1
Fourteen Years Ago
Crisp white walls.
Dreary gray paint.
Clean tile floors.
Cracked linoleum.
Baby portraits strung up to show off the good work of the staff who occupy this office.
Flyers tacked on the wall to warn us of the massive mistake we’ve made.
Cutesy music is piped through the speakers; it’s warm, welcoming, and adds a kind of magic to what’s coming in our futures.
A recording plays on repeat, a reminder of where I need to go next and how to stay safe while doing it.
Nurses bustle along the halls with large smiles and a skip to their steps, as though working here and seeing this magic is their greatest pleasure.
Nurses walk the halls with sunken faces, and every one who passes glares, like I did this on purpose, and I need it rubbed in a little more.
I hold Gemma’s hand between mine, press a kiss to her knuckles, and hold her still before she vibrates through the roof and explodes.
I sit alone on the edge of a paper-covered bed, twist my fingers together, and will the tears from my eyes. They sting; they blur my vision, and they’re absolutely useless.
“Mr. and Mrs. DeWhit?” Doctor Bartholomew rushes through the door with an infectious smile and a folder that might contain all of our prayers and dreams. He drops it on the edge of a mahogany desk and moves to the sink to wash his hands. “How are you today? Get any sleep last night?”
“No.” Gemma nervously clears her throat and leans into my side. “Can’t say I slept a wink, to be honest.”
“Tut, tut.” Taking a wad of paper towels, Bartholomew dries his hands and turns back to us. “You really should get your rest, young lady. Seven months from now, you’re going to wish you did.”
“Really?” Gemma’s spine snaps straighter, her eyes wider, her chest broader. “Really, really?”
“Congratulations, kids. You did it! You’re going to be a mommy and daddy in seven short months.”
“Oh my God!” Gemma bounds from the bed, drags me to my feet and throws herself into my embrace. Her arms choke my neck, her legs cinch around my waist, but then our lips clash and our salty tears mingle on our tongues. We tried for so long. We worked for this. We earned it.
“We did it,” she cries.
“We sure did.” I press my lips against hers and kiss for every tear we’ve shed while we waited for this day, for two years while we tried to conceive, for every test that came back negative and hurt us a little more. “I love you so much, Gem. I’m so proud of us.”
“You’re pregnant, Miss Blair.” A nurse in green scrubs and an ugly scowl stares at me until I almost feel the burn. “You’re around eight weeks along, though we’ll have Doctor Wheeler do a scan to confirm dates. You’ll need to come back in three weeks for that, but there will be an out-of-pocket gap, so you’ll have to talk to your insurer.”
She continues to discuss my future and finances, despite the hot tears that slide over my cheeks and the body-wracking shakes that cut me down to my core. My stomach already has that small grapefruit, that presence inside me that I feel when I lean forward. It makes it hard to breathe. It scares me to my core.
The woman moves across the office to do her thing, makes her notes, drips her disappointment that another teen has become a statistic, and pays no mind to the scared girl sitting all alone on a crinkly bed with a broken heart and a filling belly.
“You’re pregnant, Miss Blair.”
“You’re pregnant, Miss Blair.”
“You’re pregnant, Miss Blair.”
My life is over.