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When I returned to the house, a reminder card was in my purse for my appointment on Thursday. The doctor and I had gone over all my possibilities, and she suggested I wait until our appointment on Thursday to make my final decision.
The thought of it hurt my chest. Everything hurt about this situation. There was literally nothing good about it. If you had asked me two months ago what I would have done in the event of an accidental pregnancy with Brandon, I would have been terrified, but I probably would have wanted to keep it. Those were the days with Brandon that seemed so easy, when our rhythm, even one that involved fighting and fucking, always involved making up again. They were the days where even our fights had a rhythm to them, complemented by the ease of the rest of the time we spent together.
But that was before my family's life exploded with my father's latest gambling addiction.
That was before Brandon got wrapped up with the mobster who had nearly killed my dad for his debts.
That was before he lied to me about it.
That was before I knew he had a wife.
That was before he had all but called me a whore just for wanting out of a shitty situation.
How could I possibly bring a baby into this mess? What kind of care could I or anyone else be expected to give it? What kind of care would it get from its parents, two people who had functionally been raised by people other than their parents, two people who would both be working eighty-hour-weeks, two people who didn't even speak to one another anymore?
What kind of life would that be?
I was met by the blare of the TV and Bubbe's sharp voice chattering on the phone in the kitchen. The old brown Victorian house seemed to sag a little under the hotter-than-usual May weather, and the sun shining through the front window was producing a greenhouse effect indoors that made the smell of dried potpourri and stale coffee stronger than usual. My stomach lurched again, but there was nothing to lose. I held onto the door, waited for the feeling to subside, then entered.
I dropped my keys on the small entry table with a loud clink.
"It's at three o'clock, Erica," Bubbe instructed as she turned from the kitchen table to glance at me. "Yes, in the temple basement. It's Rachel's turn to bring the knishes, so you might want to bring something else, if you know what I mean."
My grandmother, ever the imposing presence in her five-feet of glory, waved a hand out to catch my attention as I was walking toward the stairs.
"Hold on, Rachel," she said before putting her palm over the telephone receiver. "What did the doctor say, bubbela?" she asked me. "Did you tell her how sick you've been? Did she test you for cancer?"
I rolled my eyes and braced myself against the doorway as another wave of nausea rolled through me. Like the last, this one thankfully just kept going.
"Bubbe, I told you, it's just mono. She did some bloodwork to be sure, and I have to go back on Thursday for the results."
I hated lying to my grandmother, who could read my transparent face better than most, but I had to hope that the misery I felt superseded any other tells.
Bubbe squinted for a moment, the movement causing her stiff dome of hair to move slightly, all at once. She looked me up and down, as if trying to determine the credibility of my story. But that was the thing about my grandmother. She wasn't buying what I was selling, but she was willing to wait until I was ready to tell her the truth. Or not.
"All right," she said with a short nod, then turned back to her friend on the phone.
I pushed off the doorframe and wandered into the living room to sit next to my dad on the couch. Even though I needed to be studying for the bar, I wasn't going to be able to do that until I was sure I wouldn't vomit all over the test materials. And I wouldn't be able to take anything for the nausea until I had decided whether or not to take the other pill that would bring it all to a halt.
Dad's eyes were trained completely on the TV while he held the remote with his right hand. His left hand, the one that had been crushed by a couple of thugs looking for him to pay a bad debt, still bore the dark, ugly scars from his most recent surgery to repair the extensive damage to the nerves. It was wrapped with a soft splint while it healed.
He had been at home on disability for the last two months and likely had at least three or more until he would be clear to go back to work at the sanitation department. It was pretty hard to lift garbage cans when you didn't have use of one of your hands.
His injury also prevented him from pursuing his main love: playing piano with his jazz quartet. As far as I could tell, he spent the majority of his time sitting right where he was in his favorite spot on the old plaid couch, watching the morning news, sports, and then flipping to old reruns of classic TV shows in the afternoons.
Right now, he was watching The Today Show. His piano, the gorgeous Mason and Hamlin upright that was usually covered with sheet music and Dad's scratched-out compositions, stood against the wall behind us, gathering dust.
"Hey, kiddo," my dad said distantly. "Feeling better today?"
Fantastic. Just trying to decide which painful, life-altering path to take.
"A little," I said. "Did you do your physical therapy this morning?"
"What? Oh, yeah, sure I did."
Dad's eyes didn't move once from the TV, where some pop star was gyrating her way across an outdoor stage. I glanced over at the small shelf where Bubbe kept the daily mail. The rubber exercise ball that Dad was supposed to use to strengthen his muscles and break down scar tissue was also gathering dust. The sheet of exercises his physical therapist had given him had been used as a coaster many times over, and currently had three different coffee mugs clustered over it.
I looked back at my dad, but before I could say anything, another wave of nausea hit me, and this one wasn't going away.
