The Lies That Bind(55)

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    Then everything comes crashing down. I probably shouldn’t use that expression, given September 11—but it feels absolutely calamitous when I glance in my bathroom drawer, see my packet of birth control pills, and realize that I never got my period during the seven-day stretch of white sugar pills—my usual cue to start a new pack. In other words, I’m late. My heart races.

I tell myself to calm down—that it’s really difficult to get pregnant while you’re on the pill. But then I recall that there was at least one day—maybe two—in which I forgot to take it amid the insanity of 9/11. Was there another day, too? Around the time I got back together with Matthew? I can’t remember for sure.

Now, suddenly, my mind is spinning out of control, my body bombarded with all sorts of phantom pregnancy symptoms. Or maybe they’re actual pregnancy symptoms. My breasts do feel fuller than usual—and also vaguely sore. I run to the bathroom, lift up my shirt, and stare at them. They definitely look bigger, the nipples slightly darker. Aren’t those signs? And my God, I’m feeling nauseous and light-headed. Is that from sheer panic—or a baby growing inside me?

I have to find out. I have to find out now. I throw on a pair of sweats, grab my wallet and key combo, and run out the door, down the stairs, through the lobby, and into the cool fall morning. Once on the sidewalk, I sprint toward my corner bodega.

There’s no way, I keep repeating to myself, as I find the aisle of shame with the pregnancy tests and condoms and lubricants. I check the prices and select a generic brand, then decide it’s not the time to be cheap, putting it back and grabbing a more expensive name brand. I turn and fast-walk to the checkout line, trying to look nonchalant—as if such a thing is possible when you’re throwing a pregnancy test and a credit card on the counter before eight in the morning. The clerk, an older bald man, whom I recognize and have always liked, gives me the courtesy of pretending that this is a normal transaction, but at the last second, as he hands me my bag, he gives me a sympathetic, almost fatherly look that makes me want to cry.

    I thank him under my breath, bolt out of the store, and cross the street, running for my apartment. Once inside, I go straight to the bathroom, locking the door, even though I’m alone. My heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I open the box, read the instructions, then read them again, making sure I didn’t miss anything before carefully following them step by step. I take off the plastic cover, start to pee, put the absorbent tip into my urine stream for a three-Mississippi count, then recap the test, laying it flat on the counter. All the while, I keep telling myself that there’s no way this could happen to me during the only month of my entire life when I’ve had sex with more than one person.

Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, I leave the bathroom. I count to sixty, pacing around my bedroom. For the next count of sixty, I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Then, for about a minute after that, I pray harder than I’ve ever prayed for anything, which in turns makes me feel like a horrible, selfish person. After all, thousands of innocent people, including pregnant women and fathers-to-be, lost their lives on 9/11 through no fault of their own, and here I am praying that a life doesn’t exist in the aftermath of my own irresponsibility and recklessness.

I finally get up off the bed, thinking: There’s. No. Way. Then I hold my breath, head into the bathroom, look down, and see it. An unmistakable bright pink cross announcing that I’m going to be a mother.

In a last-ditch effort, I grab the box from the trash can, hoping I got it wrong—that the cross means I’m not pregnant. Of course that isn’t the case—which I already knew—so I scan the instructions searching for a note on false positives. Nothing. Too stunned to cry and too petrified to leave the bathroom, I pick up the stick and sit on the tile floor. I stay that way for a long time, clutching it, staring at it, wishing there were another window that could tell me who the father is.

    Over the course of the morning, I end up taking three more pregnancy tests—the other one from the first box and two more from another brand purchased from a nearby Duane Reade. Though two are pink crosses and two are blue circles, all four are equally positive, and I’m reminded of that funny old adage that you can’t be a little bit pregnant. This time, though, it’s not the least bit funny.

I call in to work sick, because I suddenly am very, very sick, then go back to bed, bringing with me my calendar, going over and over it, making endless ovulation calculations as I try to determine which is more likely—that I conceived the last time I was with Grant or whether it was after that, with Matthew. I conclude that there’s no way to know for sure—both are possible and neither is impossible. Exhausted, I eventually fall asleep, waking up in the early afternoon to a fresh wave of shock, followed by gripping fear.

There are so many layers to my angst that it’s almost impossible to keep track of them. At the very least, my pregnancy throws a curveball in our wedding plans. In all of our plans. Matthew and I just got back together, and now we’re having a baby. It’s just so much to digest. But the fact that I can’t be sure who the father is makes things downright terrifying. And I can’t even bear to think about the possibility that Grant could be the father. That I might one day have to tell my child the truth about his or her biological father. The whole truth.