‘What do you think?’ Rose asks and I lip-read, gesturing to the generic-looking bookcase.
I think I’d like to get out of here before I get a migraine. But I give the bookcase a cursory glance. ‘It’s not very big,’ I say.
Rose frowns. ‘I’m sure they sell bigger ones–’
I curse silently. If I’d only said ‘I love it’, we could be writing the number down and heading to the warehouse area (the one area of IKEA that I, if not enjoy, appreciate for its resourceful organisation). Instead, Rose is wandering distractedly to another section of the store, looking for someone to point her in the direction of bigger bookcases.
‘Fern?’ she calls. ‘Come and look at this!’
The store is uncomfortably full, and I have to push past several people to follow Rose. Everyone is saying excuse me and sorry and smiling at each other, but my head is starting to spin. How can so many people be buying bookshelves?
‘Let’s just choose one and go home,’ I call after her. She says something in reply, and I have to remove my earplugs to hear her. ‘What did you say?’
‘I want to make sure I find the right one,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to rush into it.’
We emerge from the crowd of people and I make a beeline for a little wedge of space I spot next to a toddler bed and wrap my arms around myself. Even with my sunglasses on, the lights are making me woozy.
‘I was thinking white, but what do you think of this natural timber?’ Rose says, gesturing at the wooden frame of another set of shelves. ‘And look, it comes with a matching lamp!’ She lifts the timber lamp and it flashes directly into my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my sister was deliberately trying to set off a sensory attack.
‘Rose,’ I say, ‘I have to go outside.’
‘Just one more minute! I want to look at the bedside tables. Then we’ll go.’
She takes my hand and pulls me back through the crowd. We pass several young couples, arguing. A pair of twin toddlers bounce on a bed in frenzied joy as their heavily pregnant mother screams at her husband to control them. Rose continues to pull me but when we come to a clear space, I plant my feet.
Rose looks back over her shoulder. ‘Fern? What are you doing?’
Nausea overwhelms me. I sink into an armchair and drop my head into my hands. Rose’s nude ballet flats appear in my small field of vision.
‘Fern!’ I hear her exclaim. ‘For goodness sake. I just want to show you one more–’
I vomit on her shoes.
‘Here,’ Rose says, holding out a plastic cup of water. ‘Drink this.’
We are in the parents’ room, on a chair designated for nursing mothers, which strikes me as ironic, all things considered. Rose is rubbing my back in rhythmic circles, saying ‘Shhh’ and ‘Everything is going to be all right’. From the moment I vomited, she’s taken care of everything, collecting a roll of paper towels from a sales assistant, cleaning everything up, waving away offers of help. She found me water, and told everyone it was fine, her sister just wasn’t feeling well. She seems so serene, so in control. It reminds me why I need her so much.
‘Are you feeling better?’ she asks, after I have finished my water.
I nod. ‘A little.’
‘What happened in there?’ she asks. ‘Did it all get a little too much? Or was it something you ate? Maybe–’
‘My period is six days late, Rose.’
Rose stops rubbing my back. After several beats, she says, ‘What?’
I repeat myself. Rose takes a couple of steps away from me, then lowers herself into another chair.
‘Fern . . . have you and Rocco been having sex?’
I wonder why else she would think I’d be worried about my period. ‘Yes.’
‘And you think you might be–’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think I’m pregnant.’
Back home, Rose and I cram into my little bathroom. The pregnancy test sits flat on the bathroom vanity before us. One line is clearly visible, and a second fainter line is starting to appear beside it.
‘Well,’ Rose says, holding her temples. ‘You’re definitely pregnant.’ She takes a deep breath and sits on the toilet.
I remain standing, leaning against the wall.
‘I wonder what Wally will say,’ I say.
Rose looks up. ‘You’re going to tell him?’
‘Of course.’
Rose looks startled, which is puzzling. I have a rudimentary understanding of common courtesy, after all, and the only times I have heard of people not telling the father of their baby that they are pregnant are in daytime television shows when the pregnancy is the result of an affair or a one-night stand. When the two parties are exclusively seeing each other, the custom appears to be some kind of excited announcement.
‘Surely that is the expected thing to do under the circumstances?’ I say. ‘Inform the father of the baby that he is going to be a dad?’
‘Yes,’ Rose says slowly. ‘If you’re going to keep it.’ She is quiet for a long time. ‘Is that what you are suggesting?’
I’m not sure what I’m suggesting. The fact that I’d originally decided to have the baby for Rose feels like a million years ago. Back then, there was no Wally. The baby was nameless, faceless. Now, the baby is inside me. It is ours. And everything feels, all at once, completely different.
‘What if I were suggesting that?’ I ask.
Rose closes her eyes for a short moment. ‘Do you really want to know what I think?’ She opens her eyes.
I nod.
‘All right. Honestly, the idea worries me. We both know you’ve had your . . . difficulties in the past.’ She doesn’t say it explicitly. She doesn’t have to. ‘What if something happened
