“I’ll sign a piece of paper saying if you happen to kill me during the exam you’re not to blame, but I can’t go another minute guessing, okay? I can’t guess about another thing in my life. I’m not crazy, but every minute that passes, I’m inching closer to it. So if you don’t want me to go ballistic in this office and cause more of a scene than I already have, you’ll tell the doctor you have a very desperate woman out here in need of his or her assistance!” I take a breath and hope the woman doesn’t call the police.
“Um, she can have my appointment. I’ll go later.” The woman who smiled at me earlier looks at me sympathetically.
“Thank you,” I tell her desperately.
A door opens, and a nurse comes out, addressing the receptionist. “Who’s next?”
The receptionist points at me.
It seems as though the doctor has been out of the room forever. I guess the receptionist is telling her what a nut I am. I probably shouldn’t have come here so soon, but I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. I need to know for sure what my situation is. When the door opens, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“How are you, Mrs. Scott?” the doctor asks, sitting on a stool across from me.
“Well, I’ve been better,” I mumble.
“When is the last time you had a normal period?” she asks, her eyes still examining the clipboard.
“About two months ago. Well, three weeks ago I had it, but it only lasted for a day.”
“You told the nurse that you took an at-home pregnancy test and it was positive?” she asks, scribbling on the chart.
“Yes, but I hear that those can be wrong, right? At-home kits aren’t a hundred percent.”
“No, at-home kits are not one hundred percent, but they are pretty close. Most are up to ninety-seven percent accurate.”
“But there’s still a three percent chance that I’m not,” I say quickly.
She finally stops writing, and her eyes connect with mine. “Mrs. Scott, I am going to be honest with you. You seem like right now you need honesty and not vague reassurances from me.”
“Brooks. I’d prefer if you called me Brooks,” I say quietly. I guess I’ll have to get used to it.
“Miss Brooks, a pregnancy test measures for a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin, the pregnancy hormone. An at-home test uses urine to detect the level in your body. I gave you a qualitative hCG blood test, which measures the exact amount of the hormone in your bloodstream. This test is extremely accurate—it could detect the hormone as soon as a week after ovulation. Pregnancy kit tests are least accurate if you took the test a week after you ovulated, which could possibly have given you false results if you took it too early. But from your statements… in my professional opinion, if you haven’t had a normal period in six weeks, the test was most likely accurate. From the symptoms you’ve described such as extreme fatigue and morning sickness, there is a strong possibility…”
Her voice fades out after a while. I know I’m pregnant because when things are bad, they only get worse.
When I open the door, I see Angela talking on the phone.
“I’ve got to go,” she says quickly and hangs up.
I close the door and lean against it.
“Lauren, I was so worried about you. I didn’t know where to look. Your aunt keeps calling, and I don’t know what to say. You’ve been gone five hours,” she scolds me in a worried tone.
“Eight weeks,” I say simply.
“What?” Her tone softens.
“I’m eight weeks pregnant,” I say, feeling completely numb.
I slide down the door and cover my face. With all of the tears I’ve cried, I’m surprised I’m not dehydrated. I think I’ve literally cried myself out. She doesn’t say anything but sits beside me and takes my hand.
“I went to the doctor’s office down the street. After I found out, I walked around for hours, just trying to clear my head, but it helped,” I say, clearing my throat. “I can’t cry anymore or feel sorry for myself. I’m having a baby, and I’m going to have to deal with it. So many people in worse situations than me have had children, so I can’t just cry about it anymore. But I’m so angry because I shouldn’t have to do this alone. I can do this by myself, but I shouldn’t have to!”
“You’re not going to. You’ll have me, your aunt—”
“He should be here! I need him, and he’s not going to be. I remember the night this happened. When I was going to leave him, he carried me upstairs like I was a six-year-old having a temper tantrum and locked me in my room. That same night, he came home and brought me a dozen pink roses. I was so angry with him, and I still gave in. I still wanted him. He made love to me the entire night and left the next afternoon.” I stand. “That was the night he did this to me. And just like then, he left!”
Angela gets up and walks toward me. “It may seem bad now, but when you hold that little baby in your arms and you see its eyes and its smile, all of this shit you’re going through now will be worth it.”
I hug her. She has been such a good friend to me. Through all of my crazy mood swings and anti-social behavior, she’s never complained and had always listened without asking questions.
I’m going to get through this. I’m going to have to be a better woman, for myself and now for this baby growing inside me. Things aren’t just about me anymore. I can’t cry for Cal another day. My life can’t be wrapped around him or his memory. I guess, in some way, he’s given me a piece of him, and now I have someone else to love.
Chapter 13
December 7th, 2010
Next week I’ll be standing in a church in front of over five hundred guests, most of whom Cal and I don’t really know or care about—even Michael was invited. I don’t hate him so much anymore though. A thousand pictures will be taken as we say our vows for the second time. I’ll be wearing a nine-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown with a diamond necklace that costs even more than that. The wedding will be followed by a grand reception. But that’s not my wedding; well, supposedly it is, but I call it “The Crestfield Affair.”
Cal and I have joked about it. Dexter says it will be good for the company’s image—whatever that is. Cal wanted to blow it off, but Helen begged me. I never thought she’d beg a day in her life. Besides, what girl wouldn’t want two weddings?
But today, on this perfect seventy-degree day on a private beach in Rio, wearing a little white sundress, pearls, and a yellow flower in my hair, with my toes in the beautiful white sand, I’ll commit to spending the rest of my life with the man who swept me off my feet and captured my heart. My tears flow freely as I hold his hand. He’s in white slacks and a matching short-sleeved button-up with a yellow handkerchief in his pocket. He’s displaying a boyish grin, but I know the naughtiness that hides behind it. He squeezes my hand as the pastor—whose English is a little less than perfect—gives him the go-ahead to say his vows. Cal takes a deep breath, and Dexter pats him on the shoulder. He lets out a small laugh, then his expression turns serious.