16
Violet
The news isn’t good. I mean, it is good, depending on your perspective. I can’t exactly be happy at the moment, though. After puking my way through the last two weeks, I finally realized that I hadn’t had a period since before the hurricane. Since before Shadow. I took a test. And it came back positive.
Pregnancy math is weird. I had my last period at the beginning of the month of August when I was offered the job in Tampa. I remember because I was so crampy and miserable, I actually joked with my sister that getting the job offer was a little apology from the universe for how bad I felt.
My period should have come around the first of September, but it didn’t.
It’s now the first week of October, so that means—using pregnancy math—I’m nine weeks along. The only time I’ve had sex with anyone over the last six months was with Shadow. That means there’s no doubt in my mind who the father is, and the doctor’s appointment I had today confirmed it.
Dr. Sally puts her hand on mine as we talk in her office after she gives me the results. I have a lot I need to do quickly, like start prenatal vitamins, but they are going to put me on a special diet to help treat the intense morning sickness. I’ve lost eight pounds in the last week alone, and I’m feeling more and more terrified about the damage that can do to me and my baby. I need to be resting and eating, not puking and losing precious nutrients before they even get into my system.
“Violet,” Dr. Sally says, her voice gentle. “Now is the time to call on your family, your friends, the baby’s father. If you can take time off work, get extra rest, you might make it through the worst of this in just a few more weeks. If not,” she says, “we’ll consider more aggressive treatments.”
I don’t disagree. I want to stay off medications if I can possibly manage it. Too bad time off and rest are things I definitely cannot afford right now.
“I’m thinking of moving to Chicago,” I tell her. “My younger sister is in college there, and I’ll have a bit more support. For now, the job I found is full time. I’m still in the probationary period, so I can’t take time off. I have to work ninety consecutive days before they pay for my health insurance. I’ve only been there three weeks.”
“We have wellness programs we can refer you to if your health care becomes compromised,” the doctor tells me. “And if you decide to relocate, you’ll want to reach out to some OB-GYN practices to find a doctor before you move. Now isn’t the best time for a major change, but it will be harder the longer you wait. For now, the best thing you can do for yourself and for your little one is to take good care. Taking care of yourself is taking care of your little bean.”
We schedule my next appointment, and I run to the pharmacy in the lobby of the medical plaza to stock up on prenatal vitamins before I leave. I’ll have to order groceries or something when I get home. I feel so weak and so woozy, it takes all my focus to make it back to my condo safely.
As soon as I walk through the door, I have to rush into my bathroom to be sick. It’s the worst possible feeling in the world, but I try to be brave.
“I’m doing this for you, little bean.” I’m sitting on the bathroom floor of my third-floor condo. The cold tile seeps through my jeans, and I rest my head on my knees, tears burning my eyes. I should tell my sister. Should call my parents. I’ve known that I am pregnant for the last month. But until I got in to see the doctor, had it confirmed, I spent all the energy I had on dragging myself to work and convincing myself that I can do this—even if it means I’m doing this alone.
I can’t believe I’m pregnant. At my age, of course it was always a possibility. I have never even had a pregnancy scare before. Have always used condoms. Even with Clive.
My stomach roils just thinking about him. Can you imagine if I’d gotten pregnant by a man who would stalk me? Who would abuse my trust?
I guess if I was going to get pregnant by any guy, a gorgeous man I had a three-night stand with isn’t as bad as it could be.
I know I have options. I can give the baby up. I can terminate. I can raise it with my sister in Chicago or move home to my parents. The funny thing is that, right now, I don’t want to share this news with anyone.
Who knows if things will turn out okay? Waiting until I’m past the twelve-week mark doesn’t mean that nothing can go wrong. I’ve been spending every night reading forums and chat threads online about women in their first trimester.
Of course I would read everything I possibly could about pregnancy, but somehow reading about something that’s happening to me, inside me, makes it much more real. I can’t let myself think about it too long, though. Because thinking about being pregnant means thinking about the father of my child.
Thankfully, I’m too nauseous to have too many coherent thoughts. I close my eyes and let the cool tile ease the heat that seems to radiate from inside me. Thank goodness my condo was newly renovated when I was finally able to move in. I don’t have to worry about other people’s funk on the floors as I lie there, alone, trying not to heave up my insides.
I don’t know how long I spend on the bathroom floor before I pull myself up, brush my teeth, wash my face, and wander out to the living room. The bag of prenatal vitamins and my purse are on the floor by the door where I dropped them when I ran in here to puke.
I work from home full time for a small nonprofit. I’m the research manager for the development arm, which is a lot of words to say I manage the database of donors and grants that our contract grant managers and our fundraisers rely on to bring in donations. The pay is crap, but the hours are great.
I text my boss that my doctor’s appointment went great—you know, for my bad allergy flare-up—and feel a tremendous amount of guilt. At some point, I’m going to have to let them know that I’m pregnant, but three weeks after they hired me seems a little too soon, even for a rule-follower like me.
I fire up my laptop and go to the kitchen to make some tea. Since I need to take the vitamins with food—assuming I’ll ever be able to keep food down again—I put the pill bottles on the counter next to my potted plants. A nice reminder to do the small things—sunlight, water, and space—to keep myself alive and healthy.
The kettle whistles, and I steep some ginger tea while sticking a lemon wedge right into my mouth, sucking on the bitter pulp to hopefully ease my misery. Nope. Doesn’t work. Within ten minutes, I feel the lemon juice coming right back up, and I have to run to make it to the bathroom.
This time, the lemon juice burns my throat, and I’m just done. Done. It’s already getting dark out, and any work I didn’t get done today will have to wait until I’m not puking my guts up. I grab a towel from the bar, lie down on my side with my cheek on the cool tile, and cry.
When I wake up, it’s completely dark, and someone is pounding on my door. I grab the towel and pick myself up off the floor, wondering who on earth would be knocking at this time of day.
I peer through the peephole and see nothing but a massive leather vest.
A leather vest.
