“What type of cancer did your mother have?” the doctor asked.
I shifted again, paper crinkling. “I’m not sure where it started. Soleil didn’t go for traditional treatment and they caught it pretty late.”
The doctor tried to keep her face clear of disapproval, but I could see it there. “What was the date of your last period?” she asked.
“I’m very irregular. It comes and goes.” I thought. “It was…September. No, it was October. Right around the beginning of the month.”
“That was your last period?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “That’s about twelve weeks ago.” She typed agin, then looked at me, expectantly.
Expectantly. Expectant? “Oh, no. No.” I sat up straight. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not. No way. Just because I’ve been sick to my stomach, tired, emotional…just because things smell strong, my breasts are sore…” I stopped and grabbed at the puke bin. “No. It doesn’t mean that.”
“Camdyn,” the doctor started to tell me, but I didn’t want to hear it.
No way! “I’m not pregnant!”
Dr. Arztin tried again to keep the expression from her face. This time she was trying to hide disbelief as well as disapproval, a “wake up, dummy” kind of a look. She reached for a plastic cup and held it out to me. When she spoke, she kept her voice calm and even. “We can get a sample and run a quick test—”
“Nope. Uh-uh. No way.” Suddenly, I had to leave. Like, right now. I slid down from the table and grabbed my clothes, throwing off the yucky gown and standing naked, socks only. I pulled on my pants first and they ended up backwards, but if I could walk in them, then I didn’t care. “No test. I’m leaving,” I announced, looking for my bra behind the paper-covered table.
“Camdyn, we just can talk for a moment,” Dr. Arztin said, still all soothing. Maybe they taught that in medical school, tips on what to do if your patient suddenly went bat-shit in the exam room.
Because I had lost it a little. I spun around, topless, and shook my finger in her direction. “There’s no talking,” I said. “This isn’t true. I’m not. No way!”
“Ms. Riordan, if it isn’t pregnancy—”
“No.” I put my finger to my lips. “Shh! Stop saying the P word!” I found the bra and struggled to put my arm through the strap.
Her eyebrows went up. A “Houston, we have a live one” face.
“Don’t say it,” I told her. “Don’t even think it, because it’s not possible. I mean, it is possible…” Oh, no. No! I froze when my mind strayed to what that possibility would mean for me. I snapped back out of the nightmare and viciously yanked on my bra. I heard the sound of ripping fabric and a strap suddenly dangled limply, detached from the cup. Screw it, I didn’t need to wear it. I shoved the ruined bra in my back pocket, which was actually in my front because my jeans were on wrong.
“Can we call someone for you?” the doctor asked cautiously, eyes on my torn bra.
“Nope. No calling. No, thank you,” I told her. I got my shirt over my head, one arm through, then battled with my puffy coat. “I’m leaving. I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a great doctor, but you’re wrong about this,” I told her. “No.” I shoved my feet into my boots and rushed out through the waiting room and into the parking lot. I tripped because the boots were only partially on and flapping open, and I winced because the denim chafed some of my more delicate parts. Not only did I have my jeans on backwards, but I must have also left my undies in the exam room, and it was unpleasant. Extremely.
I got the car started and drove away from the clinic, not bothering to turn on the heat because I was burning up from the inside. I was not pregnant. No. I struggled with my other sleeve as I went down the road and got my shirt on all the way. No, I wasn’t pregnant. At a stop sign, I yanked and zipped my boots so I could properly press the pedals. I was not pregnant. No way in hell. I was only 22, not ready at all, and I had been the one who lost the class guinea pig when I’d taken it home over spring break. Mr. Fluffy had never been found and as much as I wanted to believe that he’d run off to live in a better place, I knew the truth. So no, I couldn’t be having a baby!
But what if I was? I rolled down the window and the frigid air rushed into the car. If I was, then there was only one possible father—and that was just impossible. It was not happening. I got hotter and tried to take off my coat.
The bright red sign from Helse’s Drug Store flashed to my right and I turned into the parking lot on two tires. I sat there for a moment, panting like I had been running instead of driving, before I grabbed my bag and went inside.
There was a whole row of pregnancy tests in aisle six, pink and soft blue boxes with pictures of smiling women and cooing babies and cartoon hearts. That was not my mood at all, but I swept an armful of them off the shelf and stomped my way back up to the counter at the front.
The older lady behind the register started to ring them up, beeping one after the other. “You know, your pants…” she said, and raised an eyebrow, looking at the unusual way I wore them.
“I’ll fix them,” I answered shortly.
She nodded
