“Our successful doctoral candidates have all gone on to distinguished positions throughout the field. One of them secured a very nice job in Washington at the National Archives last year, and of course, I don’t need to tell you what a coupthatis—”
I nodded. It was impossible to breathe now without taking in a huge sniff of the tuna. All of the cold sweat was back in full force. My head began to ring, and I was dizzy.
“So that’s the potential future for you, working and studying here with us.”
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit here one more second. I’d tried my damnedest, but defeat was now inevitable.
“Of course, we—”
I bolted to my feet and took two steps toward the door before I realized that I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom. Instead, I doubled over and vomited violently into Dr. Rogers’ decorative planter.
* * *
When I was about seven, I overheard my mom and dad talking about my aunt Von.
“I told Von to just take the test already and find out for sure. But she said she’s not ready for it yet.”
I’d tugged on my mother’s shirt. “Mommy, did Aunt Von forget to study? Is that why she’s scared to take the test? Is she afraid she’ll get a bad grade?”
Both of my parents had chuckled, and my mother had knelt next to me as she shook her head.
“It’s not that kind of test, sweetie. Aunt Von might be having a baby, and the test will tell her if she is or not.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely not a graded test,” my father had added, chortling. “It’s one of those pass/fail deals.”
I thought of that as I sat on the end of the hotel bed, staring down at the stick in my hand. I’d just peed on the other end of the test stick a minute and half ago, so I held it gingerly with a tissue between two fingers. Next to me, the timer on my phone showed one minute and forty seconds to go.
It felt surreal that just a few hours ago, I’d been in Dr. Rogers’ office, apologizing profusely for having ruined her planter. Two men from the custodial staff had appeared to remove the offending object, carrying it silently out the door and through the outer office.
And I’d come up with a fast and dirty lie to explain why I’d thrown up. I’d invented a stomach virus that my mother was suffering and claimed that I’d thought I’d dodged the bullet on catching it—but apparently, I hadn’t.
The professor had suggested that I should go to my hotel, that we could resume our disastrous interview tomorrow, but I’d assured that having emptied my stomach, I felt better now. Dr. Rogers looked dubious, but she’d agreed to walk outside with me to finish our discussion.
“My office will need to air out a bit,” she’d remarked with one arched eyebrow. “And if you are, in fact, contagious, I have a better chance of avoiding the virus if we’re in a more open space.”
The worst part was that having thrown up, now I was ravenously hungry. I could’ve eaten two of the sandwiches I’d been offered earlier, along with some of the side salads. But admitting that would make my stomach virus story less believable, so I walked past the food table with a sigh of regret.
Maybe that wasn’t the worst part, though. Maybe the worst part was that it was abundantly clear that Dr. Rogers wasn’t buying my fib. Her eyes rested on me with cynical suspicion, as though she knew the truth even when I wasn’t sure of it yet. The questions she asked me were no longer warm and interested; they were vague and impersonal. She was definitely going through the motions of the interview, and I knew deep down that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting this position.
I’d left the college feeling numb and after a quick stop at the first drug store I passed, I drove to the hotel and checked in, pitifully grateful that my room was ready. I’d showered and crawled naked into bed, where I’d slept the slumber of the humiliated for two solid hours before waking up, still hungry.
Lucky for me, the hotel had a small counter-service restaurant downstairs. I was able to grab a hamburger and fries, which I brought up to my room and demolished in short order.
After that, there was nothing left to do but to pee on the damn test stick.
The phone timer beeped its cheery announcement that three minutes had passed. Swallowing, I slowly turned over the stick and focused on the window.
PREGNANT
Well, that wasn’t exactly a shocker. It wasn’t really news. I’d known its truth deep in my gut since I’d seen the little notification from my period app. I’d tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening to me, but it was.
This was happening to me. Someone, another living being, was now sharing my body, depending on me for sustenance. Any decision I made from this moment on would affect not only me but this other little entity.
That hamburger I had just wolfed down? Was it okay to eat that when a baby was also consuming it? And what about the few glasses of wine I’d drunk over the past weeks? Had that hurt a developing organ or limb or . . .?
And on the other hand, did any of this matter? Was I going to carry a baby to term? I had options. It was still early days. There was a choice, and if I decided to go in a certain direction, then none of these worries would matter. I could find a clinic somewhere, and when I came out, all of this would be a memory. I could go ahead with the future I’d planned—not here at St. Barnabas, of course, because I’d definitely lost that chance, but I’d find another college that was a good fit.
It was tempting, so very tempting. If I took that way out, no one would be any the wiser. I wouldn’t have to tell my parents—and the very thought of having to do that made me dizzy with terror. Not that I was afraid of what they might do, but the idea of seeing the shock and then the disappointment on their faces was worse than anything else I might have to handle. It was even more daunting than the prospect of telling the father.
