Page 16 of Implode

It takes me twice as long to walk back to my apartment because my feet feel like bricks. Maybe I’m already starting to swell up like a jellyfish. Who knows, maybe I am carrying twins. As soon as the thought creeps into my mind, I stop and stare up at the sky. I am driving myself crazy, and I haven’t even taken the test…times four.

The apartment building where I reside has been recently renovated and updated on security measures, but just from looking at the outside it is not obvious. Hanging around Nic has given me an eye for working cameras, a twenty-four-hour guard, and locked doors. Before meeting him I never really cared about my safety while in Portland. Despite the trauma Angie endured last year, the city overall seems safe enough—at least for me. The crime I saw living on the outskirts of Washington, DC, pretty much makes everywhere else look like a utopian society.

When money is tight—or basically nonexistent—I can’t be too picky. I would have easily accepted less luxurious conditions. How am I going to afford a child? I’m not cut out to be a mom, and I know I am especially not cut out to be a single mom. That’s what it will be too. If I am pregnant with Ethan’s child, he has made it clear that he doesn’t want any more expenses or mouths to feed. He won’t accept this child. And since I rejected his offer to be used for sex by him, I doubt he’ll suddenly start giving me the respect I deserve. As for Nic, why would he even want a relationship with his baby if he doesn’t want to commit to one woman? I doubt kids were even part of any five-year plan. They definitely weren’t part of mine.

No matter how I dice it, I am in a losing situation if the little plastic sticks reveal a plus sign. I take the elevator up to my floor and unlock the door to my one-room abode. I don’t even know where I would put the crib if I needed one. Maybe I can downsize the queen bed to a twin and then get one of those minicribs. Do they even make mini sizes? I don’t even know. In fact, I know nothing about babies, except that they cry a lot and need their moms around the clock for the first year.

Just when I’m making something of my life by growing a start-up company with my best friend, I am about to have a bomb dropped into my life. I pull out the four boxed tests from the paper bag and line them up on the kitchen counter like soldiers. The directions are basically the same for each one; pee onto each test strip and wait five minutes.

In my twenty-three years of life, never before have I had a pregnancy scare. I have never had to take a home test, yet here I stand about to take four in a row. My stomach feels like it is going to get stuck in my throat. I rip open the first box and pull out the plastic tube device. I read the pamphlet and then go into the bathroom—which is the only room in my apartment with a dividing door.

I pull my pants down and then lower myself onto the seat. With shaking hands, I hold the stick underneath my crotch as I relax enough to let the pee out. Once I know I hit the mark, I quickly stop my flow and save it up for the next test. I wipe and then carry out my used stick to rest on a napkin on the counter. I open the next box and do the same routine.

When I have peed on every stick, I set a timer and then walk over to the window seat that instantly sold me on this place—as if there was even any competition. My window overlooks the street, and between the buildings I am able to get a partial view of the riverfront. Portland is such an enchanting city. It is an easy place to live in to maintain a healthy lifestyle. There are tons of parks, walking paths, and cafes that specialize in a variety of nutritional needs. Cars slow down or stop for pedestrians, and people are friendlier in general. What might have gotten you the middle finger in Northern Virginia gets you a wave and a smile here in Portland.

My timer going off causes me to jump up from my cushioned seat. This is it. It’s the moment of truth. I pad across my hardwood floors barefoot and walk into the kitchen. I flip over the first test and see the very distinct plus sign. My heart drops and a flood of tears comes. I then frantically turn over the other three and reveal the exact same results, with the last test spelling it out with a single red word—pregnant.

Seeing the word in print makes me grab hold of the countertop to keep myself from passing out. I am lightheaded and most likely dehydrated. I stumble over to the sink and fill up my reusable water bottle. I gulp the water down like my life depends on it.Ourlives.

I let the certainty of the moment sink into my reality. I am going to be a mother. And I’ll probably suck at it, considering the woman who should be my role model has been MIA from my life since long before I moved to the West Coast.

A knock on my door makes me spill my drink down the side of the bottle.

“Who is it?” I yell toward the door, as I wipe up the mess I just created.

“Angie.”

“Be right there,” I call back. I open up the junk drawer and sweep all of the boxes and tests inside, careful not to leave any trace.

I am not ready to tell anyone. I’m not even ready to fully accept the results.

I open the door and barely can see Angie over the huge fruit bouquet she is holding in front of her face.

“Angie?”

“I’m behind here,” she laughs. “Happy housewarming!”

I welcome her inside and stare at the bright display she got me. There are pineapple pieces, apples, melons, grapes, and strawberries cut into shapes and put on thin wooden skewers to resemble a bouquet of exotic flowers. Some pieces are even dipped in dark and milk chocolate.

“This looks so delicious,” I say with a smile. “Thank you so much!”

“I also got you a gift card forLinens and Laceso you can pick out whatever you want to make this place your own. It’s in the little card that is attached,” she says, pointing to the stake sticking out of the fruit with a white envelope stuck on the end of it.

“Wow. I don’t know what to say.Thank youdoesn’t seem to be enough to convey my emotions right now.”

Angie smiles and glances around my space. “I love this. Cute, cozy, and—”

“Compact,” I finish.

“Just like you,” Angie quips.

Not for long. “It’s small,” I admit sadly, while looking around the room. Babies take up space. I can’t get the feeling out of my head that my child is going to grow up suffocated in this tiny box. To top it off, my child will also be deprived of a father who wants it and will have a mother who is incompetent.

“Less to clean,” Angie says positively.

“This is true.” It used to be me that could always see the bright side to bad situations. Now, I can’t see anything but gloom. I am poor and going to probably end up having to sell my high-end items from my Doomsday Bin. There’s an amazing pair of shoes in it that I could probably get a few hundred bucks for. So, here’s to hoping that the world doesn’t go to shit, because I’ll have nothing to survive on if tragedy really strikes.

Angie turns to me and studies my face. I wonder if she knows something is different about me. I wonder if she can tell that I am carrying cargo that I don’t know how to care for.

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