I didn’t bleed. I was supposed to. It was May 23rd, a Wednesday. It always comes on the 23rd like clockwork. The little blue pills tell me so.
That’s if I take them like clockwork, like I’m supposed to. But this month, well, I got sloppy. There was that party at Helen’s we were at with the tequila. Don’t remember much of that night, but I didn’t take anything the next morning. Then there was girls’ night out for Mothers’ Day (we can’t stand our mothers). I brought the wrong bag out that night and forgot my round compact at home on the dresser. I’m pretty sure Jason and I had sex when I got home at six in the morning. Maybe.
Apparently, during one of those times, we did. Because there I was, three days into my white pills, and still: nothing. Clean underwear, no red spots on the toilet paper.
I waited. All five days of the white pills. Nothing. I let it go. Maybe it was just stress. I started the blue pills in the next compact. I was sure it would show up the month after.
* * *
Jason and I lived in a brownstone off Garfield in Park Slope, Brooklyn. We had saved quite a bit in the six years we were together, and his father left him a hefty sum of money upon his death last summer. We bought the brownstone in the winter, rented the top floor to a single guy who was never home but paid the rent ten days early every month. We turned the first floor and basement into a duplex, spiral staircase and all. Jason made one of the rooms into his dream art studio, and I got one that I made into a yoga/meditation area.
We both had extremely busy daily lives. Jason worked as a buyer for Armani Exchange, and I traveled frequently as the assistant to an art collector. She could be a bitch at times, but she had inherited millions from her deceased husband who had constantly cheated on her that she didn’t know what to do with. I guess I’d be a bitch too.
Jason and I had a great relationship, mostly because we spent so much time away from each other. When we could make plans together, it always involved getting dressed up, enjoying the local nightlife with friends, and sex. Lots of it. People say that as relationships pass that three-year mark, your sex life starts to slow down. Not for people as busy as we are. We grab it when we can get it. Up against a wall in a bathroom, behind buildings, once in someone’s dark driveway on the way home. Our sex life was healthy, and so was our relationship.
We had both agreed never to get married; we had seen way too many of our 30-something-year-old friends going through their first or second divorce. It was never pretty. Houses being lost, children in split custody, thousands of dollars in lawyers’ fees. If we ever broke up, it was going to be a clean break. That’s what we’d always said.
The subject of children had come up, but quite infrequently. That’s because Jason knew my position on the whole deal. Absolutely not. Our jobs and our lifestyle were not conducive to having children, or even a child for that matter. We had tons of bills and a mortgage to pay on the house. And living in Brooklyn wasn’t cheap. How would we afford, or even make time for, another human being in the house? And what would be the point of having a little him or her being taken care of by some nanny that barely spoke English and had no family ties to us at all? Having children equaled stupid idea in my book.
At least that was the version of the story that I told Jason. I love my boyfriend. Very much. I would do, and have done, anything for him over our six years together. That’s not to say we haven’t had our rocky patches – like when we had to explain to my very Catholic parents that we were buying a house together and were going to sleep in the same bed unwed. Big fight, almost cost us the great offer we got on the house. In the end, we always came out swinging.
But there’s that one point of contention between us: starting a family. He’s not pushy or anything. I just see that look on his face when the subject comes up. Like when the first sibling in his family announced they were having their first child. His mother was so thrilled, as was his father when he was alive. Then came the niece from his other sibling, followed by a set of twins from the youngest of the family. I am an only child, so I never suffered this difficulty. But Jason was constantly buggered by his mom, when is it you and Julia’s turn? At least my parents were still stuck on the marriage thing, let alone having children.
Here’s my truth in black and white: I don’t want a baby. I don’t want a family. I don’t want to have to care for anyone else besides Jason and myself. I even have my parents on waiting lists for assisted living housing for ten years from now.
I believe I may be the most selfish 34-year-old on the planet.
But how selfish am I, really? I work. I cook when it’s my turn. I clean or pay for maid service if I’m away for more than a few days. I pay for my half of the mortgage. I even throw Jason a couple of hundred once in awhile for new art supplies. Everyone’s happy. That doesn’t sound selfish at all to me.
* * *
I took the first white pill of that second compact with more anxiety than if someone had a loaded pistol resting against my temple. Still nothing. June 23rd. I didn’t dare tell Jason anything. I just worked my way through the other four white pills under the delusion that the “nothing” didn’t mean anything.
* * *
The vomiting started around July 4th. We were supposed to join a group of friends on the promenade downtown to watch the fireworks. I had barely put my jeans on when…
“Are you alright, Jules? Your face is—“
I didn’t make it to the bathroom. All over my bare legs and the hardwood floor.
“Julia!” Jason shouted, grabbing onto my falling body as I retched for a second time. “Let me get you to the bathroom! You’re white as a ghost.”
Wiping my lunch from my lower lip, I shook my head in protest. “I’m fine, Jay,” I mumbled. “It’s probably something I ate.”
Jason ran to the bathroom and grabbed a wet washcloth for my head. The cool fabric wasn’t going to do much, but it felt good.
“Can you get a bigger towel to wipe this all up?” I croaked. I threw up one more time while he had disappeared into the bathroom again for the towel.
“Jules, you have to jump in the shower again,” Jason said with sincere concern. “Let me take care of the floor. Go wash up and maybe you’ll feel a bit better now that you’ve gotten whatever it was out of your system.”
I chuckled inside with the irony of that statement. Nope, not out of my system, Jay. But I knew the vomiting was over, so I did as he told me. A shower never felt so good.
I emerged from the bathroom to find Jason just having finished mopping the floor. “Be careful,” he said, holding onto my arm. “It’s still wet. You should lie down, Julia.”
My body creaked as I settled under the covers in one of Jason’s oversized t-shirts. I felt as though my body were being taken over by something that didn’t belong inside. I knew what it was. I just refused to admit it, even to myself. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said with what little voice I had left. The retching had left my throat sore and raw. “Jay, just get dressed. You’re going to miss the fireworks.”
“What?” he said with confusion. “You think I’d go out with Mike and them and just leave you here in bed? What if you get sick again? Food poisoning isn’t something to just ignore.”
I found his ignorance almost funny. Almost.
“I think it’s all out,” I lied. “Don’t let me ruin the night. Please.”
“Nope,” he said with a smile. “I’m going to make sure you’ll be fine throughout the night.”
I need someone to make sure I’ll be fine for a bit longer than that, I thought. “Alright,” I conceded. “Some of that new chamomile tea we bought last Monday sounds awesome right now.” Secretly I just wanted him to leave the room.
“Done,” he said with a smile. He kissed my wet forehead and made his way into the kitchen. I sighed in relief.
The wardrobe closet we have next to our bed has a mirror on one of the door panels. I rolled my head to the right to find a reflection of a woman I didn’t recognize. My face had grown puffy, my eyes red from losing my insides, my hair sticking to my cheeks. Who the hell was this? I desperately longed for my Smashbox mascara and cream blush.
Jason returned after ten minutes of boiling water and preparing tea for me. He held the hot cup on top of a saucer and placed it gently on the night table. He scooted himself next to me on the mattress and rubbed away the wet hair. I couldn’t meet his eyes with my secret literally inside me.
“How’s my pretty girl?” He’s called me that from the moment of our first kiss. I always thought it was cheesy; my friends think it’s the sweetest thing they’ve ever heard. “The tea is a bit hot for now, it’ll be ready soon. Do you need another pillow? A blanket?”
I finally did meet his eyes, and I could swear he knew. Do guys have that intuition that they’ve taken a step toward producing their offspring? I sure as hell hope not. I sat upright to show that I felt better. The room was still spinning on its own axis.
“No, Jay, I’m fine,” I said in an annoyed tone. I really do hate being doted on, no matter how bad I feel. “I just want my tea and some silence. My head is pounding.” I realized how raw and obnoxious I sounded, but my hormones were way out of whack and I just didn’t care.
He didn’t even look hurt at all. Jason just smiled in understanding and kissed me on the cheek. “No problem, Jules.” He lifted his weight from the bed and said, “I’ll be downstairs if you need me in the art room. Just yell if you need anything.”
I closed my eyes and listened to the thumping of his heavy footfall down the spiral staircase. I don’t think I was ever so relieved in my life, so much so that I immediately fell asleep.
* * *
July 24th. Okay, now this thing was for real. That made it two months. Two months of vomiting, headaches, hormonal outbursts that raised an eyebrow or two with Jason, and the beginning of not fitting into my clothes properly. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how Jason didn’t notice that last part. Are guys really that oblivious?
I went to work that day without a brain cell in my head. I wanted to disappear into my office, crawl under my desk, and ignore the plane tickets ordered for me shoved into the corner of my blotter. Instead I did what I would normally do: made sure no one had sat in my leather chair by actually checking its level relative to my desk, opened my planner (yes, I still use a paper planner) to begin managing my day, and picked up the phone to call Valerie – the girl who worked closest to the kitchen – to see if a fresh pot of coffee had been made for the morning.
Only that day, as I had the black receiver in my right hand, I reconsidered the phone call I was about to make. Coffee. That has caffeine in it. I don’t think I’m supposed to have caffeine, am I? My thoughts went spiraling again to the idea of crawling under my desk when –
“Are you going to make that phone call or are you just making sure anyone who calls gets a busy signal?”
Another art collector’s assistant, Christine, was standing in my doorway, staring at me as though I were wearing my underwear over my clothes. (And didn’t I close that door behind me?) I replaced the receiver in its cradle and smiled sheepishly.
“I was going to call Jason…about what to pick up for dinner when I…realized I had no idea what I wanted in the first place,” I stammered. “I’ll just, um, call him later. What have you got going on today?”
“Well, after work we’re all going to celebrate Pete’s promotion down in SoHo,” Christine replied, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe. “You in?”
Drinking. Another big fat no. “I don’t think so,” I said, flipping through the pages of my planner. “Jason and I polished off a couple of bottles of wine last night, and just the thought of alcohol…sheesh.”
“Oh, what was the occasion?”
I stared at her blankly. Nothing was coming to mind. Nothing but nausea. I’m positive that I turned stark white. “Listen, Christine, I think that wine was a little too much yesterday, so I’m just going to get some water—“
I didn’t make it past my desk. I crumbled onto one knee, held myself up on the floor with both hands planted on the rough carpet, eyes closed to keep the spinning at bay.
“Julia!” Christina cried. She was immediately by my side on the floor. “Do you want me to get you the water? Maybe you’re really dehydrated from all that wine.”
Dehydrated? Perfect. “Yeah, that sounds good,” I said, trying to heave myself off of the floor in embarrassment. Christine grabbed my arm and pulled me to a standing position, which didn’t feel any better. I dusted off the knees of my pant suit.
“Jules, you really haven’t been looking too good for awhile,” Christine admitted as she walked into the hallway and filled my mug with water from the cooler. She handed me the cup, and I immediately put it down on my desk without drinking from it. The idea of imbibing anything made me disgusted. “Not to be rude, but we’ve all been talking about it.”
“We all?” I retorted with a snotty look. “Who’s we all?”
“You know,” she defended, “all of us. The crew. The 30-somethings with no kids who hang out on, you know, Friday nights after work. Happy hour. Just us.”
Another wave of nausea washed over me. Thirty-somethings with no kids. Great. A club I so still want to be part of.
“Oh, you guys, of course,” I said. “What about me have you been talking about?”
“Well,” she began tentatively, “to start with, you look like shit.”
Again, I threw her the evil eye.
“And you’re not eating the usual salads and diet coke for lunch,” Christine noted. “You’ve got these strange things packed in the fridge, like sausage and eggs. Honey, you’re a vegetarian!”
“I know that,” I stated firmly. “Maybe I’m just a bit tired of the mouse food, that’s all.”
“Sweetie, you donate, like, a thousand dollars to PETA every year, we all know it,” she said with a smile. “There’s no way you’re turning your back on your meat-free menu.”
I sat at my desk in frustration. The cravings for meat have been killing me. Sausage. Meatloaf. Barbequed steak. Bolognaise sauce. I couldn’t help it!
“And,” she continued, “you’ve fallen asleep at staff meetings.”
“No I haven’t!” I cried. People in the hallway turned their heads I was so loud.
“Yes, you have,” Christine giggled. “And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
I gasped, holding my hand to my gaping mouth. “No, who else knows?” I whispered.
Christine shrugged. “Well, just about everyone.”
I covered my eyes with my hands, thinking that if I couldn’t see anyone, no one would see me. Sorry kiddo, it doesn’t work that way, I thought. Who was I kidding? I was starting to show before I was actually starting to show.
“And what happened to all of your hot clothes?”
I revealed my face in confusion. “My ‘what’ clothes?”
“You know,” she said, “those hot suits you used to wear, with the pinstripes and oversized lapels. Don’t tell me you got rid of them now, did you?”
No, they’re sitting in my closet because my growing hips don’t fit into them anymore! I thought. The conversation was making me sweat, and sweating only led to more nausea.
“Okay, look,” I conceded, “I haven’t been myself lately, I know. But I’ve got a lot on my plate with the mortgage, and I’m really stressed here lately, so I’m sorry if I’m letting you all down by being the less-than-normal Julia you’re all so very used too, but just back off, alright? Just…leave it alone.”
* * *
I sat in the waiting room for two hours. Since when did getting in to see your gyno get to be an all-day event? I buried my head in a two-month-old copy of Cosmo and read about how to better please myself during masturbation. Yeah, that’s funny. I shift my weight on the chair and I could give myself an orgasm now.
“Julia?” the nurse called. Finally.
I threw the magazine into its pile and followed the nurse to Room 3. She told me to remove all of my clothing, put on a sterile, not so fashionable, paper robe, and wait for the doctor.
It was now the end of the summer. Somehow I had gotten away with hiding everything. The vomiting had stopped, and I faked my period every month by throwing away clean pads in the bathroom trash pail. I had almost completely stopped eating to keep the pounds off. My tiny belly didn’t protrude too much – at least not enough to make Jason think it was anything more than me just putting on a few. He joked about it a couple of times, but never said anything more about it. I had luckily avoided any beach situations and wore loose clothing in public. In the mirror, I think I tried to hide it from myself too.
A knock came to the door. “Come in,” I called. Dr. Peters came in, smiled politely at me, and closed the door behind her.
“Well,” she began, “I understand a congratulations is in order.”
I stared blankly at her. I had no idea what she was talking about.
Dr. Peters wore a look of confusion, checked her clipboard with all of my information again, then met my eyes. “I’m sorry, Julia. I was informed by the staff that you were pregnant.”
Again, all I could muster was a blank stare.
“Is that the case?” she asked me.
I didn’t want to cry. I don’t cry over much. Only when Jason does things like knock his glass of water over on my MacBook. But at that moment, one tear followed another like they were in a gang, and then the flood began. I put my head in my hands as I sat there on the stark white paper on the patient’s chair in my paper robe. I sobbed so hard I thought my eyelashes were going to fall off.
Dr. Peters put a re-assuring hand on my back. “Sweetheart, it’s okay,” she said softly. “Are you and Jason still together?”
I nodded my head as I raised it to wipe my eyes with the side of my robe.
“So that’s good,” she said. “You’re not going through this alone. I know having a baby can be a scary thing, but you have your partner—“
“I don’t want this baby!” I cried out, and immediately my hands flew to cover my mouth. They were too late; what I’ve been wanting to say finally made its way out. I couldn’t take it back. It was permanently out there.
Dr. Peters stared at me in disbelief. “Well, have you talked to Jason about it?” she asked quietly.
I shook my head in a rushed manner. “He doesn’t know,” my voice barely squeaked out.
My doctor looked taken aback. “What?” she said. “Sweetheart, it’s starting to become a bit obvious.” She looked straight at my belly. “Pretty soon you’re going to pop to the point that everyone will be able to tell.” She paused for a moment. “When do you think you conceived?”
“Sometime in May,” I mumbled, again wiping my face.
Dr. Peters’ face fell. “Julia,” she said seriously, “you’re past the first trimester. You do know that—“
“Abortion isn’t an option,” I finished for her. “And no, I’m not about to get it done by some back-alley crazy person for five hundred dollars or something nuts like that.”
“So, what do you plan to do?” she asked.
I paused for a moment, taking in the severity of the situation. “I’m keeping it,” I said, curving my spine to sit straight up. “I’m going to have the baby.”
“But…” she began, “Jason doesn’t know yet. What are you going to say?”
“I didn’t get that far,” I admitted. “I wanted to come here first, make sure it was…real.”
Dr. Peters took a deep breath. She nodded in reply. She dimmed the lights and began the sonogram, peering at her high-tech monitor. I stared straight at the ceiling.
“Well,” she said with finality, “Julia, you are indeed having a baby.”
I stared straight at the ceiling.
“Don’t you want to at least see it?” she asked. Of course not! I screamed in my mind. Instead, I rolled my head toward the monitor, and there it was: the cause of all my problems. The baby inside me, growing, with a heartbeat and all. I gasped.
“Aren’t you the least bit happy for you and Jason?” the doctor asked.
I didn’t reply at all. It wasn’t that I wasn’t happy for the two of us. I wasn’t happy for me.
* * *
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