“No, definitely not.” She nuzzles into me.
“Rude,” I huff.
“I’m not made to be a mom. We’ve been over this.” She pats my cheek, then sits up, her kind eyes steadying me. “But Iamgoing to be the best auntie ever.”
It hits me all over again. A turning-over feeling in my gut, like the seconds before a tall wave hits. An anticipatory spike of awareness. “I’m having a baby, Sarah.”
“Sure seems that way.”
“There’s a kid floating around in here.” I point to my stomach. “A human being.”
“We should download one of those apps to figure out what it’s got going on.”
“Huh?”
“You know, what size it is. Like if it’s an apple seed or a papaya.”
“It’s probably really tiny at this point.” The thought of that fills me with a nagging sense of dread.How tiny? How fragile?I try to push those thoughts away, but they linger quietly. The realisation that even if I choose to have this baby, it may notstickhits me like a freight train.
“I’ll find out,” Sarah says, pulling out her phone.
I blow out a breath, trilling my lips. “I was on the pill, for the record,” I say, though Sarah’s preoccupied and not entirely listening.
My knee starts bouncing as I think of all the things I’ve done in the past few weeks that a pregnant woman absolutely shouldn’t. I had a drink at Sarah’s last weekend, ate mystery meat from the food truck outside the grocery store, sat in my gym’s sauna after a swim the other night, smoked a joint after a long shift a few days ago. I haven’t even drunk water today. Actually, I might have left my water bottle on the bus, now that I’m thinking about it.
Thiscouldexplain the intense brain fog I’ve been feeling for the past few weeks.
Sarah snorts sarcastically, as if to say,uh-huh, sure. “I’ve seen you forget to take your pill every time your phone is dead before nine p.m.”
“I was getting better at it,” I say defensively.
She turns toward me, purposefully looking between my stomach and face in a slow, sarcastic sequence. “Clearly.”
“You have to be nice to me now. I’m with child,” I say, dramatically tilting my nose into the air.
“Hey!” Sarah points to her phone. “It’s the size of a coffee bean,” she says, her voice full of adoration, showing me her phone’s screen. “You’re going to have to drink less caffeine. You know that, right?”
“Yes,” I answer snidely.
“I still don’t want you living at your place. Will you please consider moving in?”
“Listen, Daddy Warbucks, I appreciate the offer, but my apartment isfine.”
“It was fumigated two months ago,” Sarah argues.
“Which means the problem should be gone.” I reach for the seat belt behind my shoulder, then buckle myself in.
“Just think about it.” Sarah reaches for her seat belt and drops her phone into the cupholder between us. “Where to now?” she asks.
“Wherever. I took all day off work for this. I convinced myself I was dying when my period was late.”
“Ah, yes.So much more likely than a baby.” Then she stills. “Wait, how long have you been worrying about this? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Just a week. I didn’t want you to stress.”
Sarah frowns. She and I frequently argue about this. Ever since Marcie died nine years ago, I’ve felt even more responsible for her. I’m only three months older, but growing up, I definitely took on the older sister role of looking out for her.
Sure, now she’s got more money than me and a loving husband to share the load with, but Sarah ispure.She is outgoing, a touch naive, and has a tendency to get herself into situations where people take advantage of her kindness. She’s also been through a lot. Too much. I don’t want her to ever worry. Especially not about me.
