Jennifer stood on the top landing and listened as Rebecca and Alan left Ruth’s apartment. Alan sounded confused as to why they had to leave, and Rebecca sounded ready to cry.
Shutting the apartment door, her gaze dropped to the white bag on her couch. The furnace kicked on and killed the silence of the room. Air from the vent filtered down over the bag, rustling the plastic. As a child she’d wanted to be a mommy more than anything. She’d dressed her dolls in outfits made from old socks painted with markers and carried them with her everywhere.
Had she known what life would be like as an adult, she might have given up on the dolls much sooner.
“One for negative, two for positive,” she read again and dipped her stick in the little cup that came with the test. She washed her hands and carried the stuff to the kitchen. She wasn’t going to wait over it like some mother hen. Instead she took out a frozen meal. One for negative, two for positive. She poked a hole into the plastic covering the chicken parmesan and popped it into the microwave. Setting the timer for three minutes, she sat down on one of her chairs. Had Mark and Rebecca broken up?
One for negative, two for positive. The thought spun in her head over and over. She couldn’t be pregnant. No way. Looking around the apartment, she realized just how small it really was. Clean, but small. She tried to focus on her favorite designs. She sold most of what she made through the consignment store. But her living room was littered with the handcrafted works she couldn’t part with. The clutter made her apartment feel like home.
Bright, colorful lamps, free-form painted pictures, even blankets she’d crocheted by hand and tossed over the backs of the furniture. As warm and inviting as it all felt, she couldn’t imagine bringing a baby into it. Not to mention the fact that she didn’t think she could handle seeing Mark ever again. So she couldn’t be pregnant. She just couldn’t.
The microwave dinged, pulling Jennifer out of her thoughts. Taking the meal out, she transferred it to a plate. The test stick lay upside down on the kitchen counter, the narrow white plastic showing like a zit on the Formica surface. She reached for it, and stopped. Purposefully looking away, she took out a fork and a napkin and set her place at her little dining room table. One for negative, two for positive. Nausea returned.
She swallowed a lump the size of Iowa, picked up the test with shaking hands, and then set it back down. Whatever the result, she didn’t want to see Mark again. Regardless of Rebecca, Jennifer would not be someone’s lover. Instead of looking at the test strip, she went to the sink and poured a glass of water, drank it down in one big gulp and got another. She couldn’t be pregnant. Couldn’t. Setting the glass down, she walking unsteadily back to the counter. After a few deep breaths Jennifer picked it up. Two. Pregnant.
Chapter Six
Almost Eight Months Later
Sausages. Her ankles were nothing less than big, rolling, swollen sausages. “I can’t believe how much my feet hurt.” Jennifer lowered herself awkwardly into a seat at one of the tables. With the lunch crowd gone, she could only hope dinner would bring better tips and less soreness to her limbs.
Unfortunately, business always slowed this time of year. Kids headed back to school, and families spent as much quality time together as they could during the few hours they shared each night. The only people wandering in and out of the diner were those that either had no families to go home to or didn’t have much money to spend.
It hadn’t taken the two women long to buss the tables, but it’d still been enough to leave Jennifer completely exhausted. If the crowds continued getting smaller and smaller, she wasn’t sure how she would be able to continue to work at the diner. The consignment shop where she sold her handmade lamps had requested a few more this week, but it was small supplement to her income. She felt tempted to dip into the money her mother had left in life insurance, but that meant facing her past. And she was not ready for that.
“Your feet are supposed to be killing you,” Sally said logically, “you’re huge.”
“Oh, thanks a lot!”
“You know what I mean,” Sally admonished, seeming embarrassed by her choice of words. “How far along are you now, anyway?”
“You can’t tell by counting the rings around my ankles?”
“Come on, now, you are a beautiful pregnant woman, and you know it.”
Struggling back to her feet, Jennifer said, “I’m thirty-four weeks. Just six to go. And why does it have to be so hot outside today?”
“Hon, it’s only the beginning of September. It’s supposed to be hot.”