Page 92 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
The poffertjes from earlier churn inside me.
Just the two of us, forever and ever…
My gut twists so hard I wince. Do I have food poisoning? What the hell is going on? I wrap my arms around my middle—my squishy, too-much-Nutella, rapidly expanding belly.
Oh my god.
What if it’s not Sebastien’s cooking that’s been making me fatter? What if it’s not “just the two of us”?
What if it’sthree?
I swallow the poffertjes threatening to come back up.
Nausea plus weight gain…
I think I might be pregnant.
—
I spend most of thenight awake. Not because I’m worried, but because I’m…excited. I’ve wanted a child forever. And I also have an idea about this baby and how it might be a sign that the curse is broken, but I haven’t told Sebastien. Not even that I suspect I’m pregnant.
I don’t want him to get his hopes up yet.
Before he wakes, I leave him a note that I’ve gone to the market. Then I slip out of the houseboat to look for a pharmacy. Luckily, even though I can’t read or speak Dutch, they’re easy to find, since most have bright green crosses in their shop windows. I see one a few blocks away and duck inside.
There are multiple tests on the shelf. Do I need to buy one of the expensive ones? They’re usually more sensitive. But if I’ve been pregnant awhile, there’ll be more hormones in my system, and the cheaper tests will work just fine.
For most women, it would be easy enough to count backward to a missed period. But I’m on one of those birth control pills that has the side benefit of skipping periods (although in the upheaval of my life the past few months, I have definitely forgotten to take my pills a few times). Still, I haven’t bled in years, and I’ve always considered it a modern-day luxury. It never occurred to me that actually getting a monthly period would be helpful. I spring for one of the more expensive tests.
As I’m paying, I ask, “Is there by any chance a toilet I can use here?”
“Sorry, employees only,” the clerk says. “But you can go to the café across the street. Buy a piece of cake, and they’ll let you use the WC.”
—
The aroma of coffee andpastries is usually enough to soothe my nerves, but today I’m still jittery as I wait in line to place my order. For once, I can’t concentrate on a menu, so when I get up to the counter, I just ask for a cookie, which I stuff hastily into my purse.
My hands shake badly as I lock myself in the WC. (The water closet. Europeans don’t call these “bathrooms” like Americans do. Which makes sense, since no one is taking a bath in the back of a restaurant.) When I’m finished with the pregnancy test, I set it on the back of the toilet to wait for the results.
Three minutes until I know.
I wash my hands, then pace the tiny room, five steps this way, five steps the other. I understand why Sebastien was pacing last night when I was sick. Anxiety requires movement.
This is a different type of nerves, though. I’ve always wanted to have kids. Merrick didn’t. Maybe this is yet again the universe showing me that things happen for a reason. Maybe I was meant to wait for my soulmate before I could have a baby—one with Sebastien’s pale blue eyes or my wavy brown hair.
And then there’s the matter of the curse, and how being pregnant might help us.
It’s such a fragile idea, though, I don’t want to think about it yet. Not until I know if the test is positive.
I glance at Dad’s watch before I remember that it doesn’t work. The clock on my phone, though, says it’s only been two minutes. The test is supposed to take three. But my pulse rattles in my veins like gunfire, rapid and relentless. I can’t wait any longer.
I open the stall door. The pregnancy test is where I left it, perched on the back of the toilet.
The bright blue “plus” sign is undeniable in any language.
Yes!
Take that, curse! I dance around with the pregnancy test and let out a whoop of victory that I’m sure has the rest of the koffiehuis patrons wondering what the hell the crazy American woman is cheering about in the WC.
