Six Weeks Later
“P
regnant?” I ask through hysterical laughter. Doctor Salim stares at me with increasing concern as I spiral further. “No way. Nope! No-
no-no. Check again. Run back the tapes. Recount the votes. Something is
wrong here.”
The doctor takes a deep breath in as she sits straighter, poised like the impressive woman she is. She at least pretends to look over the papers in her hand again—the folder she must have mistaken as mine. “Win, bloodwork does not lie. If your last period was October sixteenth, that’d make you about eight weeks along.”
“Winnifred McNulty,” I point to the top of the lab report, “is a more common name than you’d think.” I swallow nervously. “The labs probably switched my results with someone else.” That’s it. That has to be it.
We’re interrupted by the sound of a swift knock, followed by the arrival of a disembodied hand through the crack of the door—presumably attached to the nurse who made me pee in a cup. Another sheet of paper is handed over. Those are not my friends today.
“Your urine sample was also positive for pregnancy,” the doctor says, adding another paper to my ever-growing folder. “Win.” She sets the file on her desk and places one leg over the other before resting her tightly clasped hands above her knee. “I take it this is somewhat of a surprise?”
“I’m on the pill,” I say, my voice far off. Perhaps my voice is somewhere with my body. My non-pregnant body. The one I had only minutes ago.
“No contraceptive is 100 percent effective against pregnancy.” “I also use condoms,” I add.
“Every time?”
Shit, right. “Well, one time… no.” Before Halloween, I had a perfect record. Then Bo. The guy I’ve tried to push out of my thoughts since.
“One time about five to six weeks ago?” Doctor Salim asks, her patience momentarily lapsing.
“About that, yes,” I reply, snarkier than intended. “Shit, sorry,” I whisper into my palms, covering my face. “I got knocked up by a pirate…” I say, my voice muffled by my hands.
“Sorry, what?” The doctor’s tone alerts me to the very unusual thing I just said.
I peek through my fingers at her. “It was Halloween. He was dressed as a pirate.”
“Oh.” She sighs. “Were you intimate with anyone else that same month or shortly thereafter?”
“No, just him.” “The pirate?”
“Aye,” I whimper softly.
She gives me a this is not the time look that I’ve only previously gotten from my mother. “Well, you have the good fortune of knowing exactly
when conception was, which sets your due date at about…” She picks up a circular cardboard device from her desk and rotates between dates. “July twenty-fourth.”
“Okay.” I nod, my eyes finding a spot on the wall to steady me. A small piece of chipped paint becomes my focal point as the walls swell and tilt around me.
July twenty-fourth. That’s a fairly inconspicuous day. What do I normally do on July twenty-fourth?
My summers are usually spent lifeguarding on the beach at the local campsite, Westcliff Point. Last year, I worked extra shifts at the café to pay for a trip to visit Mom in Florida at the end of the summer. We ate dinner outside every night while I was there to the sounds of whistling through palm leaves and aggressively vocal frogs. Her skin looked like leather, and my concern for her sunbathing habits grew. But nothing significant happened. Nothing this significant has ever happened.
I can’t be a lifeguard when I’m nine months pregnant. I can’t visit my mom with a newborn.
What can someone do at nine months pregnant other than… wait?
“The good news is that at this stage of your pregnancy, you have every option available to you. We have some time to decide how to best move forward.”
“Okay” is the only word I seem to have available to me.
“Is there someone you could call to help you process this news? A friend? The, er, father, perhaps?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, pulling out my phone to text Sarah. Not that I’d call him now if I had it, but not having Bo’s number suddenly feels humbling to say the least.
“Why don’t we set up another appointment in a week’s time? If you make your decision before then, just call and we can go from there. If not, we can discuss your options some more.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, my eyes caught on the small scale in the corner of the room under a collection of pamphlets and advertisements with pictures of chubby babies on the front.
“I’m also going to schedule an ultrasound for a few weeks from now, since they book up fast. If you’re no longer pregnant, we’ll cancel it, of course. But that way, you can have your first-trimester scan as we recommend.”
“Ultrasound, right.” I imagine it, the little black and grey blob on a screen. The sound of a heartbeat, like the ones you hear on television. Except now it’d be the inhabitant of my womb on some tech’s monitor. The probe pressed against my belly.
I lift my left hand from my lap and press it against the corduroy overalls covering my stomach. There’s no discernible change in its shape, size, or hardness whatsoever. Yet everything has changed.
My phone chimes with a text. It’s Sarah, letting me know she’s already on her way. No hesitation and no questions asked. Just like our mothers taught us. Go first; ask questions later, they always said.
I think of our moms in that tiny apartment together almost thirty years ago. They were so young—so much younger than I am—when they had Sarah and me. We would all sit for hours on our old, crusty maroon couch, flipping through photo albums as they told us stories. Countless books filled with pictures of our moms dressed in horrific nineties fashion, their bellies growing in each photo under busy-patterned pastel sweaters. I think of the pale green colour they painted the nursery Sarah and I shared. The ceiling
they lined with wallpaper cartoon ducks. The way they had to do all of it on their own and still made it special for us.
Unlike them, I’m at a stage of life where many of my friends have chosen to get pregnant. I’ve gone to three baby showers this year alone. And, secretly, I’ve hoped for a baby of my own. A someday wish. A once-I-have- my-shit-together dream.
But truthfully, I can’t help but wonder… is anyone ever ready for a kid?
Even with that shred of comfort, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as judged as I do right now. Not by Doctor Salim, of course, but by the world outside. I can almost sense it—the millions of invisible eyes set on me.
You can’t go a day without hearing the choice of pregnancy being debated, broadcasted, and fought over in some way or another. Still, I never considered how it would feel to sit front and centre. It’s as if I’ll find reporters outside, trying to predict what I mean to do next. Protestors and politicians waiting in the wings to decipher whether I’m morally right or wrong. Too many opinions for this small corner office.
So I shove them all away as best I can.
Here, it’s just Doctor Salim and me. The way it should be.
“So, symptoms you could expect before our next visit…” Doctor Salim begins listing off the most horrible-sounding possibilities. Sore boobs, nausea, increased saliva, irritability, exhaustion. “But what you don’t want to see is…” Even worse stuff. Bleeding, intense cramping, blurred vision, extreme bouts of depression. “… then you call me, okay?”
I nod, feeling entirely emptied out.
“If you’re unsure of what the next step is, I suggest treating this like a viable pregnancy.” She stands, reaching into the cabinet above her desk. “Prenatal vitamins once a day. We recommend no smoking, drinking, or
recreational drug use. There’s a pamphlet in the waiting room about which foods to avoid, as well.” She smiles softly, handing me a vitamin bottle. “Though I will tell you I enjoyed sushi and an occasional glass of wine with my second pregnancy, and all was well. Moderation is key.”
What is she talking about? Sushi? How delicate are babies that you can’t have a goddamn maki roll?
“Okay,” I say, standing as Doctor Salim holds the door open for me. “I’ll see you in a week but feel free to call before then,” she reminds me.
I hug her. I’m sure it’s not appropriate, but I do. Right now, she and I are the only people in the world who know this secret, and I feel as if we’ve formed some sort of bond.
Doctor Salim accepts the far-too-tight hug, patting my back before moving to shut the door behind us. We stand in the empty hallway as I watch her professional mask slip just a little, a weary, gentle compassion overtaking her features.
“I know this may not be any consolation, but my patients who plan for pregnancy feel overwhelmed too. All of this is a lot to process. But you’re very capable, Win. Whatever you decide for yourself will be for the best. You have my full support for any choice.”
I’m about to thank her again, and perhaps force her into another hug, when I hear my name called from the lobby, and the concern in Sarah’s voice is obvious.
I turn around and instantly feel a tear fall at the sight of my friend. She looks half thrown-together in sweatpants and a messy bun put up in a claw- clip. She really did drop everything to come here right away.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, possibly just to myself, as she jogs to me with her arms open at her sides. We collide in a hug.
“What’s going on?” she asks quietly over my shoulder, her voice cautious
—as if she’s afraid to hear my answer. I immediately think of her mom, Marcie, who, in so many ways, was my mom too. How, nearer to the end of her life, every piece of news we got from her doctors felt like another blow.
“I’m okay,” I reassure her. “Promise,” I say, stepping back. “Can we talk in your car?” I wipe my tears on my sleeve.
“Of course, babe. Come on.” Sarah drags me toward the exit, her hand wrapped tightly around my wrist. I thank the doctor silently over my shoulder as we make our way outside.
