Desiree rolls her dark brown eyes to the ceiling. “Bitch, you donothave parvo. And whoever wrote that, well, they’re a dumbass. You know you can’t believe anything on the internet.” Her face scrunches, like I won’t like what she’s about to say. “Have you thought about taking a pregnancy test?”
Her words land like a punch to the gut. I blink up at her, the floor tilting beneath me. A cold knot of dread forms in my stomach.
“I-I’m on the pill,” I stammer, shaking my head. “I’m pretty good at remembering to take it. I don’t even know the last time I forgot one.”
Closing the toilet lid, I sink onto it, shifting my mind to reverse for the date of my last period. That knot pulls taut when it hits me I should have started two weeks ago. I’ve been so busy with the new mural project, I completely failed to notice it’s late. Not once has it crossed my mind. My heartbeat quickens behind my ribcage.
“The pill isn’t one hundred percent. All kinds of things can fuck with birth control. Antidepressant, antibiotics, stress…probably more I don’t know about.”
My eyes snap to hers. “How do you know all this?”
“I told you, my mom’s a gynecologist. She preached safe sex to my sister and me the minute we got our periods. We listened to lectures all the time on how many teen pregnancies she sees a week.”
I drop my head to my hands, my thoughts going straight to the round of antibiotics I took during the week of graduation.
“Clearly, you did not endurethe talkwith your grandparents, and it shows.”
“Desiree, we didn’t discuss things like that in my house. My grandparents are amazing, but they’re…old fashioned. I had to learn things from my friends.”
“Have you been with anyone lately?” Desiree asks softly.
Wordlessly, I nod. Yes, I have absolutely been with someone. I picture hazel eyes that made me feel beautiful, cherished. Things no one has ever made me feel. Eyes that greet me every night in my dreams. An image of the note he left comes to mind, and a sheen of tears prick my eyes when I remember the smudged phone number. Pressing a hand to my heart, I try to hold myself together.
Twenty minutes later, Desiree has returned from the store and we’re sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor. Her phone timer counts down the seconds, two pregnancy tests resting on the edge of the sink, slowly deciding my fate.
Beep, beep, beep.
The timer on the phone goes off and I stand on wobbly legs. My heart’s a drumbeat in my ears. Counting to ten, I force my eyes down.
Two pink lines. My eyes slide to the other test to see matching two matching lines.
I feel it in my bones, like the universe folds in on itself, a sudden wrinkle in its fabric that steals the breath straight from my lungs.
PRESENT DAY
“Mom!” Abby hollers from the living room. “We’re gonna be late. Austin’s concert starts in literally ten minutes!”
“Shit,” I mutter to my reflection. Then, poking my head from my bedroom, I shout, “Almost ready!” Dashing to my bathroom, I spritz perfume on my wrists and neck. It’s the same peachy vanilla scent I’ve worn since college. My signature scent, I like to say. If they ever discontinue it, I might riot. Swiping a brush through my hair to make sure it’s lying straight, I check my reflection in the mirror one last time. I’m wearing colorful wide-leg pants, paired with a light cardigan in case there’s a breeze, and despite how tired I am, I look cute, if I do say so myself.
I’ve been going ninety-to-nothing since I woke up. My morning began with a tough visit to see Mawmaw at Morningside, her assisted living facility. After her memory loss rapidly declined, I moved her there, and it’s quite possibly the hardest decision I’ve ever made. The right decision—yes. But hard, nonetheless. Her memory loss simply advanced to the point where living alone was no longer safe. And I’ll do anything to take care of the woman who took care of me.
After our visit, I came home to finish an Etsy order. With the holiday season right around the corner, I’ve burned the midnight oil countless nights to complete several commissioned watercolor portraits. With the finishing touches applied to the canvas, I barely had enough time to bake not one, but two Mississippi Mud Cakes for Singing River’s town-wide Friendsgiving. This is my first year making Mawmaw’s recipe for the event. She’s baked them every year for as long as I can remember.
I release a shaky breath as memory after memory plays on a reel through my mind, a lifetime of looking forward to my grandmother’s baked goods. These days, she’d be hard pressed to remember a single recipe, yet another thing this ugly disease has stolen from her.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away.I will not cry.Not today.
My eyes land on a tube of lipstick, and I think about the ridiculous advice Mawmaw used to give. Always pristine, makeup perfectly in place, she’d say, “Josephine, don’t let your lips blend with your face. Be sure to wear lipstick when you leave the house because you never know when you’ll bump into the man of your dreams.” It’s a nice, albeit old-fashioned, thought. Wearing lipstick is usually the last thing on my mind. Today, though, I grab the tube of Berry Freeze and dab it on, making a kissy face at the mirror when I’m done.
“I’m ready kids,” I announce, scuttling down the hall to the living room.
Neither of my kids look my way, which gives me a moment to admire these precious humans I have the joy of mothering. Time really is a thief, flying past at warp speed. Now they sit before me, my two greatest accomplishments. Abby’s chestnut brown hair lies straight and shiny down her back, her hazel eyes glued to her phone. And my sweet boy, Jay. Still full of the childlike innocence of a ten-year-old, his blond curls, so similar to my own, bounce wildly as he plays tug of war with our long-haired dachshund, Smudge.
“Girl. You rushed me, now look at you. Sitting on your phone.” Abby grins, eyes flicking to mine. “Come on.” I wave her up. “Let’s grab the cakes. Jay, run and get Smudge on his leash, please, sir.”
Abby follows me into the kitchen while Jay snaps Smudge’s harness on, securing the leash. I hand one cake to her as I balance the other.
“You look pretty, Mom,” she says out of nowhere. For the second time today, I’m blinking back quick-sprung tears. Like any mother, I’ve learned compliments do not sit, ready to pour from the lips of my children. It’s usually more of a backhanded compliment to keep me humble.
