A woman stands in front of the bathroom mirror and takes a sharp breath, a drop of sweat sliding down her right armpit. The bathroom, doubled in the mirror, blurs out with the lights that are suddenly too bright for her eyes but not enough to flash out the result window. She squints, forcing this tiny screen to change its mind and add the relieving “not” in front of the word that makes the rest of her life fade.
Three minutes ago, she was grasping every possible thought entering her mind to have something to hold on to–that long overdue project at work, what to have for dinner, Christmas shopping that she always starts before with the first crispy air touches October mornings.
Thirty minutes ago, buying the first pregnancy test in her entire life, she was surprised that she’d never noticed how huge this section is at the store that they go to at least two times a week. It was impossible to tell what time it was because the lights were like the omnipresent sun, sterilizing everything within their reach. She trusted the promise of 99.9% accurate results and went to the checkout. The shame or embarrassment of buying pads or tampons never accompanied her, but this time she was covering the bright pink box with her palm because she wasn’t matching the level of excitement expected from a highly-likely-expecting woman.
Married to the man she loves, living in a shiny-new townhouse in the suburbs, climbing to her thirtieth birthday, she wants a baby. A pink-cheeked baby from family magazines and formula ads. A baby that smells like warm milk and freshly ironed sheets. A baby that exists somewhere in her future. But not the baby growing inside her body.
Even though hot tears make her vision vague, she can make out “2-3 weeks pregnant.” She’d prefer to be happy and feel tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, but the tears of grief leave ugly invisible burns on her skin.
Ryan waits for her in the living room, drowning in the warm pink sunset light, studying the pattern on the new rug she bought a week ago. The price tag is still attached – she needs to try it on the living room and see if it matches the emerald-green colour of the accent wall.
On the way from the bathroom to the living room, eleven steps that she’s never counted before, at the crossing of the light that comes in through the kitchen window and the shimmering sunset glowing through the front door, she tries to tie the right words together. Scared, torn, hurt and pregnant don’t make a reasonable, good sentence and get stuck under her ribs. She hands Ryan the test.
His reaction can go unedited to the planned and desired parenthood commercial. He moves his eyes up to meet hers, and her pain reflects in him immediately, turning his gleaming smile into an ugly grimace.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, getting up to give her the hug she always seeks when desperate. It’s his fault too.
“I don’t know. We didn’t plan for it.” she shrugs at her own voice that sounds surreal, the first time she hears it in this new reality.
“But isn’t this something you always wanted?” the remains of joy soak through this question, leaving nothing but helplessness in his voice.
“I thought so.” She steps away from the hug, placing her forehead on his shoulder and fishing out her phone from the back pocket. She’s lived here for the last seven years, but she can’t remember the three digits she has seen in all walk-in clinics and getting her flu shot.
“Good afternoon, my name’s Sarah. How can I help you today?” sings a bubbly voice as if pouring words in a champagne flute.
“Hi. I’ve just found out that I’m pregnant” has her voice always had this bitter aftertaste? “Oh, congratulations!” the foam of bubbles overflows the rim.
“…but I don’t think it’s the right time.”
“Oh, okay.” The glass shatters, and all the bubbles burst.
“So I’d like to know about all possible…options.” getting through to the end of this sentence is one more thing on the list of things she never wants to do in her life again.
“You can call the women’s health clinic” Sarah proceeds to give her the number and hangs up without asking if she needed help with anything else.
She looks at the ten digits on the paper and announces more to herself than to Ryan, “I just want to call.”
Her brain does this to her every time she is in extreme situations – looking for ways to escape, back out. When she heard her parents arguing, she would crawl to the closed bedroom door, listening to the pitch of her mother’s scream, ready to enter the room right before the shadow of anger overcast her dad’s mind.
Now, with the test gleaming from the coffee table, she wants to know what *else* she can do, and a wave of ownership of this decision overcomes her. They moved to this city seven years ago, right after college. They got married. They bought this townhouse with brown and yellow siding. But this is hers only.
The next morning she calls the clinic three minutes after opening. This time, the person on the other side keeps a light-hearted mood throughout the whole conversation. This woman talks about the procedure the same way people answer what-do-you-do questions – only the necessary details, cutting out all the fluff. She marks three thresholds to pass: book or not book the appointment, call two days before and confirm or cancel it, and take or not take the pill in the clinic. The third one is her last chance to rewind.
She books the appointment.
She finds Ryan on the front steps, smoking on the porch. That’s the first cigarette she’s seen him smoking since two years ago when his mom called to tell him that Mr. Gibbons, the german shepherd that protected his childhood, died.
“Listen,” he starts, letting the smoke swirl up into the cloudless sky, “I do want to have a family with you. But we’re already a family, right? We can add more people later, when you’re ready.” The words slip out of his mouth so easily.
She has always felt that she could share everything with Ryan. She feels like he is a guest at her house, and she is giving him a tour, turning the lights on in every room they enter. Being pregnant turned out to be the room she never knew was in the house plan, and she couldn’t find the light switch, moving her hands from one dusty wall to the other.
When she enters the office, the normality of things hugs her like a warm blanket: the order of life hasn’t been disturbed here. For the next eight hours, she forgets about the unimaginable amount of cells doubling inside her belly every second, remembering about it only at the same grocery store later that night.
She finds herself holding two hangers with what seems to be sets of pants and tops for a one-year-old.
“How come this sizing is so confusing,” she whispers into the empty aisle, asking nobody.
“We could handle it, you know.” Ryan was watching her for several minutes, thinking about how to bring it up.
“The sizes? Yeah, I guess. ”
“I’m not talking about the sizes. I mean, we have enough savings. I checked the daycare a five-minute drive from us. Racquel said if we join the waiting list now, we’ll get there when the baby is six months old. I figured…”
“Oh, you figured a lot of stuff, haven’t you?” The wave of anger flooded her eyes with tears. She shouldn’t be going through this. It’s not fair. Crying silently, for the first time in her life, she doesn’t search for comfort in his hug.
“Yes, I have. For you to really know all the options.” He doesn’t step away.
She calls to confirm the appointment.
Time flies by thanks to the routine of work calls, lunches with colleagues, clients and projects. She doesn’t talk to Ryan about the baby after she told him she’d go to the clinic; he responds to this dark side of her by not asking questions. On the way to the clinic, he talks about their vacation coming up in five weeks,
“I found a cool Thai place right next to our apartment in Vancouver.”
“Do you mind if I turn the radio on?” and she turns up the volume before she can hear the answer.
The building doesn’t stand out from the rest of the neighbourhood. She could drive or walk past it without even knowing what was inside. Now, she won’t find a way to forget it.
Inside, it’s nothing like a hospital, as she imagined. After getting through two locked doors–to protect the women and their choice, it occurs to her later–she looks around a lounge area with
warm lights along the walls. Twelve chairs stand in neat rows–to make sure that even women sitting next to each other can’t see each other’s faces.
She fills out a regular medical history form with a fast movement of a pen, marking yes’s and no’s until she reaches the section she’s never had to complete before. Has she had any other pregnancies? If yes, when were the kids born, and if no, what happened? She feels lucky to skip it. How many abortions can you manage to go through in your life? The next question makes the room around her disappear in the dark thick air: Is it your own decision? Would you like to talk about whoever forced you to be here? How would it feel if she had to come here because somebody else, husband or mother, wanted her to?
The voice calling her name distracts her from the dark rabbit hole of thoughts. She floats from one room to another, answering the same questions, feeling the cold ultrasound gel on her belly and the warmth of nurses and doctors passing down the halls. She doesn’t see a single male face.
After twenty minutes, Kelly swallows the pill. The tiny plastic cup has just enough water for one sip. She leaves the building with a year’s supply of painkillers that, according to the nurse, she might want to use within the next week and a booklet about contraception options. The fresh, crisp air leads her to the gift shop with the most beautiful Christmas display she’s ever seen.
