Bedwrecker(82)

Am I softer now?

No.

Never.

Maybe.

Uncharacteristically, I find myself standing up and taking my mother in my arms, and holding her tight.

And when she whispers, “It’s never too late,” I nod.

Maybe it isn’t.





Maggie


If only I were better at record keeping.

I could keep track of birthdays, and holidays, and anniversaries, and yes, even my periods wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Looking back at my calendar, I wonder if I last had my period before or after St. Patrick’s Day. If I can unravel that mystery, then I can either be a little less scared . . . or a lot more scared.

After much obsessive calendar reading, I finally remember eating green M&M’s with Keen to test the horny theory when I last had my period. So, I had it just before St. Patrick’s Day.

Which leads me to realize that I hadn’t skipped or missed any pills, but still . . . that doesn’t stop the fear.

Am I just bloated because I decided to eat three bagels at breakfast today, or is it something else? Am I pregnant with a bagel baby, or another kind of baby? Like a real baby?

I examine my stomach as I slowly turn in front of the mirror, so every inch of my abdomen can be inspected for possible growth. I don’t see any changes, but I mean, would I really be able to?

I try to pinpoint whether the feeling roiling in my stomach is nerves, morning sickness, or too many bagels.

I just can’t tell.

I don’t normally pray to God. But that doesn’t stop me from pleading with Him right now. And yes, I make impossible promises to Him about how I’ll never, ever have sex again, if only my period will just show up already. But I have to take that back. I have to. What else can I promise?

Thinking.

Thinking.

Thinking.

I’ll come back to that.

I’m not usually one to blame myself, but maybe I should have gone for a more foolproof method of birth control.

At least if my IUD had failed, I’d be blameless.

Okay, so that leaves me here.

With a choice.

Go.

Don’t go.

I have been very reluctant to go purchase a test because I keep hoping that my period will just appear. But it has been six days since I realized I hadn’t gotten it and it still has refused to show.

I haven’t told Keen. I know. I know I should. But if you were in my situation, would you until you knew for sure?

Never mind. I don’t want to know.

Anyway, I’m in New York on business, and that is not something I should do over the phone.

Unable to take another minute of wondering, I head to the store and really soon I’m standing in the pregnancy test aisle in a pharmacy on Fifth Avenue, wondering which brand will result in the test being negative.

Looking at all my choices, I start to panic, and think that by bringing the test back to my mother’s, I am only inviting disaster. I consider putting the test down and just going back to my mother’s and drinking lots of wine instead.

Because what else am I going to do?

I have to prepare myself for the worst. Also, maybe the wine will cushion any panic that is certain to come my way.

But don’t worry—I know I shouldn’t drink until I know and I also don’t leave.

Instead I buy one or maybe five, and truck my ass all the way back to my mother’s and Winston’s at Trump Tower with the bag in my purse like contraband.

My lips are sealed. I’m not telling anyone I am doing this right now.

No one.

Not even Keen.

What am I saying? Especially not Keen. Oh, God, what if he thinks I’m trapping him?

Stupid, stupid girl.

Anxiety takes over and I have to push it away. One thing at a time. The test. I have to take the test.

Once in the guest bathroom at my mother’s, I go from blaming myself to blaming the test for even existing in the first place.

Who ever came up with early pregnancy tests anyway?

With a deep breath, I read the test’s directions—twice.

Having to pee on a stick for five seconds doesn’t seem like a long time, but let me tell you, it is. I try to focus my aim, but it feels like the target is too far away.

Now complete, I stand over the test, glaring at it. “Come on, you’re taking too long,” I complain. Who knew three minutes could be so damn long?

Once these three minutes are up, my life might completely change. This leaves me panicking all over again.

But we know that is not going to happen.

All will be well, like what happened to Makayla last summer. She thought she was pregnant, and guess what—false alarm.

They do exist.

And yet I still feel sick to my stomach and super anxious as I wait for this little stick to hurry up already.

And then it does, and my entire world turns upside down.

Positive.





Maggie

I am okay.

This is what I tell myself as I stare down at my ringing phone, but don’t answer it because I know what I’m telling myself can’t possibly be true.