1
Alison
Have you ever noticed that in romance novels, when the heroine starts puking in the morning, it’s usually a glaring hint to the reader that she’s pregnant? Seriously. And she’s usually fairly clueless about it. She doesn’t seem to pick up on the other physical clues. She’s just going blithely about her life until she starts throwing up, and even then, she convinces herself that it’s just a stomach bug.
That’s not at all how it happened to me.
For me, it was a shirt that didn’t fit. I was getting ready for work, preoccupied with other stuff going on in my life, thinking about the patients I was slated to see that day, and in the course of dressing, I slipped my arms into one of my favorite sleeveless blouses and tugged the sides together to button it.
The buttons didn’t reach the buttonholes.
I frowned. That was odd. Taking off the blouse, I flipped it inside out to check the tag, making sure I hadn’t accidentally shrunk it in the wash. But no, it was exactly the same as it always was.
I tried again, turning to face my mirror. It was then that I realized something else—my boobs were spilling out of my bra. Now, this wasn’t typical for me—I was a scant B cup on the best of days, except for a few days before my period when I tended to fill those B cups a little more.
“Oh, that’s it,” I muttered to myself. “I must be . . .” And then my voice trailed off. Unless I was horribly mistaken, my period had been due . . . ten days ago?
Stress. It had to be the stress of everything I’d been upset about over the past month—Noah’s surgery, not being able to get in touch with him, finding out that he was in a coma . . . that would be enough to throw anyone off her cycle. It had happened to me before, most notably in the month after Tom had been killed. I’d clung to a piteous terror-filled hope that I might be miraculously pregnant—hope because a baby would be a part of Tom, terror because I’d be raising said baby on my own. When I’d finally realized that I wasn’t expecting a baby, I’d cried in regret and relief.
But this morning, an uneasy worry crept over me. Yes, I could blame a late period on worry, but I had to take into account the fact that I’d had sex recently—lots of it—and one time with a condom that had quite possibly been beyond its expiration date. The one I’d found in my suitcase that night at the hotel with Noah had dated from the early days of my relationship with Tom. I knew better. I was smarter than that. But my lust-fueled brain had been in the driver’s seat that night, and I’d rationalized that it was probably still good . . .
I absently arranged the tell-tale blouse back on its hanger and selected another, looser shirt. I finished getting ready, blowing dry my hair and putting on my makeup before I left the house and drove to my office. I went through all of the regular motions of my day, but while I did, another part of me was chanting an unending question.
What if? What if? What if?
I left the office at about seven. But instead of driving the short route to my house, I found myself turning toward the road that led out of Bayerton and toward the busier suburbs of Tampa. I couldn’t have said where I was heading, but when I found myself sitting in the parking lot of a chain drugstore, I knew why I was there.
This was a safe space. The chances that I’d run into anyone I knew were practically nil. I walked without hesitation to the correct aisle, picked up three pregnancy tests, and took them to the self-checkout counter. Not that the cashier would have cared, but I wasn’t in the mood for conversation or making nice.
I drove back home, went inside and upstairs to my bedroom, where I changed into my most comfortable loose sweats, kicking off my heels and replacing them with soft fuzzy socks. I padded back downstairs and made myself linguine with homemade pesto for dinner, going through the nightly ritual of setting the table for one and lighting a candle.
I did, however, forego my usual glass of Pinot Grigio. Just in case.
Once dinner was finished and cleaned up, I settled into my most comfortable chair in the living room and turned on the television. I was in the midst of a binge re-watch ofSex and the City, which I felt was a relatively safe show to enjoy tonight—except that the first episode that came on involved Miranda discovering a surprise pregnancy.
What if? What if? What if?
Even so, I steeled my resolve and watched three episodes before my head began to nod. I was so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open. I ignored the pop-up reminder that fatigue was another symptom of early pregnancy, and turning off the TV, I went upstairs to bed.
I had planned to wait until the morning to take the test. It was common knowledge that tests were more effective then, and I didn’t have any reason to rush. But as I lay in bed in the dark, it seemed that annoying chant grew louder.
What if? What if? What if?
As tired as I’d been downstairs in the chair, I couldn’t sleep now. Finally, I reasoned that I’d bought three tests. If I took one tonight and it was negative, I could do a second one in the morning to confirm the result.
Ten minutes later, I sat on the edge of my brand-new bathtub, my gaze fixed on the slender white stick that lay on the vanity. My phone was ticking down the minutes until I could expect an accurate answer, and I was having a come-to-Jesus talk with myself.
If it’s negative, then at least you can sleep tonight. You’ll take a second test in the morning to make sure that one is right. And if it’s positive . . . well, at least you’ll know.
The alarm on my phone sounded, and I jumped to my feet. My hand was shaking as I reached for the test, but even before I picked it up, I could see the answer.
POSITIVE.
I was pregnant.
* * *
“How doyou feel about this turn of events?” Brooke, my therapist, had recovered admirably from the shock of what I’d just shared. She’d planted her bare feet on the carpet in front of her seat, the tablet she used for taking notes balanced on her knees, and her hands clutching the arms of the chair.
