Page 100 of The Deepest Lake

My entire body erupts in hot panic.

“Not really necessary.” I try to laugh, hand on my belly.

Eva isn’t smiling this time. “It’ll reassure us both.”

“Okay,” I stammer. “Yeah.”

“Do it now? I only have a few minutes before I have to get back to the house.”

My mind races. “Oh, I just peed.”

She looks flustered. “This is a very busy week. I can’t just be running out here all the time. The next few days are completely booked. I have things to do, you know!”

“I’m sorry,” I say, wishing her eyes didn’t look so big and wild. “But I don’t really think we need a test at all.”

She purses her lips, studying me for a long, agonizing moment. “Pee again.”

Eva opens the box, unwraps a urine test stick, and hands it to me, gesturing with her chin toward the plastic toilet bucket across the room.

I ease off the bed, hobble over to it, and squat with most of my weight on my good leg. Meanwhile, I keep a firm grip on the crotch of my underwear, pushing it out of the way in case I do accidentally dribble, but also hiding the stained patch that Eva absolutely must not see.

“Oh,” she says, sympathetically. “That looks tricky. I didn’t think about how hard that must be, with your bad leg.”

“Yes,” I say, shin on fire, heart pounding, holding back tears. I don’t see a way out of this. I can’t think.

I manage the squat a full minute, holding back the pee while I squeeze my eyes and furrow my brow, as if I’m pushing with all my might.

“Darn,” Eva says. “Maybe you’re dehydrated. Can I bring your water bottle to you?”

The tears are running down my face now. “I really need to get off this leg.” And it’s true.

“Okay,” she says, disappointed. “But drink up, use the stick, and I’ll be back to take a look tonight.”

“Yes, Eva.”

When I interned at Planned Parenthood, my favorite part was contributing to the blog. In our communications meetings, we brainstormed topics, like basic facts about sex, contraception, sexual and gender identity. The fun posts were the surprising ones. Can you get STDs from sharing razors? Yes, possibly.

Equally fun: dispelling myths.

These, however, were tricky territory. Telling people about an urban myth didn’t necessarily go the right way. Tell people that it’s not a good idea to make home pregnancy tests using household ingredients (shampoo, vinegar, sugar, bleach), and they just might try. But I found those kinds of posts, popular all across the internet, fascinating. I never thought they’d save my life.

One day at lunch, sitting next to my internship bestie, Cassandra, we laughed about all the ways people try to fake pregnancy tests, whether to create a false positive or false negative. Most of the efforts were questionable, if not impossible.

As the sun drops and the hut darkens and I listen for the sound of Eva’s truck returning, I am willing to try. But I have no Coke. Or apple juice. Or any of the other questionable liquids described in extremely questionable online discussion forums. I have nothing.

When I can’t bear the tension any longer, I decide to pee on the stick.

I know what it will say in a few minutes. Negative. No shit.

I’m crying again, left aching even worse than earlier today, right leg cramping from the difficulty of a one-leg awkward squat. I hobble back to the bed, pee stick in my sweaty hand, cursing with pain at every step, wracking my brain for excuses.

Come on, Jules. You know more reproductive trivia than any woman your age. Figure this the fuck out!

It’s the broken tibia that’s making this all harder. My leg is still swollen. The surface skin, stretched for an extended period, looks like mottled parchment. It’s ghastly. My entire body is probably being poisoned by this fracture. If it gets any worse, I could die from blood poisoning.

I can’t stop crying now, silently but steadily, drips wetting my T-shirt. Fists against my cheekbones, trying to hold it all in. I look over at the pregnancy test, on the floor next to my mattress, and see the single line where I need a double. Think, Jules!

I can’t give up. There has to be a solution.

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