“I’ve been dealing with a menstrual cycle since I was twelve. I’ll be fine.”
Sasha knocks on the door frame in gentle reminder of their pending engagements.
“Go,” I say.
Maxim halts for another moment, then squeezes my ankle through the comforter before leaving.
As soon as I hear them exit the apartment, I bolt to the bathroom and promptly retch over the toilet for another five minutes.
Nausea and vomiting has never been a premenstrual symptom of mine. Ever.
When I can finally stand without feeling like I’m going to heave, I make my way to the closet and go through the pockets of my long black coat until I find the three pink packets that Willa had made me take home after last week’s dinner when she said it was obvious we werefornicating again.
I stare down at the pregnancy tests, the wrapping covered in little smiles as if pregnancy is a thing everyone celebrates. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to remind myself that this wasalways the goal.Marry the Russian, tie him to my family forever by providing him an heir. Simple.
But the thought of actually having achieved that goal is nauseating for a whole different reason, one I don’t want to confront.
Shaking off the thought, I waste no more time before dashing to the bathroom and peeing on one of the tests. I turn it over so I can’t see the display and pace back and forth in the bathroom waiting for the timer to go off. Five minutes.
I belatedly remember not to bite on my hangnails, but I’m too late and have accidentally pulled too hard. Blood glides around the edge of my thumb’s nail bed.
I curse and run it under cold water, pressing on it to stop the bleeding of the tiny wound.
A positive test would be a good thing, I repeat in my mind again and again, though each time it sounds a little less convincing than the last. It would be good, and Maxim would be happy, and then . . . What? We’ve achieved our goal and can be celibate until we need to make another child?
Maxim loves sex with me, I am certain. If I said that we should keep it up like we have, we would veer directly into the path ofreal feelings, and that path leads in the exact opposite of my intention to never develop anything beyond fondness for him.
The timer goes off, and I exhale a breath through my mouth while the overturned test stares menacingly at me from the counter. It’s taunting me, I think. Greta has been sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching me, probably judging me too.
I put Neosporin and a Band-Aid on the bleeding hangnail before steadying both hands on the cool countertop directly next to the test.
I force my eyes to the mirror as if my own reflection will look steadier than I feel. My lips are pulled into a line and there’s a crease in the middle of my forehead that’s not unlike the one Maxim often has.
I also look like I’ve been puking. So basically, I’m looking just terrific.
I nod at Greta, making her my co-conspirator before I flip over the test.
I blink at the little stick, turn it over, and back again. The result is the same.
Two lines.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
My heart races, not like I’ve been exercising, but like I’ve just woken from one of my dreams again. I stuff the test back into the foil wrapper and immediately retrieve Maxim’s glass from his bedside table. I down the rest of his water before filling it up in the sink and draining it twice more.
My stomach jerks, and I almost heave again, but I close my eyes and take shallow breaths through my nose until it subsides. This is all too much commotion for the cat, apparently, who abandons me to work through this on my own, co-conspirator be damned.
An hour later, all three tests are used and stuffed back in their wrappings, each the same intensity of result as the one before it.
I feel different than I expected I would. For as long as I’ve believed I would be a bad mother, I don’t worry about that now. I have no acute anxiety, no impending doom, none of the horror I thought I would feel, but also none of the peace my sisters have always talked about.
I feel exceptionally queasy, and my heart is still too loud in my ears. I feel like I am on the brink of losing something I quite want to hold onto, even while these three tests are proof that I gained the one thing I promised: an heir.
I gather the tests and head downstairs to bury them in the bottom of the kitchen trash can. The one in our bathroom is too small and Maxim will see them and then we’ll have to confront what comes next.
We don’t need to do that yet, there’s still time. Nine months, even. Or as many months as it takes for the growth of life happening in my body to become visibly apparent. I have a few weeks, at least. Maybe more.
I am almost to the kitchen when I’m startled to find Elise setting up. I yelp, and she’s just as surprised by my shock as I am.
