No.
No, that’s not possible.
I count back the days in my head. The plane was six weeks ago. The hotel was six weeks ago. The last time I had my period was…before that. Which means…
No.
Helena stands up and leaves the room. I hear her moving around, opening drawers, rummaging through cabinets. When she comes back, she’s holding a small box.
A pregnancy test.
She sets it on the table in front of me, and I stare at it like it’s a live bomb.
“You need to take this,” Helena says quietly.
8
AURELIA
I’m staringat the box on the table. White cardboard. Blue lettering with instructions in English and French printed on the side.
Helena is still standing there waiting, but I can’t make my hands move to pick it up.
“Aurelia,” she says quietly.
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“What if it’s positive?”
“What if it’s not?”
I look up at her, and the kindness in her eyes makes this worse somehow. She’s not angry or judgmental. Just practical, as if pregnancy tests are something she handles every day.
Maybe she does. Maybe Victor sends all his problematic nieces here, and Helena has a drawer full of these things.
The thought makes me laugh. High and sharp and not funny at all.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
I grab the box and walk to the bathroom before I can change my mind.
The instructions are simple. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. One line means negative. Two lines mean positive. Easy.
My hands shake so badly that I almost drop it twice, but I manage to follow the instructions, set the test on the counter, and then I just stand there staring at it. Willing the universe to give me one line. Just one. Let this be stress or the heat or anything other than what I think it is.
The first line appears immediately. Control line. That’s normal.
I watch the space where the second line would appear, counting seconds in my head because I forgot to check the time, and I need to know when three minutes are up.
One minute passes.
Maybe it’s negative. Maybe I’m just exhausted and emotional because I’ve been locked up for a month, and my period is late because of stress, and I’m crying over flowers because I’m lonely, not because there’s a baby growing inside me.
The second line appears. Faint at first. Then darker.
Two lines.
