"Let's start with a urine test," she says. "We'll know in a few minutes."
The bathroom feels smaller than it did before.
I do what I need to do, trying not to think about what the results might mean.
Trying not to imagine what Garrett will say.
What the counselors will say.
What this means for my recovery.
I hand the cup to Dana and sit back on the exam table, my legs dangling over the edge like a child's.
The wait is only supposed to be three minutes, but it feels like an eternity.
I stare at the poster on the wall—something about the stages of recovery, with cheerful cartoon figures climbing a mountain—and try to keep my breathing steady.
Three minutes.
That's all it takes to change everything.
Dana comes back into the room, and I know before she says a word.
I can see it in her eyes, in the careful way she's holding herself.
She's trying to be gentle, but there's no gentle way to deliver news like this.
"The test is positive," she says. "You're pregnant."
The world tilts sideways.
I hear the words, but they don't make sense.
They're just sounds, syllables strung together in a pattern that my brain refuses to process.
Pregnant. I'm pregnant.
There's a baby growing inside me—a baby that Garrett and I made in a rundown motel room the night before I checked into rehab.
The thought makes my stomach lurch, and for a moment I think I'm going to be sick right there on the exam table.
All those years of heroin.
All those needles.
All that poison flooding my bloodstream, and now there's a tiny life in there that's been swimming in it.
What have I done?
"How far along?" I hear myself ask.
My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from somewhere else.
Like it belongs to someone who isn't falling apart inside.
"Based on what you've told me, I'd estimate around five weeks," Dana says. "We'll need to do an ultrasound to confirm, but that's my best guess."
Five weeks.
