I arrive back at my apartment, and there’s a group of men gathered on the balcony above me. They’re all drunk and smoking weed together, and when they notice me, they begin to shout obscenities and backhanded compliments in my direction.
Typical.
As angry as I am with Viktor right now, I do wish he was here to keep me safe from people like them who prey on vulnerable women. I highly doubt they’d be so bold if there were a tattooed Russian man towering over me.
The hallway smells like cigarettes and baked fish as I enter the building, and the yellowed walls that I am otherwise indifferent to seem to stand out to me as an emphasis on my pathetic excuse for a living situation. Who would want to bring a baby home to a place like this, fresh from the hospital? Would this air even be safe for a newborn to breathe? What kinds of spores are floating down from the ceiling? I hear enough gunshots in this neighborhood to rival a military funeral.
Not only is the building itself a hazard, but the people are as well. As grateful as I am that my rent is low here, I could never keep a baby in a place where the cops have practically moved in. There are always at least two squad cars circling the complex like hornets, blaring their sirens at all hours of the night.
There are gunshots, domestic fights, loud dogs, and ambulance sirens polluting the space in my apartment twenty-four hours a day. There have always been other crying babies in this building, and I’ve always had such a heavy heart for them as well as their mothers.
Now, that poor woman might be me.
When I enter my apartment, I sprint to the bathroom and tear the test from the box. I’m moving so erratically that I have to stop and force myself to take a deep breath before I give myself a heart attack.
I realize to my horror that I don’t seem able to produce any urine at all in my first attempt.
It makes sense. I didn’t drink any water during the day at the shop, both from distraction and a complete lack of a will to ingest anything. I fear that any liquid I tried to drink would have just shot back up out of my stomach like a rocket.
I begrudgingly slam the test down on my bathroom countertop and head to the kitchen for the most excessively large glass of water I’ve ever had, drinking the whole thing in three or four desperate gulps, and feeling the pressure as it fills my belly. I feel like a fat kitten that has been recently overfed, and I realize that soon my stomach will likely be protruding more and more until I explode with a screaming new life to mind.
The wait is agonizing.
I have always had this obnoxious habit where I try excessively hard to distract myself when I’m anxious to the point that the distraction itself feels absurd, like I’m putting on a show for myself. The moment I first realized I was doing it was when I had misspoken and said something hideously insensitive to a friend about her mother dying prematurely of liver cancer. I reached for a parenting magazine on her coffee table to leaf through until the awkwardness passed, which it did not.
It takes a full forty minutes for me to even begin to feel like I need to use the bathroom, but anything is better than waiting another goddamn minute.
For the duration of my waiting time, I’m kicking myself over and over again for allowing myself to be in this position in the first place. I always told myself I would be better than my mother, that I would be careful and plan my family instead of letting just any guy dump his load into me. I was going to be the family success story.
Instead of rushing, I force myself to breathe mindfully and walk casually into the bathroom as if preparing to give an oral presentation on the opioid crisis or to speak at a distant relative’s funeral. I need to convince myself that I have this under control no matter what.
I pick up the test and force a stream, glancing awkwardly around at my ugly standard-issue apartment bathroom until I finish.
After placing the test horizontally on the countertop again, my dread ramps up into overdrive. I almost feel like my body is giving me waves of panic in order to preserve it for when I truly need it, like when I eventually have to make a decision about what to do about Viktor. I’d be grateful for it if I could get a fucking grip for longer than ten minutes at a time.
I shamelessly attempt to distract myself again, scrolling through Facebook as if I’m expecting anything other than inappropriately timed engagement announcements from couples who hate each other.
One such couple is a woman I danced with at the club who met her husband while working. They’ve had more public breakups than I can count on one hand, but if they think that a piece of paper and an overindulgent party will fix their issues, more power to them.
The timer on my phone breaks me from my dissociated trance, and I drop my phone by accident as it startles me.
My hands begin to shake as I reach for the test.
One last deep breath.
It’s positive.
My vision tunnels again, and I struggle to keep myself upright as the weight of my fate comes crashing down on me.
Now it’s real, and there’s nothing I can do. I have to decide how I’m going to handle this quickly before it becomes something I can’t ignore any longer. I’ve already been so goddamn busy with my bakery. How will I have any mental space at all for this?
I force myself to lie on the couch, feeling ridiculous like a hysterical woman in a 1950’s black and white sitcom.
Do I throw up? Do I call Katherine? Do I take a nap?
No matter what I come up with, I’m ultimately resigned to the ever-growing ball of heat in my chest where my joy for life used to live.
It’s over.
I’ve fucked up beyond repair.