You are late. Three fucking days late. To say you are in bloody panic is to say nothing. This morning you were literally sitting on a loo and talking to your lady parts, pleading. You obviously did the test, five to be precise, but human fertility is exactly what you are studying right now and can test anything and everything better than the bloody blue stick. You also know that it’s simply too early to say.
Yesterday you were still fine, almost laughing about it, but this morning you’re a full scale psycho. You tried to leave your dorm without your shoes, you were bumping into people in the halls, you spazzed out during Perkins. After the unpleasant conversation in Dean’s office five weeks ago, he’s quiet and didn’t even say anything when in the middle of his lecture you dropped a book on the floor with a loud thud. In any other circumstances you would gloat over his newly achieved compliance before the Newly Crowned Queen of Biochem, but you seriously have more important things to think about right now.
On lunch break you get a text from John, inviting you for dinner. You blame loads of homework and refuse. The hours in the lab drag, and you run to the washroom every half an hour to stare at your underwear in the hopes to see red. Nope, no such luck.
You’re finishing your third fairy cake when Thea saunters through the entrance door. She freezes with her keys still in her hand and stares at you.
“What is wrong, Wren?”
“I am late.” The keys fall on the floor with a clang. You grab the fourth cake. Thea sheds her coat and slides on a chair in front of you. You’re not looking at her.
“How long?” You lift three fingers, your mouth busy chewing the nauseating sticky icing. “Has it ever happened before?” You shake your head and look at her. Her eyes are enormous. She’s pitying you! Well, you’re fucking pitying yourself at this moment even more.
“You are on a pill, right?” Nod. “How long has it been with you two? Six, seven weeks?”
“Eight, and a half,” you choke out and wonder if you’re finally going into sugar coma.
“Did you do a test? What am I asking, of course you did. Negative, I suppose.” Nod. “Did you tell him?” You look at her obviously delegating the idea that she’s out of her bloody mind. “Right… If you are pregnant…” she draws out. You’re going to throw up now. “Will you tell him?”
First, you want to yell that of course, yes, what else?! But then you freeze. What are you going to do if…? You can’t even mentally pronounce it. For the last three days you just thought of it as the worst that could happen to your studies and budding relationships with the arrogant, overbearing, cantankerous, though endlessly brilliant neurosurgeon Dr John Crispin Throington. To a great degree due to his peculiar personal history.
It is all wrong! Wrong time, wrong relationship – the man is fine – but the circumstances are wrong! There’s always the way out obviously, but you just don’t want to think about it. For the past 72 hours or so, you’ve thought of it as an unfortunate event. You have not for a single second thought of it as a baby.
You are violently vomiting. Really should have gone for pink cakes, this blue barf is additionally disturbing. Like a Smurf that got into a blender and met his swift demise there. Thea’s holding your hair. She’s very quiet. For the first time since you’ve known her. You’re grateful.
You brush your teeth and crawl under your duvet. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You need to think. Thinking always helps. In the last year you properly learnt the value of not spasming like a barmy chicken but trying to use your noggin.
The next morning doesn’t bring any good news. And you do three more tests. This time Thea is standing behind the washroom door. She’s still very quiet, and it start freaking you out. Never before she felt shy to express her opinion, loudly and eloquently.
The tests’ results are funny. Two are definitely negative, and the third one acts like a blushing virgin in the hands of a charming rascal. It just can’t seem to make up its mind. You stuff them into a rubbish bin and come out. Thea’s sitting on a sofa with a tense expression.
“Seriously, knock it off, Thea! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yep, your nerves are toast. But luckily she is a good friend. She doesn’t yell back. She lifts her eyes at you, but then you see tears.
“Thea?” You sit near her. “C’mon, Thea, what’s wrong?” She wraps around you and starts sobbing loudly. Oh bollocks, that’s not good. It’s like Doomsday level not good. Thea does not under any circumstances sob. She cried once in the last two years, and it was quiet, sad crying. This – this is bawling and wailing Wren style. It’s almost scarier that an almost positive test.
You’re rubbing her back, but it takes her about five minutes to calm down. She goes to the washroom, rinses her face, and comes out, her nose pink, eyes puffy.
“I did it last year, Wren. What you are thinking of doing now, I did it…” She sadly nods, but you are still lost.
“Did what, Thea?”
You feel like vomiting again. The way she put it, ‘kill’… You want to scream that it’s not killing, you just take two pills and forget about it.
But then you remember your dreams. The dark haired toddler with blue eyes. And nausea rises again. Thea’s taking short shallow breaths.
“Are you going to do it?” she asks sadly.
Then you get angry. You’re being fucking unfair, but you just can’t do it any more.
“What is my alternative, Thea?” You are too loud, your voice too sarcastic, too cruel. You jump up and start running around the room. She gets up too. “Should I tell Dr Dark and fucking Sexy that I’m up the duff?! He will think I’m another sperm bandit, trying to tie him down! Or he will make me kill it anyway!” To your own terror you realize you are wrapping your arms around your stomach.
“What are you going to do then? Just deal with it and never tell him?”
What are your other options? Raising a child alone? Because as sure as hell he will not stay with you if there’s indeed a baby. You have a sudden clear image in your head how he leaves, and then you see him once a month when he coldly writes you a check. You whimper. Thea’s crying again.
Then you remember who is in front of you. That’s your best friend smearing tears on her cheeks like a five year old. You rush to her and hug her tight. Fuck Dr Sexy! Fuck the almost positive test! Thea is what matters now. You lead her to the sofa and pull her as close as you can. You let her cry and talk.
The story is as sad as it’s common. She doesn’t know whom it was from, and it was fast and efficient. Just like the packaging says. What they apparently don’t tell you in those neat instructions is the devastating feeling of shame and emptiness that her first period after it brought. She’s crying herself to sleep, head on your lap. You’re stroking her hair and thinking.