Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sadie
W hen I wake up, my heart is pounding feverishly, and I’m covered in a light sheen of sweat, my camisole sticking to me. Even considering how hot and humid the weather still is, this seems worse than I’d have expected. I put it down to a nightmare, but if it was, I don’t remember it. Probably just as well, if this is how it’s left me. Gross - even the roots of my hair feel damp.
I’m glad Leo didn’t stay over and isn’t here to see me all crappified like this. I know he’s seen me in a worse state, but there’s plenty of time yet for him to see me looking and feeling like garbage. Let me maintain the illusion a little longer.
I get up and have a glass of water to try and settle me down, and then let Gary out of his cage so he can stretch his wings. He lovingly tells me to bugger off as I fill up his feeding tray, but I’m suddenly too light headed to laugh about it, and I have to steady myself on the table. My stomach feels tight and jumpy, my fingers are tingling, and…oh, shit. Was it me, or did the floor just move?
I stand straighter, hold onto the counter behind me, and stay still for a while, hoping the feeling will pass. This is not how I usually feel with a build up to a migraine, but I guess stranger things have happened. Or maybe I’m coming down with something. My stomach churns and lurches, and it doesn’t pass, it only gets worse, and then -
“Oh, god,” I grunt, my throat tightening, and then it gets worse. My throat feels like it’s exploding as I start retching, and I barely make it to the toilet before puking my guts up. Loudly.
Loud enough to scare Gary, apparently. Although the gut wrenching, putrid act of throwing up is pretty distracting, I’m still aware of him flapping his wings in a tizzy. He keeps screaming, “What the FUCK!” and “Oh my fucksies!” over and over, interspersed with shrill alarm calls as he flies back and forth in a blind panic.
When I’m finally done and flush it all away, he perches on the edge of my sink. “What the fucking fuck?” he shrieks.
“Sorry, my baby,” I whisper-coo at him, hoarse but starting to feel a little steadier. Remarkably so, really, considering that vomiting usually wipes me out for the rest of the day. I want to rinse the horrible sour taste out of my mouth, and start to scramble to my feet, when the words I just said echo in my head like an alarm clock.
My baby…
I stop short.
There’s no way. I’m on the implant, and it has virtually a one hundred percent success rate.
Although I did have it put in a while ago… I count the months since it was installed on my fingers. Yep, it’s coming to the end of its life. What if it wore out early?
Gary squawks again, still agitated. I rub his head with one finger the way he likes, gentling him. If only my own thoughts could be calmed as quickly. A seed of doubt has been planted in my head, and I hunch my shoulders against the possibility. It’s extremely unlikely, I insist to myself. I probably just ate something that didn’t sit right, or caught a twenty four hour sickness bug. I’m getting myself all worked up for no solid reason. And the fact that my period hasn’t shown up yet this month means nothing. The implant, the thing that protects me from situations like this and has never let me down , means that I either have a light month or an occasional skipped month. Nothing unusual has happened here, and everything can be explained away quite easily.
My tits are still pretty sore, though. I just put that down to a mixture of hormones and some repeated rough play with Leo recently.
I close my eyes, already knowing what I’m going to do. Just for peace of mind. And for the avoidance of any doubt whatsoever, I’m picking up a digital pregnancy test. Pregnant or Not Pregnant . No room for any error or uncertainty, no is-that-a-line-or-am-I-seeing-things. They’re not cheap, but they’re worth it for the lack of ambiguity and the stress they save.
Once I’ve swirled some mouthwash and thrown on a sundress and sandals, I head out, making a beeline for the nearest supermarket. I don’t have any appointments until this afternoon, thankfully. The walk over there does me some small good, the fresh air easing the last traces of queasiness. By the time I’ve gone to the aisle, picked the test I want, and used the self-service checkout, I’m even smiling. I’m being so ridiculous. It’s probably just delayed food poisoning from those damn shrimp po’boys a few nights ago. Eli’s normally an excellent chef, but maybe I just copped an unfortunate prawn this time, and for some reason it’s taken its time to hit me with its best shot. Could happen to anyone.
I can’t wait to tell Liaden and Em about this over cocktails, alcoholic cocktails because there’s no reason why I can’t have them, so we can have a bloody good laugh over my silly bout of paranoia.
Gary has calmed down once I get back in, and greets me pleasantly from the top of the TV. “Tart.”
“I know you are, but what am I?” I mumble. He mutters various little obscenities, still a little peeved from my terrifying vom session, and I blow him a soothing kiss before heading to the bathroom.
Huh . Having never used one before, I hadn’t realised how tricky it was to aim the flow when you’re peeing onto a stick. It’s only when I’ve finished that I remember it would have been simpler to pee into a cup and then dip the test in. Ah, well. Next time I need to use one of these, I’ll do that. Hopefully, that won’t be for a while.
The box says to leave it for a couple of minutes, so I kill time by making my bed and clearing up the green feathers from Gary’s panic attack, which are dotted all over the place. Poor boy. I’ll give him some treats in his ring ball, the one Leo bought for him.
That’s probably around two minutes, so I pick up the test, and…
And… Wait. What? No. I… No. There’s got to be some sort of mistake.
Pregnant - 8 weeks .
I don’t believe it.
I drop the test on the counter and grab the box, scanning the instructions looking for anything I might have done wrong to fuck up the test and make the result null and void, but how many ways are there to piss on something? How far wrong could you really go?
I’m on the motherfucking birth control implant . How can this be happening?!
Gary squawks, and I yelp, nearly jumping out of my skin. But at least it breaks my concentration and stops my brain from looping the same words over and over. Picking up the test like it’s a stick of dynamite - and it may as well be, the way it’s blasting the life I knew to smithereens - I head to my bedroom and sit on my bed, staring at those words for I don’t know how long.
Pregnant - 8 weeks .
Cloudily thinking back, I remember all the times Leo and I fucked; him revelling in having me at long last, me exploring a delicious new possibility. It’s been, what? Two, three months, or thereabouts. Nowhere near enough time to be ready for something like this.
Unless the test is wrong - and face it, false positives aren’t a thing, the pregnancy hormone has to be present in the urine for the test to pick it up - Leo’s baby is inside me right now. Potential life. A cluster of cells that could become a real, no-fooling human baby. Our son or daughter. His and mine.
Or I could make an appointment at the abortion clinic and end it before it goes any further. I’m vehemently pro-choice, and this is a reasonable option for me.
How the hell can I be a mother? I’m a chaos human. It’s a terrible idea.
Isn’t it?
I don’t know.
I try to imagine how it would feel at the clinic, before, during, and after the procedure. The fear, the trauma…the pain. But would there be relief afterwards? After the forms are filled out and the drugs are administered and the abortion happens?
Next, I try to imagine going through with this apparent pregnancy right through to the finish line…but I can’t. I can’t picture having a baby to look after, cradling it in my arms, one that’s mine and will call me Mummy when it can talk. There’s just…nothing. Not the faintest wisp of a daydream. I try harder, try to see me and Leo putting a child - our child - to bed, reading them a story and lulling them to sleep Because I know Leo wouldn’t ditch me to parent by myself. But my brain is too chaotic and crammed with every emotion under the sun to be able to think clearly.
And then one of them rises to the surface and drowns everything out.
Frustration .
Dimly grateful to have something to hold onto, I ride that wave, clutching it, and letting it grow.
Yesterday, everything was fine. My life was looking up, in fact. I was enjoying it for the first time in a long while: great job, an active social life with fantastic friends…
…and Leo.
It was new, and I was jumpy, but I was happy . And I was starting to relax into things with him, because it all felt so goddamn right . So natural. But now… Bloody hell, it’s way too early for something like this. We’re just starting out, just getting used to being together. We've hardly had any time to do that. It’s too soon to have to make this decision, and abruptly, I blame him. I know it isn’t rational, but there’s cells developing in my womb right now and he put them there .
And why should I be the only one freaking out, scared for the future?
Leo fucking Mills…
I put Gary back in his cage, and he seems to sense that I’m like a powder keg set to go off, because he doesn’t mess me around and doesn’t even curse at me, just flies into his cage, as good as gold. And then I head out, slamming the door behind me.
The warm sea breeze whips around my face and tangles the strands of hair that escaped from my ponytail as I storm to Wishbone Tattoos, carrying the life grenade he’s thrown at me so I can lob it back in his stupid handsome face. Stray hairs stick to my lips, and I claw them out of the way angrily, because not today, Satan.
I’m not ready for motherhood. I don’t even know if it was ever going to be in my life plans, but for damn sure it wasn’t supposed to happen right now. I know how hard parenthood is; I watched Tim and Nat wear themselves ragged when they were teenagers and Eleanor was a newborn, so I know it’s no picnic. It’s not all cuddles and laughter and baby bonnets. It’s hard graft from start to finish, thankless, tiring work that never lets up and never allows you any respite.
But now I have to face up to it: either have a baby, or don’t. It’s in me, and there’s no magic wand to let me back out of it; a path has to be taken. And whether I go through childbirth or an abortion, I’m the one who has to deal either way. It’s happening to me .
And he put me in this inescapable position.
I’m only this mad at Leo because it gives me something else to concentrate all my fear and rage on, something less confusing and terrifying. Intellectually, the reasonable part of me knows this is not his fault. Not a hundred percent, anyway; as the cliche goes, it takes two to tango. But right now, I’m squashing my reasonable side because the shock is still too fresh. I can face the horror I’m going to feel at my own stupidity when I have to think about this properly once I’ve calmed down, and under the circumstances I think that’s outrageously understandable.
Motherfucker. Quite literally, as of now.
The threat of tears prickles my eyes, but I will not cry just yet. I can do that later. Right now, I need to scream at someone, and only one person will do.
I speed up as I round the corner to the parlour, where my work life and my personal life crashed into each other and caused an explosion from which neither Leo nor I will emerge unscathed now. I always knew I should never spit on my own doorstep, and my bone deep lifelong instinct has been proven spectacularly right. But, even now, I’m not sure I can bring myself to truly regret it all. It has been wonderful. And right.
Except now, the rug has been pulled yet again , just when I was starting to feel safe, and I hate not knowing what to do.
My skirt tries to pull a Marilyn Monroe as it catches another gust of warm breeze, but I push it down impatiently and stomp harder. My face must look like thunder, because passers by step hurriedly out of my path, eager to get out of the way of the psycho bitch with murder in her eyes.
I can see Wishbone’s glass door five feet away from me, and I’m so angry I can hardly see. My brain is overflowing with sentences I want to yell at Leo bastard-features Mills that I can’t pick just one.
So I shove the door open, making the bell ring loudly, and lucky me: there he is right now, laughing with a client as he takes a payment. Emily’s not around. Nor is Eli. Nor is Dean. Probably just as well.
Leo’s eyes light up as I walk in, before he flinches and ducks as I throw the pregnancy test at his stupid fucking head. It bounces off the wall behind him, clattering to the floor where all my life plans have been scattered.
“Hey, Wonderdick,” I snarl, almost spitting with rage, “guess what?!”