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OLIVIA
The guest bathroom toilet is my best friend in the morning.
Whereas yesterday was just a taste of sickness, a fun little teaser, this morning is the full-blown deal. I’ve vomited at least half a dozen times, all before my morning alarm. Great way to start the day.
… she said sarcastically.
This is more than nerves. I wrack my brain for what could have caused it. Something I ate? If it had been the takeout, Reese would have also been sick, right? But the silence of the house tells me that he’s nowhere near here. I doubt it was anything I ate before then. A sandwich, some coffee, peaches, and a candy bar. No likely culprits in the bunch.
Maybe it’s a stomach bug? But it’s not the time of year those are usually going around. Whatever it is makes me retch again. I’ve emptied more of my stomach than seems possible at this point. I’m starting to worry that I’m hacking up little pieces of my soul.
When the knot in my stomach loosens and I can breathe without dry heaving, I haul myself up. My legs tremble, not particularly eager to carry my weight. Well, too damn bad, I think. Because I’m alone and there’s a baby that needs my attention in the room just across from this porcelain prison.
Like I’m back in college again, I swirl Listerine and cold water in my mouth to rinse out the funk. Then I force myself to keep moving.
My walk of shame is more of a shamble of shame across the hall and into Violet’s room. I’m thankful she’s at the point where she doesn’t scream and cry as much. Though she’s never been an overly fussy baby, it’s never stopped her from having her moments.
She reaches out to me when I go to pick her up. Her adoration is a good distraction from the unsettled churning still going on in my gut.
Unfortunately, a distraction doesn’t mean it’s gone.
This goes on all morning. Everything seems to trigger the sick feeling in my stomach. The wet baby cereal, a scent I’ve been used to for years, smells absolutely putrid to me. Even the pureed blueberries I like to give her after make me gag.
It’s even worse when she spits some of it up, forcing me to quickly sit her in her highchair to bend over the kitchen sink and spew nothing but bile and what few crumbs of food my stomach has left.
Fuck. I can’t do this all day.
I don’t want to call Reese, not after our unsatisfying half-conversation last night. I also don’t want to call Mom, who I haven’t spoken to since that terrible lunch. Luckily, my third choice is the charm here. Quinn is still in town, so after I rinse my mouth again, I send her a text message.
OLIVIA: Hey Q-Tip, can I get a favor?
QUINN: Depeeeeends.
OLIVIA: I feel like trash today. Vomiting all over. Can you bring like soup or something? Maybe some Tums?
QUINN: You’re in luck sugarplum.
QUINN: Totally forgot my period was on its way to fuck up my life.
QUINN: Already at the pharmacy picking up tampons and enough candy to put a kid in a coma.
OLIVIA: Please rescue me. I’ll love you forever.
QUINN: You better!
Relief floods through me as I get the gumption again to move. But it’s a moment later, when I register what Quinn’s just sent me, that I pause.
Totally forgot my period was on its way to fuck up my life.
I do the math in my head. When was the last time I had a period? I’ve never been particularly regular, but I never go more than a month and a half or so between them, either. As I try to recall the date, I realize that it’s been well over a month. Damn near two, actually.
My heart thumps in my chest, a hard racket. A ringing fills my ears.
“No. No, no.” I shake my head. “You’re not, because… because that’s just crazy and impossible.”
But is it? After my miscarriage as a teen, I was told the chances of getting pregnant were slim. I only ever used condoms because, well, safety first. Even if I couldn’t have babies, I could catch something nasty.
But have Reese and I ever been careful?
