Page 66 of Maybe in Another Life

“Also, he can’t fire you for being pregnant. It’s illegal. That’s Human Resources 101.”

The minute she says “human resources,” I remember talking to Joyce. I remember her telling me I have insurance and maternity leave. For a flash, I almost feel as if Gabby is right. That things will be OK.

“OK,” I say. “So I still have a job.”

“And you still have me, and my parents, and Mark, and...” She looks at the dog and smiles. “And Charlemagne.”

“I have to call Michael and tell him, right?”

“Yes? No?” she says. “I have no idea. But I’ll think about it with you. We’ll weigh the pros and cons.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And we will come up with an answer. And then you’ll do it.”

She makes it sound so easy.

“And Ethan might not leave me?”

“He might not,” she says, although I can tell by her voice that she has less confidence in this one. “But I can tell you, if he does, it’s because it wasn’t meant to be.”

“You think things are meant to be?” I ask her. For some reason, I think I’ll feel better if things are meant to be. It gets me off the hook, doesn’t it? If things are meant to be, it means I don’t have to worry so much about consequences and mistakes. I can take my hands off the wheel. Believing in fate is like living on cruise control.

“Are you kidding? I absolutely do. There is a force out there, call it what you will. I happen to believe that it’s God,” she says. “But it pushes us in the right direction, keeps us on the right path. If Ethan says he can’t handle the fact that you’re pregnant, he’s not the one for you. You were meant for someone else. And we will handlethattogether, too. We will handle all of this together.”

I close my eyes briefly, and when I open them, the world seems a little brighter. “So what do I do now?”

“Tomorrow morning, we’re getting you prenatal vitamins and making an appointment to see an OB/GYN so we can figure out how far along you are.”

“It would have to be at least eight weeks,” I tell her. “I haven’t slept with Michael in a while.”

“OK,” she says. “So we know that. Still, we’ll make the appointment.”

“Oh, no,” I say out loud. “I had a beer. Last week at the bar.”

“It’s OK,” I hear her say. “It’s going to be fine. It happens. You weren’t wasted. I saw you.”

I am a terrible mother. Already. Already I am a terrible mother.

“You’re not a terrible mother if that’s what you’re worried about,” Gabby says, knowing how my brain works almost better than I do. She picks Charlemagne up off my lap and gestures for me to get up. She leads the two of us into my bedroom. “It happens. And it’s OK. And starting tomorrow morning, you’re going to learn all the things you have to stop doing and all of the things you have to start doing. And you’re going to be phenomenal at all of it.”

“You really think that?” I ask her.

“I really think that,” she says.

I put on my pajamas. She gets in on one side of the bed. Charlemagne lies down with her.

“She’s a cute one, this little Charlemagne,” Gabby says. “How did she end up at my house?”

I laugh. “It’s a long story,” I say. “In which I make a snap decision that I now realize was probably hormone-driven.”

Gabby laughs. “Well, she’s precious,” she says. “I like having her around.”

I look at Charlemagne. “Me, too.”

“I hate Mark’s stupid dog allergy,” she says. “Let’s keep her in here all night and see if he itches. I bet you he won’t. I bet you it’s all in his head.”

I laugh and get into bed next to Gabby. She holds my hand.

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