Chapter 2 #2
I stepped off to the side so others could go ahead of me and smiled at Eddie, the regular weekday guard.
I stuck my hand in my other pocket. Nothing there either.
What the hell? I always put my keys in the pocket of my coat after locking my front door.
Maybe I put them in my bag today? I opened my crossbody work bag and felt around. Nope.
“Dammit,” I said for the umpteenth time that morning.
I racked my brain—I locked my door on the way out, right?
Hopefully I didn’t do something stupid like leave my keys hanging from the doorknob.
Or had I dropped them somewhere along the way?
Maybe when that bratty skateboarder plowed into me?
Jesus Christ, I’m a mess! I looked up at Eddie again.
“I must have dropped them outside somewhere. Hold my bag?” Without waiting for him to reply, I shoved my bag into his arms and took off.
I ran back the way I’d come, desperately combing the gutters and sidewalks for any sign of my keys, but with no luck. I checked the time—8:57. Crap! I was going to be late. I jogged back toward the office.
Eddie took pity on me and swiped me through, telling me to come back to the desk and file a missing badge report later if they didn’t turn up. I was in my seat in the conference room by 9:03, out of breath and coated in a layer of sweat, the new blister on my right pinky pulsing with pain.
As I was leaving the conference room after the meeting, the agency’s young receptionist stopped me in the hall.
“Savannah—one of the security guards from downstairs just dropped these off for you.” She held out her hand.
“My keys! My badge! Oh, thank God.” I sighed with relief, thankful for whatever Good Samaritan had gone to the trouble to turn them in.
On my way out at the end of the workday, I stopped by the reception desk. “Hey, Eddie. Thanks for sending my keys up earlier.”
“You got lucky. Someone dropped them off. Said they found them on the ground outside.” On the badge was my name and thumbnail photo, as well as the address of the building where they should be turned in if ever found—and someone had actually done it.
Huh. I must have walked right past them earlier when I was looking. It made sense—I was so flustered I probably wasn’t seeing straight. “Let me guess—teenage boy with a skateboard?”
“No, it was a woman.”
“Oh. Well, thanks again. I’m just glad someone turned them in!”
“Have a good evening, Savannah.”
As I was walking home, Max texted.
Are you free Sunday? Madison suggested this great brunch place in Potrero Hill.
I cringed. I was still feeling weird at the thought of meeting Max’s girlfriend.
Was this truly about being supportive, or even ripping the Band-Aid of awkwardness off?
Or did she just want to size me up? Make sure I didn’t have designs on her man?
Max said she wanted to “help,” but … it wasn’t like there was anything she could do to help grow the baby.
I finally texted back: I’m actually heading to my mom’s Sunday morning. OK if we just do coffee? Brunch sounded long and intimidating. Coffee would be short and sweet.
After a moment, Max replied, Sure, no problem. Coffee Bean again? 9:30?
Sure.
I reached my apartment building. The main door always stuck a little, but after some extra jiggling I managed to wrestle it open and entered the small lobby, which was just big enough to house a row of four small mailboxes built into the wall on my right, and a single staircase to the two second-floor apartments on my left. I trudged up the stairs.
In my mad dash to get out the door that morning, I’d left my apartment even messier than usual.
My blackened tea kettle still sat on the stove, the smell of burnt metal lingering in my kitchen, where the setting sun that snuck in between the slats of the blinds over my sink illuminated floating specks of dirt and dust swirling around in the air.
Dirty dishes, takeout containers, and junk mail littered the counter and table.
As I dropped my work bag onto the couch and dragged my tired body into the bedroom, I was greeted by the sight of dirty laundry covering the floor and bed.
For a brief moment, I imagined a crib holding a sleeping baby in the corner, amongst all the detritus.
Get it together, Savannah. You can’t raise a baby in a pigsty like this. It’s time to get your life organized—and you only have a little over six months to do it.
An hour and a half later, I flopped down on the couch with a weary sigh, listening to the quiet whir of my dishwasher and breathing in the sweet smell of a clean apartment and the vanilla candle I’d lit.
The timer on my phone dinged, letting me know it was time to head down to the ground floor laundry room and switch my clothes from the washer to the dryer.
I popped back up with a groan. All the cleaning had exhausted me.
Now it was time to scarf down some leftovers, take a hot bath, grab my laundry from the dryer once it was done, and then head to bed.
As I reached to open the fridge door, I stopped suddenly, an uneasy feeling spreading through my body.
Something was wrong.
Something was missing.
I stood absolutely still for a moment, my eyes scanning my surroundings, until it hit me—the empty space right in front of me.
Every morning for the past couple of weeks, as I waited for the kettle to whistle for my morning cup of herbal tea, I’d gaze at it in wonder where it hung on my refrigerator, held in place with an old pizza delivery magnet, right at eye level.
Only now it wasn’t there.
The printout of my ultrasound was gone.