Chapter 18 Ligaya #2
At the drugstore, the fluorescent lights pierce my consciousness.
I feel like a bug under a microscope. The carpet is inexplicably crunchy and sticky.
I follow my sister down the aisles of makeup, cold meds, and flushable wipes.
I’m momentarily distracted by Ferrero Rocher on sale.
Finally, we find ourselves in front of ovulation kits, pregnancy tests, and prenatal vitamins.
We wipe out the pregnancy test aisle like it’s a fire sale.
Digital. Analog. Blue lines. Pink lines. The fancy kind with apps. Backup tests for the backup tests. I even throw in a box that promises “Early Result!” in a font that screams panic.
Before we get to the cashier, Ami grabs a bottle of prenatal gummies. At the checkout, Eric awaits. A former student who I recall was chirpy with gossip.
“Hiya, Miss Torres. How are you doing?” he says, eyes crinkling with genuine goodwill.
He assesses our haul and raises one brow. It twitches.
I force a smile with too much teeth. “Hi, Eric.”
“These are for me,” Ami jumps in, overly bright.
When he swipes the sixth package, Ami feels compelled to add, “Me and my friend. We’re covering all possibilities.” As if that makes any sense at all.
Eric continues to scan with exaggerated professionalism. He gives us our total in a whisper.
Back at my place, I dump everything onto the cramped bathroom counter. I chug a water bottle as if peeing is an Olympic event. Ami hovers in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Who’s the maybe-daddy?” she asks with a gentle tone, though her eyes are like a hawk’s.
“I don’t know if I’m pregnant, Ate. So, there is no daddy.”
She harumphs. “Whatever you say.”
I shut the bathroom door and stare down the pale-faced woman in the mirror. She blinks at me like she doesn’t recognize me, either.
Nothing to be done but pee. Rip off the Band-Aid, so to speak.
But pregnancy is not a wound, and this kind of decision is no Band-Aid. The next few minutes will alter the course of my life, one way or another. If I had any delusions about delaying the inevitable, my sister’s knock reminds me that there is nowhere to hide from myself.
“I’m almost done,” I call out.
I take one test. Then another. Then a third. The other three tests I leave unopened.
In the kitchen, the stove timer provides a countdown. Three minutes till I get an answer I’m not sure I want to hear. Distracting myself with serving tea does not help. My hands shake so much I spill hot water on the counter. The timer goes off.
“You want me to look first?”
I shake my head. “Let’s do it together.”
We walk back in and flip them over, one by one.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
I sit on the edge of my tub, the third stick still in my hand like it might reverse itself if I squeeze hard enough.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I whisper.
Ami sits cross-legged on the bathroom floor and rests her head against my knee.
“It is real.”
We stay like that for five minutes or an hour, I have no idea.
Finally, she murmurs, “Now are you willing to tell me who the father might be?”
I sigh. “Can you guess?”
“You didn’t get back together with that cheating bastard, did you?”
“Nope.” She’s talking about John, the last co-star in the boring show of my dating life. It was so boring, he cheated on me.
“Is it someone I know?”
“Yup.”
She gapes at me with unblinking eyes. “You slept with Tristan Thorne!”
“One time.”
“Didn’t you use protection?”
“We used condoms,” I blurt defensively. “It was one night, but like multiple times.”
“Oh my god. Just when you think you got him out of your system, huh? He’s such a goddamn pest, that son of a bitch.”
Ami has a habit of mixing jokes with vehemence. She wants to lighten the mood as well as punch Tristan. My sister knows how hurt I was after he ghosted me. And yet, she doesn’t say I told you so. She merely asks the million-dollar question.
“Do you want to tell him?”
“I don’t want to tell him till I’m sure.”
Ami tilts her head toward the tests on the counter.
“I should go to the doctor,” I state.
“Right,” she agrees cautiously.
“I mean, what if—”
“What if the ninety-nine percent accurate reading of three tests is faulty. Yes, definitely see a doctor.”
Her sarcasm stings. She reaches over to hug me, softening the blow of her point.
“Maybe I’m releasing certain hormones because I’m late. That’s a thing.” I continue my narrative of deniability.
“If you say so.”
I clean up the mess and disinfect the counter and scrub my hands. The entire time, my sister watches.
“I will respect whatever you decide for the pregnancy, Ligaya. And I swear to god, so will Tristan.”
Her voice is low, confident, and a little scary. I’m reminded that my sister is the equivalent of ten protective older brothers, plus she’s trained for combat.
“I know you’ve got my back, but will Mom and Dad respect my choice? I’m not ready for any of this, Ate.”
“This is your body. Whatever you decide for yourself is what’s right. This isn’t about being ready. This is about trusting yourself. There are options.”
“I know.”
“Good. There’s time to consider options, right?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“In that case, there’s no reason to decide anything tonight.”
“If it turns out I’m pregnant, I will tell Tristan.”
What I don’t say is I don’t know how.
How to tell him. How he’ll react. How I’ll feel if he ghosts me all over again.