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Chapter 1: Andrea
Please don’t be positive.
The bathroom stall felt like a coffin. I sat with my knees pressed against each other, my head hanging low and my hair hiding the tears that were running down my cheeks. I rocked back and forth on the toilet seat, praying to God no one would decide to come in and hear my uncontrolled sobs. I didn’t want anyone knocking on the stall door, asking if I was okay.
I wasn’t okay. Obviously.
Not positive. Not positive.
I kept repeating the words in my mind like a mantra, as if just thinking it would make it true. What was it that they said about positive thinking? Wish it, and it will be? Some bullshit like that. If it were true, I wouldn’t even be in this situation, locked in a bathroom with a pregnancy test that smelled like urine clutched tightly in my hands while I waited for the damned thing to tell me whether my life would turn into something worse than it already was.
I was late, two weeks actually, and the only reason I had waited so long to check was because I was scared of what the result might be. Seeing that pink positive sign would kill me. It would be like a hand reaching into my chest cavity, grabbing my heart and squeezing until the blood burst out.
There was something almost pathetic about it all. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me that my mascara had run wild, making me look like I had war paint on my face. I had shaken my hair so many times, it probably looked like a whirlwind of brunette strands. My eyes burned, my nose was running, and the left sleeve of my blouse was a mix of make-up and tears, a Van Gogh of my anxiety and inevitable misery.
Just don’t be positive. For fuck’s sake, don’t be positive!
I had lost track of time, of how long I had been sitting there waiting for the result. The box had instructed me to wait for ten minutes, and I was sure those had gone by already. I just couldn’t bring myself to look at the stick. I would lose it completely if it told me I was pregnant.
Dennis would be thrilled.
On second thought, no, Dennis wouldn’t. He’d probably turn into a hurricane of emotions, scream at me for being a ‘dumb cunt’ who couldn’t keep track of her contraception. He’d go on and on about how we couldn’t afford a child, how I was a conniving bitch that had planned to get knocked up just to make his life miserable. I’d probably react in some stupid way, like laugh at the fact that we actually could afford a child if he spent less money on booze and hookers.
Then the beating would begin. And the screaming.
Mostly my screaming.
I sighed, coughed as I felt the breath I took break into staccatos of inhales threatening to suffocate me, and hugged my knees tight. I rocked faster, whispering a prayer I knew would definitely go unanswered. Look at the damn stick and get it over with, the voice of reason screamed in my head. But I didn’t want to. There was only one result I wanted to see, and I had a feeling that the world wasn’t done slapping me across the face just yet. It would be positive, and I’d be screwed.
I ran a hand through my hair and shook it for the hundredth time since I had sat down. Jeremy would probably be looking for me by now, scouring the offices, ready to drop a shitload of paperwork my way. It was one thing to deal with Dennis’s wrath at home; Jeremy Karp was a completely different story. It wasn’t easy being the secretary for the CEO of KarpTech. People kept telling me that I was lucky to have the job.
I wanted to slam a fist in those same people’s faces and dare them to walk in my shoes.
Getting fired is only going to make it worse.
Dennis would kill me for it. He already had his hands on half my salary, and that was only because he didn’t know just how much I earned. Otherwise, my entire paycheck would be used to fund his nighttime sex-capades and barhopping. The money he got from working at Ford was never enough, or at least that was what he claimed. Then again, I believed him. How much could a good-for-nothing mechanic make anyway, even at Ford?
I shifted in my place, and the plastic pregnancy stick tapped against the toilet porcelain, reminding me that there were bigger problems looming. Being married to a drunk and cheat was one thing, but there was nothing worse than constantly fearing, I could get beaten up because the chicken was too dry. Telling Dennis I was pregnant would get me a one-way ticket to the emergency room, and that was if I was lucky.
You’re going to have to get a break sooner or later. Maybe this is it. Check the fucking stick!
I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath, and brought the stick up. I opened my eyes slowly, my vision blurred by the tears already forming,
my body shaking with the anticipation of what it meant to see a positive sign.
It was negative.
The stick fell from my hand and clattered across the floor, and my sigh of relief was quickly followed by a rush of tears. I cried freely, having had dodged a bullet, and I fought to stay seated as my legs turned to jelly.
It took me half an hour before I could finally get up and wash my face.
***
“Where the hell were you?”
Karen Briggs pulled me into the conference room just before I could make it to my desk. A fiery redhead with the body of a Greek goddess, she was Jeremy’s right hand woman and the only person in the company who kept him from firing everyone left and right. Of course, there was the added benefit that she actually liked me, which made my job just bearable, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that if push came to shove, she’d throw me under the bus.
Karen closed the conference door and turned down the blinds, turning to me with a frown that made me cringe.
“I had an emergency,” I said. “That time of the month, wasn’t prepared for it.”
“He’s been asking for you for the past hour, Andrea,” Karen shot.
“I’m sorry, I really am,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded. Don’t look down. Don’t you dare!
I lowered my eyes and mentally slapped myself about it. If there was one thing Karen hated, it was lack of confidence, and unfortunately, I had a bucket load of that. Thank you, Dennis.
“Hey,” Karen cut through my thoughts, finger under my chin and tilting my head back up. She looked at me for a few seconds, and for a moment there, I could feel the tears threatening to come again. The problem was, I knew she could read me like an open book, and if she didn’t say anything, it was only to save herself the agony of listening to my excuses.
