He’ll be back the day after tomorrow at the latest.”
As soon as she disappears up the stairs, I go to the kitchen. The churros are on the table.
To prove to myself they don’t disgust me, I throw myself at them. I gobble away, and my stomach keeps still. That relaxes me for an instant. But I’m a wreck, and I shove seven churros down my throat until my stomach rebels and I have to rush out of the kitchen.
I run into Simona on the way, and she follows me. Easy and sanguine, she does what my mother did so many times when I was little. She holds my head while my body expels absolutely everything.
I’m so disgusted with myself!
When I finally relax, I’m covered by a horrible cold sweat. I let Simona guide me by the hand to the kitchen.
“You’re pale . . . very pale,” she says.
I don’t say a thing. I can’t.
I don’t want to talk about what’s happening to me but, suddenly, Simona fixes her eyes on the plate of churros.
“How are you not going to throw up with all the churros you’ve eaten?”
I nod.
I don’t want to explain anything.
“I was so hungry, I ate them in a rush, and I think my stomach got angry at me.”
She prepares some tea and asks me to drink it so my stomach will calm down.
Gross!
I hate tea.
But Simona insists, and I listen to her. Otherwise she’ll call Eric. Ten minutes later, I’m feeling like me again, and color returns to my face.
I turn on the TV and we watch Emerald Madness. But I’m not following it. My thoughts are elsewhere. And Simona is oblivious.
“Poor little Esmeralda,” she says when the episode concludes. “All her life suffering and now her love doesn’t recognize her and falls in love with the hospital nurse. How sad . . . How sad.”
When she leaves, and I’m alone in the kitchen, I decide to go to the pharmacy. I tell Simona I’m not going to be home for lunch. I need to go out and get some air. I grab my red anorak, go to the garage, and get in the Mitsubishi. Eric’s scent is all over me again.
“If I’m pregnant, I’m going to kill you, Mr. Zimmerman.”
I start to drive aimlessly while the music plays in the car, but I can’t even sing.
I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m a disaster as a person; how can I have a child?
I park the car near Bogenhausen and decide to take a walk through the English Garden. It’s cold. In Munich it gets cold as hell in November. As I think and walk, I pass a beer bike, the city’s star attraction. I notice the driver is drinking beer and having fun while pedaling. My stomach turns. Gross!
I continue my walk and stroll past several mothers and their babies.
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking when I realize I’m totally frozen. My anorak isn’t warm enough, and, if I go on like this, I’ll get pneumonia. As I leave the English Garden, I see a tobacco shop. I head straight to it and buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I light a cigarette, inhale, and enjoy.
I can’t be pregnant. It must be a mistake.
I keep walking until I see a pharmacy.
I stare at it from a distance, and, when I finish my smoke, I go in and wait in line. “I want a pregnancy test, please,” I say when it’s my turn.
“Digital or not digital?” the clerk asks.
“I don’t care,” I respond.
She opens a drawer and takes out several long, colored boxes.
“Any of these can be taken at any time of the day. This is digital; this is ultrasensitive . . .”
For a few minutes, the woman talks and talks, and I just want her to shut up and give me a fucking pregnancy test.
“Although you can take these anytime, I’d recommend you do it with your first morning urine.”
I finally look at the packages. What am I doing?
“Which would you like? It’s up to you.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I’ll take these,” I say, randomly choosing four.
“All of them?”
“All of them,” I say.
The clerk smiles, stops asking questions, and puts them in a plastic bag. I give her my card, and, once paid, I leave. When I get to the car, I open the bag and take out the tests. I read the instructions on all of them; they’re all basically the same. I have to pee on the wand—they’re 99 percent reliable.
Fuck the percentages.
When I get home, Simona scolds me because I only wore my anorak and for being gone so long. I suddenly realize it’s three in the afternoon. The morning has vanished, and I hadn’t even noticed.
Simona tells me a worried Eric has called about twenty times, and that he’ll call again. I suddenly realize I’m so overwhelmed, I left the house without my cell.
“You didn’t tell him what happened to me this morning, did you?”
She shakes her head.
“No, Judith. He was worried enough about not being able to get in touch with you. Besides, I know him, an
d that would distress him. I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and hug her.
Once Simona returns to her chores, I pick up my cell, put it in my pants pocket, and hurry to my room. I lock myself in the bathroom, sit on the toilet, and stare at the package I’ve placed on the bidet. For several minutes, I tell myself this can’t be happening.
I can’t be pregnant!
Summoning all my strength, I take out one of the tests.
I unbutton my jeans and lower them and my underwear. I sit back down on the toilet. With trembling hands, I remove the cap on one of the tests. When I finally manage to pee on it (as well as my hand), I cover it back up and place it horizontally on the bathroom countertop.
Once I’m ready and buckled back up, I light a cigarette. But after two drags, I get dizzy. I sit on the floor, then lie down and raise my legs up on the sink.
Mother of God . . . I’m so afraid.
Me, with a baby?
No fucking way!
Ugh . . . I’m so dizzy!
When I think back to Raquel’s delivery, I get nauseous. What unbelievable stress!
It’s been two minutes and thirty-seven seconds . . . thirty-eight . . . thirty-nine.
I try to sing. That always relaxes me, and our song is the first thing that comes to mind.
I stop singing to myself and look at my watch. Five minutes. I have to look at the results, but I don’t have the courage!
I can’t open the cap.
I light another cigarette, even at the risk of getting dizzy. I need it.
My neck itches.
I can’t even sing anymore.
I bring my legs down off the sink.
I grab the package again and reread it for the umpteenth time. If it’s two lines, it’s positive, and if it’s only one, negative.
I want a negative as big as a truck. Please, please . . .
I extinguish the cigarette and try to drum up my courage. I pick up the test and, without thinking about it one more second, look.
“Two lines,” I whisper.
I drop the test and pick up the package again. It’s right there: two lines, positive. One, negative.
I’m so dizzy . . .
I reread it. Two lines, positive. One, negative.
I lie on the bathroom floor and mutter with my eyes closed. “It can’t be; it can’t be . . .”
I decide to repeat the test when I remember there’s a 1 percent chance of an error. If the contraceptive failed, why can’t the pregnancy test fail as well?
I carry out the same operation as before. Again I hope and pray, this time without a cigarette. Five minutes later, I check again.
“Nooooooo.”
I do a third test. A fourth. The result is the same: positive.
My heart is going a thousand beats a minute. I’m going to have a heart attack, and, when Eric comes back, I’ll be stiffer than a piece of tuna jerky on the bathroom floor.
I think about the margin of error on these tests. But it seems that after four of them, there’s little room for doubt.
I’m getting dizzy again . . .
Everything’s spinning . . .
I lie on the floor and put my feet up on the sink again.
“Why? Why does this have to happen to me?”
Suddenly, my cell rings. I take it out of my jeans pocket and see it’s Eric. The baby’s father!
Ugh . . . my nerves.
I’m so warm and I fan myself with my hand.
I don’t want him to think I sound strange so, after six rings, I greet him as cheerfully as I can.
“Hi, my love.”
“How could you leave the house without your cell? Are you nuts?” he asks in a tense voice.
I’m not up for this.
“First: don’t scream at me. Second: I forgot. And third: if you’re going to call me just to be a jerk, be prepared because I can be one too.”
Silence.
“Where have you been, Jude?”
“I went to buy some sundries, and then I took a walk because—”
“A very long walk, don’t you think?” he asks, cutting me off. “Alone or with company?”
“Where’s that coming from?”
“Alone or with company?” His voice is even edgier.
What’s going on? But before I can ask, the call drops.
I stare at the phone like a fool.
Did he hang up on me?
Did that dickhead hang up on me?
Furious, I dial his number. Now he’s going to find out what it means to raise your voice. But as soon as it rings, he hangs up without picking up. That enrages me. I try three more times, but the result is the same.
I’m hysterical, nervous, and—to make matters worse—pregnant!
If I could get my hands on Eric right now, I’d kill him!
I don’t know what to do and decide to swim a few laps. I need to do something.
I put on my swimsuit, and, when I reach the edge of the pool, my stomach flips over, and I run to the bathroom.
When Flyn comes home, I’m sitting at the edge of the water, totally out of my mind. The boy hugs me from behind and kisses me on the cheek. Delighted by that display of affection, I close my eyes.
“Thanks, sweetie. I needed that.”
The kid, who is very smart, sits next to me.
“What did you talk about with my uncle?”
“Nothing, sweetie. He’s in London, and it’s hard to have a discussion at such a distance.”
The boy looks at me and nods but doesn’t say anything. He’s drawing his own conclusions. Suddenly, my stomach gurgles.
“What do you have in there, an alien?”
I laugh and can’t stop.
Everything is surreal again.
I’m pregnant, and Eric, the man who should be by my side, kissing me like crazy because he’s going to be a father, is angry.
“Let’s have dinner, or I’ll have to eat you up right now,” I say.
When Flyn goes to bed, I’m alone again in the huge living room, accompanied only by Susto. I gesture for him to climb on the couch. Now that Eric isn’t here, he takes advantage of me.
I call Eric. He doesn’t pick up. Why is he so angry? I turn on the TV, but, after a while, I have a need to tell someone what’s wrong. I touch Susto and he raises his head.
“I’m pregnant, Susto. We’re going to have a little Zimmerman Flores.”
He seems to understand and lies down again, covering his eyes with one of his paws. That makes me laugh. Even he knows this is crazy.
At eleven o’clock, seeing that Eric isn’t calling me back, I decide to go up to our room. I drag myself up the stairs. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and see the pack of cigarettes. I throw it in the trash at the exact moment my cell rings. Eric at last!
“Hi, honey,” I say, without the slightest urge to argue.
There’s a lot of background noise where he’s at.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Surprised, I sit on the toilet. I look around for the hidden camera. Does he know I’m pregnant?
“What?”
“You know very well what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t . . .”
“Yes, you do!” he shouts.
I’m disconcerted. If he was talking about my pregnancy, he wouldn’t be so angry. Eric’s drunk. It’s the first time he’s been drunk since we’ve been together and that worries me.
“Where are you, Eric?”
“Out drinking.”
“Are you with Amanda?”
He laughs. I don’t like this laugh.
“No, I’m not with Amanda. I’m alone.”
“Eric,” I say, not raising my voice, “can you tell me what’s going on? I don’t understand a thing and—”
“Have you seen Björn today?”
“What?”
“Don’t play innocent, sweetheart. I know you.”
“What is wrong with you?” I cry,
desperate now.
“I don’t know how I didn’t figure it out before.” He raises his voice. “My best friend and my wife, shacking up!”
Has he gone mad?
Besides drunk, he’s out of his mind! Once more, the communication is cut off.
I don’t understand anything and call him back. He won’t pick up. My nerves are making my stomach queasy, and, in the end, what happens, happens. Goodbye, dinner.
I don’t sleep. I just want to know he’s OK. I’ve never heard him so drunk. I’m worried something will happen to him, but no matter how many times I call, he won’t pick up. I send several emails. I know he’ll see them. But he doesn’t answer them either.
I think about Björn. Should I call him and tell him what happened? I ultimately decide not to. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and I don’t think it’s the time for that.
At six thirty, after a horrible night unable to get through to Eric, I’m in the kitchen. Simona comes in and is surprised to see me.
“What are you doing up so early?”
My face falls, and I begin to cry. She’s completely thrown off. She sits next to me, and, like a mother, wipes my tears with a napkin while I talk and talk, but Simona doesn’t understand any of it.
I keep the pregnancy to myself but explain clearly what happened with Eric. She’s puzzled. She knows I love and adore my German like few people in the world, and that Björn is just a great friend to the two of us.
At eight o’clock, she goes to wake Flyn, and at half past eight, when the kid comes down and sees my deplorable state, he sits next to me.
“You argued with my uncle, right?”
This time I nod. I can’t deny it.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure my uncle is in the wrong,” he says, surprising both Simona and me.
“Flyn . . .”
“You are a very good mom,” he insists.
I burst into tears again. He called me Mom. There is no stopping me anymore.
After Simona serves Flyn breakfast, and Norbert comes to take him to school, I decide to go with them. The air will be good for me. On the way, my little man grabs my hand and doesn’t let go. As always, that gives me strength. It amuses me when he kisses me before getting out of the car so no one can see him. When he finally goes on his way, I ask Norbert to wait a second so I can get out of the vehicle.
I need air.
I take a small card from my pocket, and, after staring at it, make the decision to call. The doctor gives me the number for a private gynecologist. I immediately get an appointment for the next day. The good thing about having money is that everything is at your disposal. It’s the same as Social Security in Spain. When María, my new Spanish friend, sees me, she notices the dark circles under my eyes.
Tell Me What You Want—Or Leave Me Page 20