Page 1 of Tossing It

Prologue

Malena

Present day . . .

Even though they sell them at the General Store, you can’t really buy them there. No one does. You’d be the talk of the town. The last time I glanced at the fully stocked shelf was when I dusted the boxes during a bi-annual store cleaning. Instead, like all of the terrified women that came before me, I sit on this table. The cold metal brushing my bare calves, the crumpled paper gown rustling anytime I move my arms, waiting for Doc Taylor. He is one of the only people bound to secrecy in Bronze Bay—the solitary resident who has never spoken a sordid secret, or passed gossip like it’s his job. Probably because it’s against the law. Thank God.

The old wooden door creaks open, and I hold my breath. Doc pushes his reading glasses up his nose using the manila file folder that contains my fate. His face gives nothing away, a practiced stoicism that comes from doing this hundreds, hell, probably even thousands of times before. The paper wrapping my body makes a crunching noise, and I stifle the irritation.This is part of the experience, Malena, I remind myself. You deal with it.

“Ms. Winterset,” he croaks, the deep wrinkles on his forehead creasing further. “Looks like I have some news for you.”

Sweating is normal in Florida. It’s hot as hell, and it’s just like breathing. There’s a vent blowing air conditioning right on me, and I’m naked under this paper “gown,” so I blame the puddles in my armpits and behind my knees on pure, unfiltered stress. “Yes. Good or bad, Doc. Don’t keep me waiting here. I’m dying. You’re killing me.”

He chuckles, the throaty noise easing my nerves a touch. Wait. I bet that’s another skill in his arsenal. I clear my throat as he sits on the round stool in the corner, propping one elbow on the desk beside him. “Malena, you already know what this file says. You marked down on the paperwork that your monthly cycle is two months late,” Doc says calmly, then he smiles. “You’re pregnant!”

My heart sinks. I’m not stupid, no, don’t assume that. I am a woman who can’t possibly be with child. I recall all of the negative pregnancy tests over the course of our marriage and shake my head again. All of that time trying to have a baby and not being able to give him what he wanted. While I know my period is late, I still held out hope my cycle was off and it had forced me to skip a period…or two. I hang my head as hot shame and disbelief wash over my body like a hoard of fire ants. I can’t pass on my genes,her genes,to anyone. I definitely can’t do it alone. My breaths come quicker as I conclude my initial reaction. Terrifying, horrified, panic. “No. No. This can’t be happening. How sure are you? This isn’t in my plan. Remember? They said I was unable to conceive. My uterus. The hormones. You have the paperwork. Look at it,” I say, pointing to my thick file.

Doc taps the front of the file with his knuckles. “They can make mistakes. It wasn’t a solid diagnosis, either. It was an educated guess.” He shrugs. I flounder with my thoughts. My past. “I made you keep on that gown so we could sneak a little ultrasound in today. I had reception clear my schedule for the next hour. You’re twelve weeks pregnant. We can do an ultrasound. Would you like to see your baby?” He perceives the panic on my face, and wheels his stool closer and stands next to me. “It’s going to be okay, Ms. Winterset. You’re not the first woman to get pregnant outside of wedlock in Bronze Bay, and you won’t be the last. Let’s have a look, shall we?” If it were only that simple. If the man who impregnated me by some miraculous deed wasn’t adamantly against family and babies.

I feel full at the new knowledge and I press both hands against my lower stomach as the gown makes another awful crinkling sound. “I can’t take care of a baby. I can’t do it. What can we do if I can’t do this? If I can’t have this baby?” It’s impossible to meet his eyes as I plead for options. I’ve known him since I moved to Bronze Bay as a small child. I see him at town functions and every time I have a bad cold or twisted ankle. He’s watched me grow up. This man treated my mom for years before her case of dementia became too much for a small town general practitioner to handle. Eventually, she saw doctors who make house calls because taking her out of the house became too much of a risk. She forgets where she’s at and who I am. She forgets that my father abandoned us a decade ago and starts screaming for him, like I’ve stolen her from some ideal life. My stomach flips. “If I can’t do it?” I ask again.

Doc pretends he doesn’t hear me. I’m not sure if that’s his response to my harried plea, or if it’s his way of deterring me from saying anything further on the subject. He tells me to lay back, and I do, sniffling a bit as I go. The silence as he readies the small machine tells me he’s thinking about Betty Winterset. “How is your mama doing?” he asks.

“About the same. They have her stabilized at Garden Breeze. It’s good for her. She seems very happy,” I reply. A nurse slips into the room and tries to keep her gaze away from mine, watching the doctor squirt some sort of warm gel on my stomach. The thought of my mother distracts me, and I think that’s what he wanted to accomplish. It became too much for me and her nurse, the woman who was there any time I wasn’t because she couldn’t be by herself. My mom requires a full-time caretaker. It was hard to watch her slip away a little at a time. It must have been even harder on my father, because that bastard took off as soon as her diagnosis rendered her useless.

A baby? I can’t handle that. The bravest person on the planet would balk at this, I’m sure of it. I saw what happens when a family is torn apart, and I’m not willing to force any children into my messed-up life.

Doc is talking about her condition as his hand with the small wand moves over my lower stomach. When he presses harder, and pauses, I look at the fuzzy black and white screen. I know what it is immediately. I see the goblin looking head and the slip of a body. It moves around on the oblong shape, directly in the middle. It shimmies and bobs as if it’s taunting me.

“Oh, my God,” I gasp, tears welling in my eyes. Some moments will always be singed in your mind regardless if they are good or bad. The view of the wiggly tadpole body that currently resides in my supposedly barren uterus is a moment I’ll never forget. I close my eyes, but the image is burned on the insides of my eyelids.

“It’s a beautiful miracle,” Doc says. “Now shush,” he chides. The faint ba-bum-ba-bum-ba-bum echoes in the room. “That’s the heartbeat.” He points out the heart as he ups the volume on the whooshing noise. Years ago, I would have sold my soul to have this moment with Dylan sitting next to me, his hand in mine, both of our eyes transfixed by what we made. What he wanted so desperately. Love isn’t enough sometimes. Dylan left at my insistence and God knows where he’s at now, or why I’m rehashing old wounds in my time of crisis. He wanted kids and I couldn’t give them to him. Now I’m carrying the child of a man who rejoiced at the idea of my inability to start a family.

My gaze strays from the screen to the nurse. Her eyes lock on mine. “Your boyfriend will be so happy,” she says, a comforting smile on her lips. Doc Taylor’s wife has been his nurse the entire time his practice has been open. I know she means comfort in her words, but fear is all that is bubbling out of me at this moment. I try to return her smile in equal measure but know that I fall woefully short.

I look away from her and focus on the monitor and the constant noise coming from it. I cling to that noise and know what I must do. Doc is taking measurements and reassuring me of a healthy pregnancy even though I’ve yet to receive prenatal care. He mentions the OB in the next town over and tells his wife to schedule me an appointment and directs her to order some bloodwork before the appointment.

“I’ll print this photo out for you to show the proud daddy.”

I haven’t felt sick for twelve weeks, but for the first time, I feel like I might vomit. The contents of my stomach swirling as the nausea hits. I snatch the photo from his hands as I sit up.

Hanging my head, I try to control the knots welling in my stomach, the black and white photo clenched in one hand. “I can’t believe this,” I mutter.This is what it feels like to lose control over your life. This. Right here and now.

“Malena,” Doc says, breaking the professional atmosphere. “It is going to be okay. No one is ever truly ready for parenthood. You just do it. You have changed and adapted to far harder things.” He nods. “You’ll be a fantastic mother.”

Shaking my head, a tremor of a chill shoots up my spine. “That’s the difference between everyone else and me. I can’t do it. Not well,” I say. Doc nods sweetly at his wife and she leaves the room, taking my dirty secret with her.

“You can do it well. It’s a shock. A blessing. I’ll be here for you,” he says. “Bronze Bay will be here for you. You aren’t alone.” Doc assumes my hesitance is because of the father of my baby, or the lack thereof. Well, obviously, Leif doesn’t want anything to do with the predicament I’m in, but surely he’ll be there for me in whatever form that means for him. He is a kind man to the core. A generous, beautiful man. The only reason my mother is in a top-notch facility. A monthly support check? A pop in once a year for a birthday party? Doc Taylor goes on trying to assure me, and comfort me. He tells me a story about when his son was a baby and I know I’m supposed to smile or laugh, but I can’t. Now I’m thinking about Leif. And that’s a heartache that brings me to my knees.

My baby isn’t being born into a loving family. It would arrive right smack dab in the middle of a nightmare. I thank the doctor and he leaves so I can dress and collect my purse from a chair across the room.

I fix my hair in the mirror above the small sink and slick a coat of lip gloss along my bottom lip and rub my top lip against it. I school the tears threatening to break free, and exit the room, accept the appointment card thrust into my hand, and step into the salty breeze of a Bronze Bay afternoon. I start up my car, check my emails on my phone, and head to my mother. If nothing else, her presence will bring me comfort.

I tilt my chin up and drive toward the ocean, my mind on the percentages of false infertility diagnoses. And the decision I just made about my future. Aboutourfuture.

---