“Well, I do,” Kassim says from the door, holding a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. “I love Harrington.”
“You would.” Deja rolls her eyes. “They think you’re the second coming.”
“What can I say?” Kassim preens. “I keep it hot in these streets.”
“Pretty sure being on the robotics team doesn’t constitute keeping anything hot in nobody’s streets,” Deja says.
The three of us laugh, and Kassim brings his peanut butter to the bed. I scoot over so he can take one side and Deja the other. We pick back up with the marathon, but I barely follow the story line. Contentment covers me. Tucked beneath this duvet, inside this bed, is my whole world. These are the people who matter most.
Only one is missing.
“I’ll be back,” Deja whispers, glancing covertly at Kassim, who has fallen asleep after two episodes. “My cousin’s in town. I need to hit the bathroom and make that change.”
“Okay. I’ll pause it until you…”
Her cousin is in town. When wasmyperiod? Shouldn’t it be…last week? I calculate in my head, shocked that my cycle is more than a week late and I hadn’t even noticed. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But a few months ago I wasn’t having sex with my ex-husband like it’s FreakNik circa 1998.
In a daze, I stumble from the bed to my closet, pulling jeans and a heavy sweatshirt over my pajamas. I’m slipping my arms into a full-length puffy coat when Deja pokes her head in.
“Where are you going?” she asks, eyeing the Hunter rain boots I’m stuffing my feet into.
“Um, to the drugstore. I need to get something.”
“Now? The roads are icy. You gonna drive?”
“No.” I grab a beanie and scarf from one of my drawers. “It’s just a block or two. I’ll walk and be right back.”
“Okay,” she says, skepticism clear in her voice. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.” I kiss her forehead on instinct, braced for her to jerk away. She doesn’t, though, just leans into it. Even that small victory is invigorating. I know we have a long way to go, but maybe we’ll be okay.
I appreciate the freezing air biting through my layers of insulation and the flurry of snow dusting my cheeks. It makes me feel when my insides have gone numb, head spinning at the possibilities. I’m more than a week late. I got my shot, so I shouldn’t have to worry about birth control. Nothing’s foolproof, though. What if I really am, by some unlikely accident, some twist of fate, pregnant? My doctor clearly laid out the risks. Women who have placental abruptions are less likely to have a successful pregnancy later. When the baby didn’t survive, the likelihood of another abruption also increased. It was a point of contention between Josiah and me. He wanted to get a vasectomy, but I didn’t want him to. He wanted me to consider getting my tubes tied, but I could never take that step. What if…
I can’t finish the thought, but push open the door of Skyland’s drugstore, greeting the young woman at the register with a half-hearted smile. I speed walk past the bodywash and supplements and adult diapers until I reach the section I need.
My heartbeat stutters and the row of pregnancy tests blurs in front of me. It’s not until I taste salt that I realize I’m crying. I tug the beanie lower and glance around the store self-consciously. Because of the weather, there’s almost no one here, but I’ve been that woman who loses her shit in public places.
Public grief is tricky to negotiate. At a certain point, and it varies depending on the person and circumstance, there comes a time when you should be “over it.” You should have moved on by now. And you’re so aware of the fact that you have not, that youcannot. You don’t want others to see your past-due tears or sense the pain that has outstayed its welcome. You protectthemfrom feeling awkward because you’re still in pain. When the facade fails and you lose it, the stares soaked in sympathy are as bad as the ones filled with contempt. I know the aftertaste of such meltdowns well, have experienced firsthand the violent vulnerability a broken mind and desecrated spirit can use against you.
There’s a civil war raging inside of me right now. I’m a city of unfortified walls and it feels like any moment everything could be laid to waste. If I’m pregnant, the list of implications is a mile long. Implications for my health, both physical and mental. After my ravaging battle with depression, can I even trust my body with those hormones? Could I carry another baby without constantly revisiting the one I lost, especially given the likelihood that it could happen again? I believe I could, but I also always assumed I was Teflon, only to find I was papier-mâché. My happiness, my wellness, feels like a tenuous ecosystem made up of therapy, coping mechanisms, and a precise dosage of meds. If something disrupts it, what would happen?
Only…is that the truth?
Papier-mâché is easily crushed, yet here I am still whole after a series of debilitating losses.
And tenuous? I’ve laid a foundation for my mental health: habits and practices that keep me well. If I feel unwell, I know what to do. When I can’t solve it on my own, I have people in my life now who won’t let me stay down. Dr. Abrams, Soledad, Hendrix.
Josiah.
I haul in a panicked breath. Josiah has been very clear that he doesn’t want another baby. Doesn’t want me taking the risk of carrying another child. Hell, this isn’t what he wanted at all. Obviously we’ve evolved from the no-strings, easy-exit arrangement we started with, but who’s to say he would wantthis? He’s too good a man to turn his back on me, butwantit? Want something else that ties me to him even longer, even deeper?
Would Josiah move back in with us if I was pregnant?
The warmth of that thought penetrates the residual cold from my walk in the snow. A fierce desire thaws the icy fear in my heart. I want him home. How could I have ever thought he belonged anywhere else?
A young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, walks up beside me. Without a word, she grabs one of the tests and resumes her perusal of the vitamins farther down the aisle. Barely older than Deja and she grabbed it and went on her way like it was nothing. When I pick up the box it seems to solidify two things I refuse to shy away from.
One—if I’m pregnant, I’ll deal with the risks and the hormones and the doctor’s orders. I have the tools and I know how to use them.