Twelve August 1997
TWELVE
I’ve always known that my birth was not a planned one, but never once was I made to feel as if I was unwanted.
After witnessing so many children born, I sensed that maybe they knew how their birth story would start.
I could tell by their first cries: loud and shrill, maybe destined for hardship; soft and calm, an easier life.
No cries for the truly curious ones, as their eyes roamed the face of their mother, the shadow of leaves.
Babies can sense their future the way a bird senses a coming storm.
And maybe when we, transient guests in their story, are quiet, waiting for their mother to speak to them, the first words they will hear earthside, we can influence their perceptions of themselves. Maybe this is why we stay quiet?
I’m not sure if this is how it is, but for two days I refused to utter a word, and I tried as best I could to push any and all negativity to the back of my mind, as far away from my body as I could. Because I wanted this soul, more than any other, to come into the world soft and curious.
Susan was at my door faster than I could make a cup of tea. In her hands were three different home pregnancy tests. Miriam wasn’t too far behind. I seemed to have created a new, smaller but loving family in this place where generations of my family had loved.
“I thought you were too old for this,” Susan said, handing me the tests.
“So did I, but apparently forty-two isn’t as old as we think.”
“Are you sure it’s not just the start of perimenopause?” asked Miriam.
“Could be. I guess we are about to find out. I’ve had three cups of tea, so let’s do this.”
Until that moment, I had existed in the in-between, the knowing and the not-knowing.
And there was comfort there. The life I had been accustomed to living could continue, or it could become something I’d never imagined.
I looked at the three boxes in Susan’s hand and tried to tell myself that, regardless of the results, everything was going to be okay.
“Why three tests?” I asked.
“I wanted to be sure.”
We all laughed.
“Okay, get in there and pee on this stick.” Susan passed one of the boxes to me.
Two minutes doesn’t sound long, but it can feel like an eternity.
Those two minutes both crawled along and came to an end too fast, tossing me out of the in-between.
My heart thumped when the egg timer on the stove, set by Susan, went off.
I’d left the stick in the bathroom on the back of the toilet.
That way, I could leave it there as long as I needed.
“If you don’t go, I will.” Susan made to stand, but Miriam reached over and touched her arm, a subtle message to sit.
“She’s got this,” Miriam said.
“I got this.” I nodded.
I stood but didn’t move. My feet felt like lead, holding me fast to the floor.
I smiled at them both and took one step and then another and then another until I was standing at the bathroom door.
The tiled floor felt cold on my bare feet as I took the two steps toward the toilet.
I looked down, unable to decide if I was simply apprehensive or utterly afraid, as if a snake were going to emerge from behind the toilet and bite me.
But there was no snake, only two pink lines, not thin, not light, as clear as they could possibly be.
I stood there holding it in my hand, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now.
Was this who I was now? A pregnant woman, approaching middle age, alone.
I had worried I’d be disappointed if I saw two lines, anxious even.
But there was a calm that came with knowing.
“A woman becomes a mother when she is meant to.” I could hear Kiju’s voice, clear as day.
The gentle inflection on the words become and meant.
It was something she often said to girls who were just on the cusp of womanhood and ended up “in the family way,” as the white folks called it.
They always made it seem like such a shameful thing, to bring a life into the world, but not Kiju.
Regardless of the parents’ age, Kiju said that a child was always a blessing.
I felt Susan and Miriam come in and stand behind me. The tiny bathroom could barely hold all of us.
“So, am I going to be an auntie or what?”
I turned and showed them the stick.
Susan looked down at it. “Auntie it is. Do you need to try another?”
“No, I think this is clear. I think I knew anyway.”
“Women’s intuition. How are you going to tell William?” Miriam asked.
“Do I have to? Can’t I just wait until he leaves in a couple days?”
“Until you have a kid that has his eyes or his nose. I think you need to tell him. Let him decide what to do.”
“But—” I was trying to say something but needed the time to think it through, to choose my words carefully, so that I didn’t sound cold and selfish.
But the reality was maybe I didn’t want William around.
Maybe I wanted this baby for myself. Maybe I wanted to re-experience the relationship I had with Kiju, just the two of us making it work, but I also realized that Kiju probably would not have chosen to raise two girls alone, first my mother and then me.
But for me, I wanted to be free of the burden of custody, of sharing my child with someone I barely knew.
William was a good man, a kind and generous man, but our relationship was only meant to be temporary.
A child was anything but. And I wanted my child to love only me; I didn’t want to share their affection.
It was a selfish thought, and I knew it.
But I had to be truthful to myself. And if these friends of mine had their way, I needed to be truthful to William too.
“Fine. I’ll tell him, but I am also going to tell him that I am fully prepared to go this alone.”
“That’s fine, but you have to tell him, and you will not be going it alone, you got me.” Susan wrapped her arms around me, tight.
“And me,” added Miriam, joining our embrace.
It had been three days since I’d seen William, two since I suspected I might be pregnant. He worked long days, so I’d convinced myself that he needed rest, not my voice on the other end of a phone telling him something so unbelievable, something neither one of us had anticipated.
Prior to the pink lines, I assumed William would become another footnote in my life, a happy memory thrown in amongst all the others.
But now that footnote had become an entire chapter.
I needed time to figure out the right words, if there were any.
Each time I picked up the phone to call, I’d hear the shrill sound of the dial tone in my ears before placing the receiver back down, William still in the dark.