17
Shadow
The second Violet falls asleep, I’m out of bed. I close her door quietly behind me and head back to the living room. I turn on all the lights, lock the doors, and take the groceries to the kitchen. Her place is cute, generic and clean in a “flip it and rent it” kind of way, but she’s added a lot of character. I feel like I’m getting to know her in a different way through her things.
Her kitchen is decorated in a strawberries-and-baby-blue color scheme, and by God, she leans into the theme. The teakettle on the stove is sky blue. The oven mitts and dish towels have strawberries on them. She has potted plants everywhere—like, crazy-plant-lady everywhere. I recognize a few fresh herbs because they have those little chalkboard signs with the names written on them: thyme, sage, basil, and mint.
I unpack Stella’s groceries and send her a text.
Me: She’s sick. Puking up her guts, but nothing coming out. Soup okay?
I get a dozen sad-face emojis back and then a thumbs-up.
Stella: Make it plain. Nothing in it for now. Just broth. Have her sip it slowly, a cup at a time. See if she can keep it down. Then you can add crackers or rice. Add a little salt to the soup, and if you think she can handle the electrolyte drink, serve that too. Maybe room temperature. Cold might actually be hard on her tummy.
This is the longest fucking text message I have ever read in my life. I swear to fuck, I thought there was like a character limit on that shit. But I read it twice, making sure I get every piece of advice.
I thumbs-up it because I’m exhausted from reading it and don’t have the energy to reply. But then I think the better of it and text back.
Me: Thanks, Stel.
That was a huge freaking mistake, though, because she replies again. It’s just to ask me to check in later and let her know how Violet is, but I’m done reading and communicating.
Now’s the time for action. I go through every cabinet and cupboard and put away everything I bought. I find the pots and pans and go on the hunt for the washing machine because it grosses me out to have that towel just lying around.
I find the washer and spend way too long reading the instructions. We have commercial machines in the compound—big things almost like what we had in prison, but this is so high-tech, all sensor-operated and shit, it takes me like twenty minutes before I feel confident where to put the damn detergent. But I manage to start a load of laundry and am relieved that the machine seems quiet enough it won’t wake Violet.
I take a small blue pan that matches the décor in the rest of the kitchen and put it on the stovetop. Dumping in a can of plain old chicken broth with a dash of salt from a strawberry-shaped shaker, I start the burner, then remember she said she’d put a tea someplace. I see it on the counter by the plants where some paperwork and a brown paper bag are just sitting out.
I hesitate before looking at the papers, but I figure if this is the shit from the doctor, it can help me to take care of her if I know what the doctor told her. I scan the details.
Violet James, thirty-two years old. Dr. Sally Yamaguchi, OB-GYN.
My heart stops in my chest. Why would Violet go to an OB-GYN? My mind leaps to the worst-case scenario. She looked thinner than I remember, and she’s been vomiting. Could she have some lady problem? Cancer? An STI?
I’ve been fine since we were together, but it’s been a bit since I’ve seen her, so who knows. My eyes tear down the paper, braced for words like tumor or mass, but what I see shocks me even more.
Patient presents with hyperemesis gravidarum…
I grab my phone and punch in the term. What the actual fuck is that?
And then my heart plummets into my shoes.
Hyperemesis gravidarum… Excessive nausea and vomiting during pregnancy.
Pregnancy.
Violet is pregnant?
I scan the rest of the report.
Gestational age estimate nine weeks.
Follow-up by telehealth in two weeks.
I grab the brown paper bag and pull out the bottle. Prenatal vitamins.
Holy fucking shit.
