When the wave finally passed, I slumped against the toilet, exhausted and shaking. Mama handed me a washcloth she’d dampened with cold water. I pressed it against my face and tried to steady my breathing.
“This is normal?” I finally managed, my voice hoarse.
“Unfortunately.” Mama sat on the edge of the bathtub, still watching me with those sharp, knowing eyes. “Some women get it worse than others. Looks like you’re one of the unlucky ones.”
“Great,” I muttered. “That’s just great.”
“How long you been feeling like this?”
“This is the first time it’s been this bad. But I’ve been nauseous for a few days. Thought it was just nerves or something I ate.” I wiped my mouth with the washcloth and tried to stand. My legs felt weak, unsteady. “I need to brush my teeth.”
“You need to sit down before you fall down,” Mama corrected, but she helped me to my feet anyway and guided me to the sink. I brushed my teeth twice, trying to get rid of the taste, then rinsed my mouth with mouthwash that burned going down.
By the time I made it back to my bedroom, I was exhausted. Bone-deep tired in a way that had nothing to do with how much sleep I’d gotten. I collapsed onto the bed and closed my eyes, willing the room to stop spinning.
Mama appeared a few minutes later with a sleeve of saltine crackers and a can of ginger ale.
“Try these,” she said, setting them on the nightstand. “Small bites. Don’t rush it.”
I managed to sit up enough to take a cracker. It tasted like cardboard and sat heavy in my stomach, but I forced myself to chew slowly and swallow. The ginger ale helped a little—the carbonation settling some of the churning—but within ten minutes, I felt the nausea building again.
This time I made it to the bathroom before anything came up, but barely.
Mama held my hair again. Rubbed my back again. Didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. This was just what it was. This was pregnancy. This was what I’d signed up for when I agreed to carry someone else’s child for money.
Except it didn’t feel like someone else’s child anymore.
It felt like mine.
And that terrified me almost as much as the nausea did.
By noon, I’d thrown up four more times and couldn’t keep anything down. Not crackers. Not ginger ale. Not the plain toast Mama made me try. My stomach rejected everything, and the exhaustion was so heavy I could barely keep my eyes open.
I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to move, when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Amai’s name lit up the screen.
How are you feeling?
I stared at the text for a long moment, debating whether to lie or tell the truth. The truth felt too vulnerable. Too raw. But lying felt worse, especially after everything he’d said about honesty.
I typed back:Like death.
The response came almost immediately.
I’m sending someone.
I sat up too fast, and the room tilted. I had to close my eyes and breathe through another wave of nausea before I could type back.
You don’t have to?—
But before I could finish the text, my phone rang. Amai’s name again.
I answered. “Hello?”
“Dr. Chen will be there in twenty minutes.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like sending a personal physician to someone’s house in the middle of the day was the most normal thing in the world. “She’s bringing anti-nausea medication and IV fluids. You’re dehydrated.”
“How do you know I’m dehydrated?”
