Eleven Weeks (12 page)

“Doc, I’ve had four drinks since I would have fallen pregnant”—White lie. Technically, I had two beers the night before graduation, and four tequilas the week before. To help stave off the hangover—“and I was wondering, will this hurt …?”

“While we certainly do not recommend drinking while pregnant, and I’d encourage you to stop right away, this doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll have harmed the baby. Plenty of people don’t realise they’re pregnant and do things like that.” Dr Simpson makes a few quick notes on his computer again, checks his little pee stick, then turns back to me. “It looks like you are indeed correct; you’re with child.”

The words hit me like a series of slaps to the face. Sure, I knew, but to have this guy with his clipboard and pen and a vial of my pee in a jar tell me? Now it’s official.

I lean forward and rest my head in my hands. Why the hell has this happened to me?

“Well, that leaves us with one major question; have you thought about whether or not you will continue the pregnancy?” There’s no judgment in Dr Simpson’s eyes, only a kindly twinkle, which offers me a weird sense of comfort. Like maybe, no matter what I choose, it will be the right decision. The best decision.

“Listen, this is a huge choice for you. I don’t know if you have certain religious preferences—”

“I don’t.”

“Well, regardless, termination is a very serious thing to do. It’s not what we call particularly traumatic surgery on the body—on the mind, though? Well, that can be a very different thing.” He gives me a sad smile, and I press my lips together. I hadn’t really thought about that.

“So it wouldn’t … hurt too much?” I wince.

“No.” Dr Simpson shakes his head kindly. “You would experience some discomfort, mind, and it’s not what we’d call a pain-free experience by any means.”

I nod.

“The other two major options we encourage people to consider at this point would be of course, having the baby and raising it, or having the baby and putting it up for adoption,” he finishes.

“Adoption …” I trail off. Could I do that? Could I carry a living thing around, growing it in my stomach for nine whole months, get fat, give birth, potentially rip my vagina open, and then hand the kid over to someone else?

Could I kill it?

“I can’t keep it. It’s stupid to even …” I trail off, studying the pine-green carpet.

“Stacey,” Dr Simpson leans closer, “it’s a big decision. You don’t need to make it today.”

He shifts back in his seat and taps at his computer keyboard again, no doubt entering something like
Does not have a clue of plan
.

“I know you’re uncertain of the child’s paternity, but it’s important you discuss this. We have a very good counsellor who works in the building; she’d be able to meet with you, if you’d like.” He presses a final button on his keyboard and turns back to me. “And talk to your family about it. Discuss your options.”

“That is not a good idea.” I widen my eyes.

“Friends, then,” he says. This time, I don’t comment. How do I say that I really only have one super close female friend, and that she’s going through a whole heap herself right now? And that the rest of the people I’d consider in my tight group are all guys, who I cannot, repeat,
cannot
tell I’m carrying some random dude’s baby?

“Until you’ve decided whether you’re going to have the baby or not, I’d recommend taking some folic acid supplements, just in case you do decide to continue with the pregnancy. I’d also recommend you adhere to the suggested dietary and nutrition guidelines—no alcohol, minimal caffeine, no soft cheeses, no raw fish, no—”

“Whoa, hold up, I need to write this down.” I scrabble around in my handbag for a pen.

“It’s fine, I have two websites to recommend for you that will detail all this, plus some brochures.” Dr Simpson takes some pamphlets from a holder on the wall and places them in a brown paper bag for me. “I’ll also get you to go in for a blood test, just to make sure you’re all fit and healthy. How are you feeling?”

I swallow.
Blood test.
“Okay.”

“No nausea or discomfort of any kind?”

“Not yet.” My stomach rolls.
Well, not until you suggested it.

“Just be aware that occasionally, morning sickness can start as early as five weeks, so you could very well be a candidate for that,” he says. I do a mental cheer.

The printer whirrs into life and hums away, sucking the paper in and spitting it out. Dr Simpson gathers it, along with a few more brochures he selects from Perspex holders on the wall. Planned Pregnancy. Abortion & You. Adoption: The Greatest Gift. They’re all there, right next to the ones on erectile dysfunction and sexual diseases.

I shudder. At least I’m not taking either of those home with me.

“Once you get the blood test, you can call in three days to get the results, but in the meantime, I’d be having a look through those brochures and thinking seriously about this. Talk to someone, Stacey.”

Dr Simpson then proceeds to give me information on what to do if I keep the baby; things like my first ultrasound and tests at around twelve weeks, and birthing classes, although he assures me it’s very early to worry about that.

When our time is up, I heave a sigh of resignation and push back in my chair then stand up, taking the little bag Dr Simpson hands me.

I shuffle out the door and hand over my Medicare card to the receptionist, surreptitiously glancing at the other patients still in the room.

“Benjamin Jones?” Dr Simpson asks. The sixteen-year-old guy gets to his feet.

I think I’d prefer the cotton wool problem.

G
ETTING THE
needle hurts like getting a needle hurts, with an extra pinch of remorse and embarrassment thrown in. I drove to the next town to get it done, because the odds of me running into someone I knew in our local pathology centre were once again high, and I didn’t know if there was some special doctor note that said
Look out, she’s preggers
on my blood test form.

I’m driving home, ominous clouds lurking behind me as I speed down the motorway toward Lakes. I don’t know why I’m driving fast. It’s not like I have anything to rush home for, anything to rush home to. All I can think about is this baby. And what the hell I’m going to do about it.

Who the hell I can talk to?

I swallow. There’s one other person out there who probably doesn’t want to hear from me right now, but I think they should. After all, I need to talk this through. And I don’t want to do it alone.

I take the exit for Lakes, the series of suburbs where I live. Now, the rain is pouring down, one of those gross tropical summer storms where it drenches your socks off and then heats up, leaving you feeling as if you’re an extra cast member on
Lost
or something.

After another twenty minutes, I get to the point where I remember Michael picking me up. The rain has stopped, thank God.

Before I exit the car, I check my phone. One new message.

Michael:
Why did the man put condoms on his ears during sex?

I shake my head. Like I have a freaking clue. Grabbing my skateboard from the backseat, I open my door and step out into the chaos after quickly typing out
, I don’t know.

I put my board down and start rolling. I’ll be able to cover more ground on wheels, but I don’t want to search in my car, in case someone tries to run me down for driving at the speed of an old lady. My eyes are wide open for anything that looks familiar. I still can’t believe my luck. How is it that the one time I am too drunk to remember to be careful, I get pregnant?

Okay, so it’s not exactly immaculate conception, but seriously. My brother Sean and his wife had been trying for a kid for three years. They’d done IVF, crazed diet fads … the works, and it was only a few months ago now that they finally managed to conceive. And here I am, a dumb kid who got too drunk to remember having sex, let alone using protection, and officially pregnant. The guy must have been some kind of a super sperm machine.

I put one foot down and push myself along, the hum of the wheels on the pavement a soundtrack to my search. My head flicks from right to left as I observe all the houses I pass. They all look perfectly presentable—modern homes, with well-manicured lawns, and warm yellow light reflected against their windows.

None of them look like the den of a sperm machine. No particularly masculine scents waft from any of the windows.

I roll and I roll, and after a while they all look familiar; they all look like I could have been in them before, and I just as easily could have not.

After an hour of street searching, I turn around and trudge back to my car. I throw my skateboard on the front seat, watching it crush the paper bag of brochures Dr Simpson gave me.

My phone buzzes.

Michael:
He didn’t want to get hearing aids.

Oh.

December 19

W
HEN
I was a kid, I always used to dream about being older. I’d follow Sean around, begging him to let me ride my bicycle with him and his mates down the bush track to the creek.

I’d sneak into Shae’s room while she was on the phone then quickly bolt back out again when she threw her pillow at me. I’d even try look under the door when I knew she had a boy in there.

I wanted to shave my legs at aged ten, but Mum wouldn’t let me. I did it anyway.

I had my first alcoholic drink at age thirteen. It was a sip of Sean’s beer. I hated it, but drank it regardless.

I’ve always wanted to grow up a whole heap faster than was really possible. I always pretended to be older than I was.

Now I wish I’d slowed it down.

Now, I’m pregnant and sitting on the couch in the most unladylike fashion imaginable, legs spread out, hand behind my head. A giant bowl full of popcorn sits on my stomach.

Sat
.

Now it’s more like three kernels of popcorn.

Comfort eating does wonders for the soul.

“Could you close your legs?” Shae asks as she gracefully glides into the room. I’m not even sure her feet touch the ground.

I snap my knees together, pulling my feet in front of me. “It’s not like I’m wearing a skirt,” I mutter, even though I know she’s right. I’m not a little kid anymore, no matter how much I’m trying to act like one.