He nodded, and I got out, hoping Tackle wasn’t waiting for me inside the building. I didn’t see a single other person in the lobby while I waited for the elevator or when I came back downstairs after grabbing my wallet. I rushed out the door and didn’t see the cab either.
“Shit,” I muttered, looking left and right. “Where did he go?”
“If you mean the cabbie, he got another fare,” said a woman waiting a few feet away at the bus stop.
“I owed him money,” I mumbled.
“Whoever the guy was must’ve really needed to get somewhere quick cause I heard him say he’d take care of it.”
“Was he about this tall?” I raised my hand in the air. “Short hair and wearing a brown leather jacket?”
“Sounds about right.”
The bus pulled up, and she got on before I could ask anything else. “Thanks,” I called out after her.
By the time I got back upstairs to the apartment, the nausea I’d felt on and off for the last few weeks had returned. I peeled a banana, hoping I could get it down before I felt worse. After inhaling it, I went into the bedroom, intending to put the rest of my things into a bag and go home. Instead, I lay on the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and cried.
The time between my telling Tackle to fuck off and the day of my doctor’s appointment passed uneventfully. I went to work, came back to the apartment, and went home to my parents’ house, all without him showing up or me running into him.
I left his number blocked so I wouldn’t know whether he tried to call or not, yet thought of little else besides him.
While I wasn’t so sick that I thought it warranted a visit to urgent care, the nausea came and went enough that I knew something had to be wrong with me.
The nurse had called to say they wanted to draw blood, so I had to fast prior to my appointment. Fortunately, I was able to go in at seven and get it done. I always felt worse if I didn’t eat a decent breakfast.
Six hours later, I was ushered into a room and asked to strip down and put on one of those horrid hospital gowns that no one could ever get fastened in the back.
I grabbed my jacket and put it around my shoulders so I could stay warm in the chilly room. Ten minutes later, I heard a knock at the door, and the doctor came in, followed by a nurse.
She rolled a stool close to me while the other woman opened up a laptop and stood near her.
“You’re worrying me,” I said, wringing my hands.
“We were able to get the results of your blood and urine tests from this morning, and there is nothing for you to worry about. However”—the nurse handed the doctor the laptop—“you said twice that there was no way you could be pregnant.”
“That’s right.”
“I had the lab run the tests more than once, just to be certain. Both returned the same results. You are pregnant, Miss Clarkson.”
“That can’t be,” I whispered, gripping both sides of the exam table when vertigo overcame me.
The doctor put her hand on one of mine. “Evidently, this is a surprise to you.”
“I only…” Had sex a couple of times? Was that what I was about to tell her? My eyes filled with tears, and I buried my face in my hands.
This couldn’t be happening. I’d saved myself until I was twenty-six fucking years old, and I got pregnant the first damn time I had sex? What were the odds? I dropped my hands and laughed, maniacally, but it was still laughter.
“What is your relationship with the father?” the doctor asked.
“Nonexistent.”
“I apologize if this feels intrusive, but do you know who the father is?”
Through more maniacal laughter, I answered. “Oh, yes.”
“I’d like to perform an exam, after which we can discuss the next steps.”
As she poked, prodded, and pressed on different parts of my body, the doctor asked if I recalled when my last menstrual cycle was. I did, and it was before Thanksgiving, I realized as tears rolled down the side of my face. That hadn’t occurred to me until now? God, I was such an idiot.
“You can sit up,” the doctor said, holding out her hand to help me. “Based on the timing of your last period and other indicators, I’d say you’re still in your first trimester. You do have options.”
“What options?” Abortion? Was that what she was suggesting?
“I can’t help but notice you don’t seem happy about the news. I’d like to refer you to an OB/GYN who can discuss them with you. In the meantime, take this pamphlet home with you and think things over.”
Before leaving, the woman at the front desk scheduled an appointment for me to see the other doctor on Monday, giving me the weekend to “think things over.”
Earlier in the day, I’d told my mother to expect me home this weekend, so the first thing I did when I returned to my friend’s apartment was to call and tell her that something had come up and I’d be staying in the city after all.
“Is everything okay, mija?”
“Yes, fine,” I lied. “I had something come up that I need to take care of.” That was certainly the truth.
I spent the entire weekend alternating between crying and throwing up. Sometimes at the same time. By Sunday, I’d worked myself up into such a tizzy that I had to talk to someone.
Who, though? My mother? No way. My father? That would be worse, especially given the bizarre conversation he and I had had. I had a few friends from work, but the last thing I would tell any of them was that I was pregnant. Same with friends from school. If I did that, word would spread in our town like wildfire.
There was only one person I could trust not to say a word
