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The twenty minutes feel like they vanished in an instant. I jump to my feet and rush toward the bathroom, halting just before the doorway to steady myself. This moment feels monumental. With a deep breath to steel my nerves, I step forward to face whatever awaits me on the counter. My eyes land on the result—a stark pink plus sign stares back at me.
“Shoot,” I mutter under my breath. Frantically, I grab the box to double-check the instructions, hoping against hope I’ve made a mistake. But there’s no error—pink unmistakably means pregnant.
Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to recognize the reflection staring back. My mind races, failing to grasp the reality of the situation. This result must be incorrect; perhaps the test is faulty. Convincing myself of a mistake, I decide to seek further confirmation.
Without a second thought, I dash out, driven by a need for certainty. Back at the drugstore, I select six more tests, choosing a variety of brands to eliminate any doubt. The cashier from my previous visit handles my purchase, her gaze laden with empathy. Yet I internally rebuff her silent pity. This can’t be happening. I’m not ready to accept the possibility of pregnancy, so I cling to a sliver of hope that these tests will tell a different story.
Clutching the bag of tests tightly, I rush out into the cool night air, my mind racing as fast as my car. “It has to be a false positive,” I say to myself, clinging to the notion as I speed toward my apartment. That first pink plus had to be a mistake.
Once home, I waste no time. In the bathroom, I line up the tests and begin the process anew, desperate for a different outcome. The first retest yields a blue cross, indicating positive. But wait… The lines are blurry, and that casts a shadow of doubt in my mind. Without pausing, I take another test, this time waiting only ten minutes before checking. Two double pink lines stare back at me—positive.
I can’t stop; I move from one test to the next, each result echoing the first. My hope for a single negative result dwindles with every pink and blue cross and double pink lines that appear. My eyes blur with tears, and a headache throbs at my temples. Deep down, I know the truth, but I’m not ready to accept it. I’m searching for a miracle in the form of a negative test, clinging to the faintest sliver of hope amidst the growing certainty.
Hours seem to blur together as I find myself in the kitchen, mindlessly drinking water, trying to process everything. Four tests are complete, and I’m down to the last two. Despite feeling like I’ve emptied myself completely, I manage to muster just enough urine for the final attempts. Back in the bathroom, I use the remaining tests, and this time, the results are swift and undeniable. Both display the pink plus sign within minutes, sealing my fate and leaving little to no room for doubt.
Resigned, I arrange all seven tests on the counter, their unanimous verdict impossible to ignore. They seem to speak to me, a chorus of inanimate objects delivering the most life-altering news. “Wake up, you fool,” they seem to say. “The baby’s on its way, but you’ve got this. Don’t worry, Gina. You’ll be just fine.”
Chapter 14
But Will I Be Fine
Gina
“Oh my God, Nom, what should I do?” The words spill out in a flood of fear and confusion. My world feels like it’s in free fall. After sobbing into a pillow, demolishing a half-carton of banana nut white chocolate ice cream, and more tears, I found myself sprawled on the living room floor. It was only when the realization of my pregnancy hit me again that I reached out to Naomi.
The moment she answered the phone, I told her the truth: “I’m pregnant!”
Her response was swift and filled with concern: “I’ll be there soon.”
True to her word, Naomi arrived in just seventeen minutes. As she stepped into my apartment, the weight of my situation momentarily lifted as we hugged each other tightly. Her warm and reassuring presence anchors me amid my chaotic emotions.
“Gosh, Gina,” she whispers, offering comfort with a gentle rub on my back. “Let’s go sit.”
I nod, and together, we head to the sofa. As I sink into the cushions’ comforting embrace, I admit, “I still don’t know what to do.”
Naomi looks at me with such kindness. “Do you want to keep the baby?” she gently asks, her tone letting me know I have her support no matter what I decide.
“Yes,” I reply without hesitation. During my earlier turmoil of emotions and the ice cream binge, I realized I wanted to hold on to the blossoming life inside me. Yet there’s a significant concern I can’t ignore. “It’s Randy,” I confess. “I don’t know what he wants.”
“So we’re confirming that Randy is the father?” Naomi probes gently.
I look down and nod slightly, feeling a bit embarrassed because the last time we discussed it, I adamantly denied the possibility of Randy being the father.
“It’s okay, Gina,” Naomi reassures me, her voice soothing. “Everything is peachy keen.”
I raise my head, and slowly, we begin to smile at each other. I love her so dearly. Naomi Sutters is truly the best friend anyone could ask for. I struck gold back in the third grade when the cute little girl with a chipped front tooth visited my father’s dental office for a repair. Our bond formed instantly. While I was busy with my homework, she approached and sat next to me, offering help because she loved schoolwork.
Together, we breezed through my math homework, proving even then that we were a great team. “I love math,” she had said, “because I love logic.”
“Logic?” I had asked, curious.
She then took the time to explain what logic was. I was amazed, not just by her intelligence, but by how fun she was too. After finishing the homework and with time to spare before her appointment, we played with the sit-down table tennis set in the waiting room.
When it was her turn in my dad’s chair, Naomi suddenly looked a bit scared. Her dad was at work. He would return to pick her up later but couldn’t stay with her for the appointment. Feeling alone, she asked if I could stay in the room with her, and my dad agreed. We spent that dental session bombarding my dad with all sorts of silly questions.
“Can a frog have two heads?” Naomi asked, her words muffled because the mouth prop held her mouth open.
“Sometimes three,” my dad joked.
