EIGHT
BLAIR
Baby is the size of a spur rowel
Pregnant.
One stupid word on a blue and white test from a stupid one-night stand with a stupid bull rider in stupid Los Angeles has changed my life irrevocably.
“Blair, it’s been three minutes,” Chelsey reports through the closed bathroom door.
But I’m well aware it’s been three minutes because the pink and white test popped up with two lines pretty much instantaneously, and I’ve been staring at the blue one for the three minutes I thought I’d have to mentally prepare myself for a positive result.
The p-word just replaced the loading bar on the screen and pretty much ruined my life.
No.
That’s not fair.
It hasn’t ruined my life.
Children are blessings, not curses.
“Whatever the tests say, you have options,” Stephanie reminds me, but I’m pretty positive they both know exactly what the results are, considering I haven’t said a word since learning my fate.
“Fuck this, I’m going in,” I hear Chelsey mutter seconds before she makes good on that threat. Despite them both being incredibly pushy over the past week for me to take these tests, Chelsey seems surprised to see the results. “Oh, shit.”
Stephanie, however… “Blair, you’ve gotta breathe, babe.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Yep. You are. But regardless of our next steps here, they all require you to be breathing, so?—”
“Oh my god, I’m pregnant.” Are there levels to being shocked? I swear there must be. Three solid minutes of staring at the first pregnancy test and waiting for the second one to confirm it, and I’d done that in complete silence, but now?
Oh my god.
“Well, she’s breathing again,” Chelsey quips.
Stephanie sighs, tugging on my arm as she leads me out to the couch of our shared apartment.
“If we could find a happy medium between not breathing and hyperventilating, that would be incredible. Head between your knees,” she instructs, her hand on the back of my neck to make sure I comply.
“I feel like you’re not fully comprehending that you don’t have to be pregnant if you don’t want to be,” Chelsey offers and Stephanie must shoot her a look because a second later, she’s saying, “What? I’m just saying she’s panicking so I feel like?—”
“I’m keeping it,” I manage to pant out.
Both of the girls go silent, and I use Stephanie’s shock in particular to my benefit, pulling my head up from between my knees to fall back against the sofa instead.
“You’re… keeping it?”
I don’t realize it until I say it, but yeah… I’m keeping it. Here in California, I have a lot of options, thankfully. I’d fully support Chelsey or Stephanie or anyone else going to a clinic to take care of an unwanted pregnancy, but me ?
It was probably leftover trauma from childhood.
Okay, it definitely was.
Something about being a foster kid that no one ever wanted, who bounced around from home to home with tons of shitty parents only out for a paycheck did something to you.
I’d never want any child to feel unwanted, and even though the fetus inside of me isn’t a child yet and doesn’t have the capacity to know whether or not it was wanted… I still couldn’t do it.
I’d always wanted to be a mother someday. Did I think that would happen at twenty-one, in my senior year of college, with no job or home lined up? Not exactly. But I’d figure it out. I’d make it work. Adoption wasn’t an option either. Not for me, at least.
“Blair, I don’t mean to be?—”
“Well aware it’s not the smartest choice, but it’s my choice.”
That shuts Stephanie up, and Chelsey follows suit pretty quickly. “Okay. Alright. Yeah. Keeping it. We’re gonna be aunties!”
“Are you going to tell the cowboy?” Stephanie asks, the voice of reason once again.
“Oh god,” I whine.
For whatever reason, the fact I have to tell the father of this child that despite the condom and my birth control, he’d knocked me up hadn’t occurred to me until now.
He wasn’t going to believe me. Why would he?
I assume he’s… moderately well-off financially. I don’t know much about tattoos, but I’m fairly certain they’re expensive and he was covered in them. Plus, he had lots of Instagram followers, so he was probably pretty good at… rodeo-ing or whatever.
“We should book you an appointment first. Just to double check. You don’t want to reach out to him if the tests are throwing false positives, right?”
“Right,” I agree, nodding.
I think we all know the tests aren’t throwing false positives.
The girls offer to go with me to the appointment, but it feels weird to ask that of them, so I go alone, even though it’s drizzling outside. I’m so used to doing things on my own by now that it’s odd to include others. Especially for something like this.
At least no one’s here to witness the endless litany of I-don’t-knows the obstetrician is getting right now. Family history? No clue. Shot records? Shouldn’t they already have that somewhere in their system? Age my period started?
“Uh… sixth grade, maybe,” I tell her, but that’s a shot in the dark honestly. I spent my childhood living out of a trash bag. Keeping a notebook of dates and immunizations wasn’t really a priority.
Instead of getting frustrated, she just smiles kindly.
“We’re going to do an ultrasound and run a few blood tests, just to check and make sure everything’s okay in there.”
I swallow. Blood tests sound terrible, but if I’m going to bring a kid into this horrible world, I at least owe them a good start. I suppose that means their incubator needs to be in tip-top shape.
“Okay. I Googled some things and started taking prenatal vitamins, but I don’t know which ones are the best ones and I’m, um, well…
frankly, I’m on a bit of a budget, so I had to cut corners and I’m worried I may have cut the wrong ones, so if you wouldn’t mind looking over them and letting me know,” I dig through my tote bag as I ramble, pushing past old receipts and mechanical pencils.
I should really clean this bag out sometime soon.
“Miss Marshall,” the woman says gently, her hand finding a spot on my shoulder right as I finally find the bottle of pills.
She covers the bottle in my hand with her other hand until I look up at her.
“Any prenatal vitamin is better than no prenatal vitamins. You’re doing incredibly. Take a breath. ”
I do, but it’s immediately followed with an apology. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit… This is really unexpected. He wore a condom and I’m on the shot. Or… I was. I’m not now, obviously.”
The nurse takes the bottle from me and glances at the brand name and ingredients.
“It sounds like you did everything you could to prevent the pregnancy. Unfortunately, there aren’t any birth control methods that are 100% effective. Would you like to discuss your other options?” she asks, passing back the bottle.
I hesitate. Maybe I should.
But no. I’ve always wanted to be a mother one day.
The day just came a bit… quicker than I thought it would.
Besides, despite everything, I’ve already grown attached to the idea of this baby, like half of my heart and half of my brain scooted over to make room for it in my life.
I’d even given it a silly little nickname: baby bear.
It’s what my parents had called me when I was young.
“No.”
She nods. “Those vitamins are perfect. You chose well. Let’s get your blood drawn and your ultrasound completed so we can confirm your due date and you can go treat yourself with some ice cream. Nurse’s orders.”