Page 90 of The Contract Marriage

Anxiety prickles my skin. I have to be pregnant. I’d better be!

I drive to the local CVS, thumb tapping the steering wheel while the car’s sound system wails with a haunting jazzy tune. I grab three pregnancy tests and start toward home. The traffic crawls like a snail on horse tranquilizers. Come on, people! If I didn’t care about dignity or legality, I might pull over and pee on the sticks right on I-10.

A small fender bender. Great. Still, I make it home before 5:30. Clutching my purse and pregnancy tests, I run into the empty house and step onto the stairs, then stop.

Water first. Just in case.

I guzzle down two glasses, then rush to the bathroom. Tremors rack me. My hands shaking so badly, it takes three tries before I can pull out the first test. I pee on it, then just to be sure I do the same with the rest. Three out of three is a sure thing. I’ll go see my doctor tomorrow to be double-damn sure.

“Hey Siri, three minutes,” I say as I wash my hands, keeping my eyes on the result boxes.

My foot taps the floor, doing about sixty miles an hour. Please!

Two lines.

I slap a hand over my mouth, my heart racing. That’s pregnant!

A cross.

Another confirmation.

Pregnant.

“Yes, YES, YES!!!” Propping my elbows on my thighs and clenching my hands into fists, I bend and let out a scream. Not of joy. Whatever I’m feeling right now isn’t that simple. But I have to eject this series of knots lodged in my chest and belly or I’m going to die.

My throat goes dry and the shrieks go hoarse. But the knots are still there. I drop to my knees, bracing myself on the bathroom floor with one hand and pounding the cold tiles with the other.

Somehow, my hands get wet. Only then do I realize I’m crying, too.

I expel a shaky breath and collapse onto my side, curling up and covering my belly, cradling the life I can’t even see or feel. This baby is everything I’ve worked toward, my literal means to crush Hugh and his family. I should be elated—and I am happy. But euphoria and relief aren’t all that I’m feeling. Something bitter clenches around my throat.

Because when a woman discovers that she’s pregnant, she shouldn’t have to think about anything other than the joy of creating a life with the man she loves. Instead, I’m thinking about revenge and my mom and Pochi, all that I’ve lost and all that I’m trying to fix by having this baby. It’s unfair to the baby, unfair to me, and unfair to Liam. We deserve better, but my past is a thief that’s robbed us.

I remember how callous Elita and Auric were about Liam. They acted like his birth didn’t mean anything, was just some accident that complicated their lives. Although he never said anything, the dimming light in his eyes betrayed his pain. Will this child learn that they were primarily conceived to get justice for their grandmother? I would never speak of it, but that doesn’t mean nobody will—or that the child won’t figure it out. Will they resent me? Will they look at me with wounded eyes?

And what about Liam? He says he loves me, but will he grow to hate me for having his first child for revenge?

Things I haven’t given myself permission to consider pop into my head as the fact that I’m pregnant really sinks in.

It’s okay, I tell myself. I can still give my baby everything they need to thrive and be happy. I can be a good mom. I learned from the best, didn’t I?

Mom, I can be good, right?

I don’t know how long I remain on the floor. But eventually, I’m spent and empty, the suffocating knots loose and undone. I breathe deeply, then push myself up. If Mom were here now, she’d hug me, kiss my cheeks and quiver with excitement over the idea of a grandchild.

“Mom, I miss you so much,” I whisper. “Please watch over my baby.”

I throw some cold water on my face and go downstairs. The kitchen is peaceful. One of the spotlights from the ceiling shines on a rustic basket full of fresh apples. I inhale. They smell amazing, sweet and ripe. It reminds me of the brown paper bags near-bursting with apples Mom would bring home and turn into tarte tatin. We baked it several times together over the years, but I quit after she died.

Now, I want to try again and make it for my baby.

I grab ingredients from the pantry and fridge. A note on the door says “Left you lasagna for dinner. Heat and eat! Enjoy. –F”

Smiling, I lay out everything on the counter. Although Liam and I don’t cook, Frederich has the pantry and fridge well-stocked.

Memories of being in the kitchen with Mom floating in my head, I make the pastry. It’s weird how moving your body through a familiar set of steps can make you remember. Something like muscle memory, but more…complete.

Just under an hour later, the pan is in the oven and the scent of caramel and apple chunks from the pot permeates the air. Thirty more minutes and it’ll be ready.