for my purse hanging from the bedpost, and I root around for my tin of Altoids. I’m too tired to make it to my toothbrush, the sink. The bathroom is a thousand miles away.
As my fingers wrap around the cool metal of the mints’ case, they bump against something smooth and plasticky too. A long thin box. I pull it out and hold it close to my face to read it in the weak morning light. First Response Pregnancy. And then, remembering, I groan.
Eric urged me to pack it. He looked at my calendar and said it was possible I’d be able to know while I was at Ted’s. It would be a little early, he said, but tests are so good these days. See, look—“Get results six days sooner.” I smiled at him and joked that he would have me pack a crystal ball if he had one. He smiled back and said, If I can find one online with good reviews, I’ll pay the one-day shipping. I kissed him, inhaled the clean scent of his skin, and felt him reach toward my purse on the bed, stuff the test inside. We laughed about it then, but now I’m close to crying.
The bathroom tiles are warm against my feet when I stagger onto them. I’m only puking because of Astrid, I remind myself, even as I’m ripping open the box. I’m sick from regurgitating memories—yet I pee on the stick, click on the cap. Place the test on the sink, sit on the toilet, and wait.
This is not the first pregnancy test I’ve taken. Two months ago, Eric guided me to the bathroom after I’d complained of feeling woozy all afternoon. When I emerged with the test in my hand, he was waiting for me on the other side of the door, his face nervous but hopeful. I showed him the digital reader, Not Pregnant, watched his features droop, and pretended to be as disappointed as he was.
It’ll happen, I told him. We haven’t been trying very long.
I want to make my husband happy. He’s a good man who could have had anyone, but he chose me. I want him to believe I’m worthy. As it turned out, though, my wooziness was from the expired creamer I’d used in my coffee that morning. And hours later, when we went to bed, side by side and hand in hand, I slept better than I had in weeks.
Now, it’s been three minutes. Maybe five. Either way, enough. Too many. Not enough. As I pull the test toward me, squinting, I can’t read the gray letters with precision, but I see that there’s only one word.
I toss the test across the room, hear it clatter against the tile. I’m sucking in air but can’t seem to push it back out. I’m inhaling and inhaling and growing bigger by the second, my body all breath and womb. Grasping hands. Gaping mouths. Someone who needs help from me that I won’t give. My anxiety is not a broken record, it’s a train that’s chugging off the track. Someone reaching for me. Someone expecting me to keep them safe. Someone I forget, as if they’re a dream.
Clack. Clack-clack-clack. Clack-clack.
Ted’s awake. He’s connecting old threads of fear. All those times I screamed? All those times I cried out? I want to scream now, too, open my mouth and release a wail, but this pregnancy test is no Experiment. No prank. I wish like hell it was.
I scramble for the door, the hall, my room, only to scurry back to the bathroom when I remember the test is still on the floor. The plastic cap is broken. The tiles are hot. The test is still marked by only one word, which I cover with my fist as I grab it.
When I’m back on my bed, I remember Eric’s instructions: “If it happens—you have to call me right away. I don’t care if it’s one thirty in the morning, Bird. I don’t care if it’s during the day and I’m with a patient. Call the hospital and tell them it’s an emergency.”
I tried to tease him then. Asked, “What if I want to surprise you with the news? Bake you a cake with a rattle inside?” My throat tightened as I eked out the questions.
“Eh, you know me,” Eric said. “I hate surprises. And I definitely hate cakes with rattles in them. They’re so loud.”
I look at the clock. Eric will be eating breakfast, an egg white omelet