Anna
Given my relentless vomiting throughout the duration of our trip back home, Luka insists that I see a doctor practically as soon as we touch down in Seattle. Of course, he wants to come into the appointment with me to support me, but I make up some bullshit story about how I’ve always endured doctor’s visits alone and that I dislike how vulnerable it makes me feel to have someone there with me.
In a perfect world, I would love to have him there. If we had been trying for a baby, this could be a wonderful bonding experience for us. We could hold each other’s arms tightly as we waited for the doctor to come to meet us, and I would squeeze his hand as my blood was drawn, gazing lovingly into his eyes to distract myself from the needle.
But no, I’m here in this waiting room by myself, surrounded by strangers who I’m certain don’t give a shit about me one way or another. Maybe it’s better this way. I’m not even sure if I’d be able to accept help without being drowned in guilt alone with it.
A nurse comes out, calling my name with a crass tone and leading me into the patient care area. Each identical hallway we walk through is lined with exam rooms and cork boards full of staff photos and hand-washing instructions.
The nurse opens a door and steps aside to allow me into the examination room. “Wait here,” she says, giving me no indication of how long it will be before closing the door with a heavy thud.
I sit down in a small metal chair in the corner, feeling a bit more like I’m about to be interrogated by the police than helped by a nice little woman in a lab coat.
A minute ticks by. Clocks always move slower at the doctor’s office.
Another few minutes has my vision blurring as I stare at the wall, zoning out.
Finally, the door opens again, and an overweight, tired nurse with curly blonde hair and heart-printed scrubs enters the exam room. We exchange curt greetings as she attempts to log into the computer with no success.
She tries a few more times and then leaves the room entirely, shouting across the hallway to see if anybody in the vicinity has the passcode for the computer.
So, already, she’s irritable about something, which sets me anxiety on edge as my body language closes in even further.
“Okay, what is it you need to be seen for?” she asks, leaning her head on her hand and staring at me blankly as if I’m giving her a lecture about metaphysics in Swahili.
“Um, I took a test, and I think I’m pregnant,” I reply, forcing myself to open up a little in order to make sure I don’t omit anything important. As a kid, I would intentionally lie to doctors in order to give myself some sort of power. I liked having a secret. And even though I haven’t done something like that in years, the urge still arises at the worst times.
The nurse has no reaction. “Okay, we can get a blood test ordered just to make sure, and we can get you a pamphlet about pregnancy and what to avoid for the next nine months or so.”
My stomach churns at the idea of leaving the clinic with a bundle of papers that I would have to hide from Luka. “Oh, um, I don’t need all of that. It’s fine,” I reply nervously.
The nurse finally logs into the computer and pulls up my blank medical chart, ignoring me completely. “Looks like we don’t have you in our system. Is this not your first child?” she asks.
“No, this would be my first pregnancy,” I say. The words feel like a lie somehow, like none of this could possibly be true.
“And you don’t want any of the information?” she asks, and I can hear the confusion and suspicion in her voice.
“Can you send it to my email, maybe?” I ask, hoping that somehow I can at least retain all of my secrets from Luka on such an uninteresting platform.
The nurse leans in a bit. “Do you feel unsafe in your home?” she asks, her demeanor shifting in an instant.
“What do you mean?” I ask, tilting my head to the side a bit to emphasize my performance of ignorance.
“Does your partner make you feel unsafe? Is he abusive?” she reiterates, clicking back into my medical chart.
Does murder count as abuse? Does it count as abuse if he’s abusive to everyone but me? I ask myself.
“Um, no, he just doesn’t know that I’m pregnant, and I… I don’t really know how I feel about it, so I’m waiting to tell him,” I confess.
She seems relieved, though still a little annoyed. “You’re nervous to have a baby with him?” she asks earnestly.
I sigh. “I’m just not sure,” I reply.
She gives me an honest look of compassion. “We see a lot of girls like you. I can leave the names of some resources in your chart just in case you have to leave him. It’s mostly for shelters and jobs, stuff like that,” she says, typing out the names of the services in my medical note.
My stomach drops at the thought. Even though things have been good with Luka, I’ve still had my doubts about staying with him at all, pregnant or not. He’s still extremely dangerous.
“Um, okay, thank you,” I reply sheepishly. I feel so guilty for accepting even the mention of help with escaping from Luka. What would that even look like? A twenty-something woman with a baby who is attempting to leave a man ten years her senior with millions of dollars and significant power within organized crime? Would they even believe me?
Maybe that wouldn’t even be the problem.
Maybe I’d be dead before I even left the state.
“I’ll go get the stuff for the blood draw. You just sit here for a moment,” the nurse says, getting up and leaving the room as my fear of needles begins to manifest as nausea.
More cold minutes tick by. How long does it take to get a needle?
The nurse comes back with her supplies, a tourniquet, butterfly needle, and test tube. I go through the motions, squeezing my fist as she applies the tourniquet and inhaling sharply as I prepare for the poke of the needle.
It comes and it goes, and once she’s done, she wraps up her supplies and gets up to leave. “This should take a few hours, so you can feel free to leave. We’ll call you with the results,” she says, walking out the door and closing it behind her.
I feel clammy and nauseated, wishing desperately that I could fly into Luka’s arms with no secrets and no fear. I want to cry into his shoulder about the uncertainty of it all, about how inadequate I would feel as a mother, about how I’m still too young to have a baby of my own.
Instead, I must face this alone.
When I find my way out to the car to meet Luka, I sink down into my seat, leaning my head against the window and shielding my face from the unseasonably warm sun.
“Hey, what did they say?” Luka asks, starting the car and glancing at me with concern as I curl up in the seat.
“They did a blood test. We should have the results in a few hours,” I reply quietly without looking at him. I want to be as disengaged as possible right now, or I’ll start to cry. That would only serve to make him ask more questions, and the sorry truth would come gushing out.
We drive back to the house, and Luka immediately attempts to carry me inside, which I tell him is stupid, performative, and unnecessary. I’ve never even had a man open a car door for me. I don’t need him pretending to be a character in an opera.
I walk slowly into our bedroom and bury myself in the blankets, my stomach twisting and writhing in knots. Every notification from my phone startles me to the point that I need to turn off the ringtone for ten minutes just to breathe normally again.
I stare at the ceiling as the sunlight crawls out the window with the progression of the night. I deny any advances from Luka, and he eventually leaves me alone to wallow in my misery.
Finally, at 4:36, I receive a call.
I verify my birth date and name for the nurse, and my heart begins to pound violently in my chest like a bird of prey in a cage that’s too small.
“So, we got your blood results back, and we can confirm that you are officially pregnant,” the nurse says, and I’m certain that if I were there in person, we would both be exchanging awkward glances.
“Oh, um, okay, thank you,” I stammer, and I end the call immediately. I guess I knew this would happen.
I roll over onto my side, staring out the window at the cars as they drive past our bedroom.
I can’t stay here.
It was one thing with Rachel. Rachel is mature, capable, and street smart. I worry about her from a place of basic maternal instinct, not because I’m concerned that she can’t take care of herself.
A baby isn’t like that, though. A baby needs constant attention from a place of pure devotion and love, one that can never be altered by the disruption of a home life where the looming threat of a gunfight is constantly overhead.
I look up my friend from Florida on Facebook again, seriously reconsidering reaching out to her. I’m scared, and my brain isn’t working at its full capacity. I don’t have the ability to plan something in the condition that I’m in, completely mentally crippled by fear with no way out. She would at least be able to help me think with a clear head.
After some last-minute deliberation, I send her a message asking for help, being as vague as I possibly can while still getting the urgency across. I turn over and scream into my blanket to release even just a little bit of the relentless tension inside of me.
When I finish, I turn back to find a message from her.
“Just tell me what you need. I’ll do whatever I can do help you.”