A small nameplate on the left of the desk says Woman’s Mess, and another on the right says Man’s Treasure. This office is definitely masculine, the wood some type of rich mahogany or oak, with framed pictures of sports figures and old antique cars on the wall.
Another built-in feature, this one a bookshelf, covers the whole length of the other side and is filled with thick books. Hemingway is next to Sylvia Plath. But what catches my eye is in the middle, where a framed picture of Noah and Charlotte dressed in fancy attire is located.
Afraid she’ll think I’m snooping, which is exactly what I’m doing, I tiptoe back out to the hall, Charlotte downstairs and nowhere to be seen.
Walking on, I try the third door handle.
It’s locked.
Hmm . . .
I shake the knob.
Nothing.
I hear a faucet running downstairs.
Retracing my steps, I discover that the bathroom in the guest room is actually one of those Jack and Jill bathrooms I’ve read about in magazines, meaning one door is accessible from the hall and one door leads into the bedroom I initially passed. Making sure both doors are locked, I take another sip of my bottled water, pacing the small floor of the bathroom.
Staring in the mirror, I give myself a pep talk.
It’s only a test. It’s only a test. You can’t flunk it.
But it can come back positive, meaning you’re pregnant, I remind myself gloomily.
I try not to let the weight of what a positive pregnancy test would mean get to me, especially since I just lost my boyfriend and I’m about to lose my foster care when I turn eighteen.
But you know you are, I chastise myself. It’s true. I’m just in deep denial.
My hands shake as I hold the plastic clumsily underneath me on the toilet. I have to hum before I can force myself to go, almost dropping the stick in the water in the process. It has a digital screen and is supposed to be as accurate as the doctor’s test.
Shit.
Now what? I ask myself. I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror. Duh, you have to wait for the results. Clicking my teeth in nervous anticipation, I leave my urine-soaked test on the edge of the counter. If only I had a working phone, I could play a game or look for future pet-sitting opportunities.
Or adoption agencies.
The reality of my breakup hits me again, complicated by the fact that I’m knocked up and alone, and I freak out inside.
Wringing my hands together, and without any desire to sit in the bathroom and wait, I step into the connected bedroom, where I notice a balcony that faces the lake. When I step outside, the cold spring breeze hits me while the sun gently reminds me it will be summer soon.
I stand nervously as I clench the handle of the wrought iron railing.
Lost in thought, I don’t even hear Charlotte until she taps on the french door behind me.
Fuck.
“Everything okay?” Charlotte doesn’t sneak up close behind me, instead resting her hands on the doorframe, giving me space.
“Yeah, sorry.” I try not to act surprised. “I didn’t realize you had such a good view of the lake.”
“Impressive, huh?” she says. “I like to people watch; there’s always bird feeding and joggers. They stock the lake with fish, so it’ll be prime fishing soon.”
It’s unfair that Charlotte can walk along this trail anytime she wants, while my father rots in prison.
“Yeah, it looks different from up here.” I then explain, “The lake’s never looked huge until now, when I’m above it.”
“You ready to come back downstairs?”
I start to follow her out of the room, noticing how careful she is about locking doors behind her. She closes the thin, gauzelike curtains as I start to follow her across the threshold. My face reddens. I need to grab the pregnancy test before she spots it on the counter.
“Let me just grab a tissue and blow my nose. I’ll meet you downstairs.” I disappear behind the bathroom door, a positive plus sign innocently staring back at me. Beads of sweat form on my brow, and I feel the rising of my paltry breakfast as I sink to my knees in front of the toilet.
After rinsing out my mouth, I finish off the rest of the water. Sticking the completed test in my waistband seems pointless, so I carefully wrap the stick back in the opened plastic, hiding it in the trash can underneath a handful of tissues and inside an empty toothpaste carton.
When I exit the bathroom, I hear Charlotte moving around downstairs.
Weirder yet, I hear the flush of the toilet from the bathroom she told me was broken. As I walk down the stairs, dizzy with sickness and faced with a positive pregnancy test, I watch Charlotte come out of the bathroom, wiping a hand across her mouth.
Is she experiencing morning sickness, I wonder, at the same level I am? “Is everything okay?”
She gives me a weak smile. “Yes, everything’s good.”
In an accusatory voice, I snap, “I thought the toilet didn’t work.”
Charlotte seems surprised at my tone. “I just needed to rehook the flapper thing. That plastic thing in the tank.” Seeing the blank expression on my face, she shakes her head. “Never mind. I don’t know the technical name for it. Noah had to FaceTime me to show me how to do it.”
Feeling like a jackass, I want to ask about the next time Noah will be home, except her demeanor has changed in the instant since my heated question. The way she carries herself is now hunched instead of self-assured, her lips tightened into a hard line. “I’m going to go take a nap. Can you see yourself out?”
“Sure, no problem,” I say, pulling on my sneakers. “Thanks for speaking to me.”
“Yeah, Elle, it was good to see you.” Her smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Have a good rest of your evening; good luck with everything.”
“Charlotte . . .”
She pivots on her heel.
“Are we all square?”
“We are.” She pauses to watch me remove the dead bolt and unlock the door, her hands resting on her hips.
I nod, feeling out of sorts, the heaviness of what to do on my mind. I dread the next conversation I need to have, but it has to be faced. It’s the right thing to do. He should know.
But the question is when. I have to decide when to tell Justin.
Unsure where to go or what to do, I catch the next bus out of Charlotte’s development. The apartment sounds depressing, but telling Justin sounds even worse.
You need him, I remind myself, and you didn’t do this by yourself. Just because you’re taking a break doesn’t void the fact that he’s been your boyfriend for the past year.
Except this is the opposite of what he asked for, a less serious relationship.
Tough shit. This is his responsibility too.
I chew my already-sad-looking fingernails down as the bus bounces its way to its other stops. I want to catch him before his shift starts at five and have to switch buses three times just to reach the edge of town, where the junkyard sits, and even then I’m still a few miles away, at a truck stop on the outskirts, where the bus line ends.
Relying on a stranger who got off at the same stop, I ask if I can make a call on his cell. Sometimes there is camaraderie with the bus crowd; other times, it’s a war zone. It depends on who has taken their meds, who has eaten, who is coming down from a trip, what kind of trip, and the weather. All these factors determine the mood of the passengers.