27
Polina
You can ignore a lot of things when your life turns into a hostage situation with nicer wallpaper, but you can’t ignore being six days late.
I try for most of the morning anyway.
I drink tea because coffee turns my stomach. I tell myself stress can wreck a cycle. Fear can wreck a cycle. Sleeping in a compound full of armed men while a war creeps closer by the hour can definitely wreck a cycle.
None of that explains why the smell of eggs sends me bolting from the table.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I start heaving.
When it passes, I kneel on cold tile with one hand braced against the tub and breathe through my nose until my stomach stops trying to climb into my throat. I rinse my mouth at the sink, stare at my face in the mirror, and look away.
“No,” I tell my reflection.
I sound ridiculous. Even I know it.
By noon, I’ve done the math four times. I do it again anyway while I stand in front of the cabinet under the sink, moving aside extra soap, toilet paper, and a half-used bottle of mouthwash until my fingers close around the box I shoved behind everything else a couple of days ago when Dmitri reluctantly let me run into town with an armed escort.
I carry the box to the counter and read the instructions like I’ve never seen words before. Then I read them again because maybe pregnancy tests come with a hidden clause for women whose lives are already falling apart.
They do not.
I pee on the stick, set it on the closed toilet lid, and wash my hands for too long.
Five minutes is a cruel amount of time. It’s long enough to build a whole defense case. It’s long enough to imagine every other explanation. It’s long enough to bargain with a God I haven’t spoken to in years.
When I look down, there are two lines.
I blink. Then I pick it up and hold it closer like that’s going to change the result.
I gasp, and my hand flies to my mouth as I check the box and re-read the insert over and over. Then I check the test again.
Pregnant.
“No,” I whisper with tears burning my eyes.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and stare at the plastic stick in my hand. For one strange second, my brain gives me somethinguseless. Lev in my apartment months ago, leaning against my kitchen counter with his sleeves pushed up, smirking as he dumps sugar into his tea like it’s not a crime.
I hate that memory most of all.
Because it’s the most human memory I have of him in my entire collection.
Everything will be different now.
I lower myself to the floor and sit with my back against the tub. The test stays in my hand as I pull my knees up to my chest. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just look at the two pink lines like they belong to someone else.
When my phone vibrates once on the counter, I ignore it. But then a minute later, it buzzes again.
I ignore that too.
When I finally drag my eyes to the screen, twenty minutes have passed.
I laugh once, but it comes out sounding downright hysterical.
“This is a disaster,” I choke out.
