Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Vanna
Something is wrong with me.
Not the usual kind of wrong—not the cravings or the shakes or the bone-deep exhaustion that's been my constant companion for the past month.
This is different.
This is my body doing something I don't understand, and it's scaring the hell out of me.
I'm standing in the bathroom of my room in the residential wing, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger.
Healthier than she was a month ago, sure—my cheeks have filled out a little, and the dark circles under my eyes aren't quite as pronounced.
But there's something else.
Something I can't quite put my finger on.
My breasts are sore.
They've been sore for over a week now, tender in a way that makes even the soft fabric of my bra feel like sandpaper.
And I'm tired—not the tired of withdrawal, but a different kind of tired.
A heavy, bone-deep fatigue that hits me in waves, usually right after lunch.
And the nausea.
God, the nausea.
At first, I thought it was just a lingering effect of the detox.
My body's still adjusting to functioning without heroin, and the counselors warned me that I might experience all kinds of weird symptoms as my system recalibrates.
But this doesn't feel like detox.
This feels like something else entirely.
I grip the edges of the sink and try to breathe through another wave of queasiness.
It's been like this for three days now—fine in the morning, queasy by noon, barely able to keep dinner down by evening.
The pattern is so consistent it's almost predictable.
Almost like...
No.
I shake my head, dismissing the thought before it can fully form.
That's impossible.
I've been on birth control for years—the shot, every three months, like clockwork.
Garrett and I haven't even had sex in...
The motel.
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut, and I have to grab the sink tighter to keep from swaying.
The motel room.
The night before he dropped me off at the facility.
We didn't use protection.
I was so desperate to feel something other than fear, and he was so desperate to hold onto me, and neither of us thought about the consequences.
But I was on birth control.
The shot.
I get it every three months.
Except... when was the last time I actually went?
I try to think back, but the months before rehab are a blur of track marks and trap houses.
I stopped keeping track of appointments.
Stopped caring.
The future didn't exist when all I could think about was the next fix.
Birth control seemed pointless when I wasn't sure I'd be alive next month anyway.
"Oh god," I whisper to my reflection. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."
I'm gripping the sink so hard my knuckles have gone white.
My heart is pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that make the nausea even worse.
This can't be happening.
This absolutely cannot be happening.
But even as I deny it, I know.
Deep in my gut, in that place where instinct lives, I know.
I'm pregnant.
The clinic at the facility is small but well-equipped.
They have doctors on staff for medical issues, nurses who can handle everything from sprained ankles to panic attacks.
I've been here a few times already—once for a check-up, once when my blood pressure spiked during a particularly intense therapy session.
But I've never been here for this.
The nurse who greets me is named Dana.
She's in her fifties, with short gray hair and kind eyes that have probably seen every kind of tragedy addiction can cause.
She doesn't judge.
None of the staff here judges.
That's one of the things I've come to appreciate about this place.
"What can I help you with today, Vanna?" she asks, gesturing for me to sit on the exam table.
I don't know how to say it.
The words feel too big, too impossible.
So, I just blurt it out, graceless and terrified. "I think I might be pregnant."
Dana's expression doesn't change.
Not even a flicker of surprise.
She just nods, pulling on a pair of gloves, and asks, "When was your last period?"
I try to think.
The drugs messed with my cycle so badly that I stopped keeping track years ago.
Sometimes I'd go months without bleeding; other times, I'd bleed for weeks straight.
It was just another way my body was falling apart, and I learned to ignore it the same way I ignored everything else.
"I don't know," I admit. "I haven't had a regular cycle in years."
"That's common with opioid use," Dana says, her voice calm and clinical. "What makes you think you might be pregnant?"
I list the symptoms.
The sore breasts. The fatigue. The nausea that hits like clockwork every afternoon.
Dana listens, nodding along, and when I'm done, she pulls out a small plastic cup.
"Let's start with a urine test," she says. "We'll know in a few minutes."
The bathroom feels smaller than it did before.
I do what I need to do, trying not to think about what the results might mean.
Trying not to imagine what Garrett will say.
What the counselors will say.
What this means for my recovery.
I hand the cup to Dana and sit back on the exam table, my legs dangling over the edge like a child's.
The wait is only supposed to be three minutes, but it feels like an eternity.
I stare at the poster on the wall—something about the stages of recovery, with cheerful cartoon figures climbing a mountain—and try to keep my breathing steady.
Three minutes.
That's all it takes to change everything.
Dana comes back into the room, and I know before she says a word.
I can see it in her eyes, in the careful way she's holding herself.
She's trying to be gentle, but there's no gentle way to deliver news like this.
"The test is positive," she says. "You're pregnant."
The world tilts sideways.
I hear the words, but they don't make sense.
They're just sounds, syllables strung together in a pattern that my brain refuses to process.
Pregnant. I'm pregnant.
There's a baby growing inside me—a baby that Garrett and I made in a rundown motel room the night before I checked into rehab.
The thought makes my stomach lurch, and for a moment I think I'm going to be sick right there on the exam table.
All those years of heroin.
All those needles.
All that poison flooding my bloodstream, and now there's a tiny life in there that's been swimming in it.
What have I done?
"How far along?" I hear myself ask.
My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from somewhere else.
Like it belongs to someone who isn't falling apart inside.
"Based on what you've told me, I'd estimate around five weeks," Dana says. "We'll need to do an ultrasound to confirm, but that's my best guess."
Five weeks.
The math checks out.
Five weeks ago, I was in that motel room, wrapped in Garrett's arms, desperate to feel something other than fear.
I remember the way he touched me that night—gentle and reverent, like I was something precious.
Like I was still worth loving after everything I'd put him through.
And now there's a baby.
Our baby.
"What about the drugs?" The question tears out of me, raw and terrified. "I was using until a couple of days before I arrived here. Heroin. Every day for years. What does that mean for the baby?"
Dana's expression softens with compassion.
"That's something we'll need to monitor closely.
Early drug exposure can cause complications, but it's not a death sentence.
The fact that you've been clean for a month is a good sign.
Your body is healing, and that means the baby has a better chance of being healthy. "
"But there could be problems." It's not a question.
"There could be," Dana admits. "We won't know for sure until you're further along. But I've seen plenty of healthy babies born to mothers who struggled with addiction in the beginning. It's not impossible."
Not impossible. That's the best she can offer me. Not impossible.
I put my hand on my stomach, pressing against the flat plane of my abdomen.
There's nothing to feel yet—no bump, no flutter, no sign that anything is different.
But something is different. Everything is different.
There's a life growing inside me. A tiny, fragile life that I've already endangered with years of poison and neglect.
"I need to call my husband," I say.
The phone feels heavy in my hand.
I'm standing in the hallway outside the clinic, my back against the wall, trying to work up the courage to dial.
It's not my scheduled call time—I'm only supposed to call Garrett once a day, in the evenings—but Dana pulled some strings for me.
A compassionate exception, she called it.
I don't feel compassionate.
I feel terrified.
How am I supposed to tell him this?
How am I supposed to say "I'm pregnant" when I don't even know what that means for us?
For the baby? For my recovery?
But I can't not tell him.
He deserves to know.
He's been waiting for me, fighting for me, believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself.
I owe him the truth.
I dial the number before I can talk myself out of it.
He answers on the first ring, like he always does. "Vanna? Is everything okay? It's not your usual time."
The concern in his voice makes my eyes sting with tears.
Of course he's worried.
Any deviation from the routine makes him worry.
He's been living on a knife's edge for the past month, waiting for the call that tells him I've relapsed.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I'm okay," I say quickly. "I'm not... nothing bad happened. Well, not bad exactly. I just... I need to tell you something."
"What is it?" I can hear him moving, probably stepping away from whatever he was doing to give me his full attention. "Talk to me, Van."
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall. "I went to the clinic today. I've been feeling off for a few days—tired, nauseous, just... weird. And they ran some tests."
Silence on the other end. Heavy, waiting silence.
"Blood..." I have to force the words out past the lump in my throat. "I'm pregnant."
The silence stretches for so long I start to wonder if the call dropped.