by Megan Walker
“So how do you feel about that?” I ask finally.
“About the same way you feel about it.”
“Shit,” I say.
“Yeah,” Gabby says quietly. “That pretty much sums it up.”
I’m definitely feeling something now, beyond numb shock. A deep sense of dread growing in my gut, like I’m all strapped in for a drop out of an airplane that I didn’t mean to sign up for. “What are we going to do?” I ask. “We can barely afford to keep ourselves alive, much less—”
God. We have insurance, but there’s going to be medical bills, and babies need clothes and space, and probably couches that aren’t missing their cushions, and—
“I know.” Gabby nods, and keeps nodding, like she’s suddenly developed a nervous tic in her neck. “But babies are cheap at first, right? I can breastfeed, and—”
“And you’re going to have to take time off,” I say. The dread is settling into certainty now, about something I’ve said before but finally need to insist on. “I need to get a job.”
The nervous nodding stops. “No!” Gabby says, somehow mustering the same kind of forceful enthusiasm for my fruitless unemployment that she always does. “We have a long time, long enough for you to finish your book, maybe. And that one might sell. You don’t know.”
“Gabby, you can’t work straight through having a baby, and we have no savings and no way of knowing if the next book would do better than the first.” If I can even get the thing written in the first place. God, how could have I gotten so little done in all this time? And now, when we really need it . . .
I shake my head and let out a breath. “We don’t really have any other options.”
Gabby looks down at her hands. Her voice is small. “That’s not entirely true.”
My stomach sinks. Of course. We do have other options. There’s always abortion, especially if it’s early.
That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
“Is that what you want?” I ask.
Gabby is quiet for a moment. “No. Not really.”
I feel relieved about that, nonsensical though it is. I’m not opposed to abortion in general, and I think for a lot of people it’s a necessary thing. But Gabby and I are in a committed relationship, and I’ve always assumed we’ll have a family eventually. It’s not the child I’m scared about, but the timing, and that doesn’t seem like a great reason. Not for us, at least. “Me neither,” I say.
“Are you sure?” Gabby asks, those autumn-brown eyes of hers sad. “Because you’re right. We can’t afford it.”
“We can’t now,” I say, and I reach over to take her hand, something I should have done way, way earlier in this conversation. “But if we were both working, we definitely could. And while I’m not particularly thrilled about the timing of all this, I think there’s zero chance we’d regret having this kid a few years from now. It’s something we always said we wanted eventually, right?”
“Right,” Gabby says, though the truth is, I’m not sure either of us looked forward to that with any particular longing. More like an eventuality we figured we’d want someday. When we had our lives together. When we grew up and hit some magic age where the biological imperative comes calling.
“I’m going to look for a job,” I say. It isn’t a question, either in my tone or in my mind. I have no idea what I’m going to do—I’ve done some script consulting over the last few years, but that’s very part time, and very unpredictable.
“I don’t want you to have to,” Gabby says, squeezing my hand gently. But she doesn’t insist that I shouldn’t, and I’m grateful for that. “We could move out of LA. Somewhere rent is cheaper.”
I shake my head. “You have to finish school, and your job is here. I don’t think it’s a great idea to greet this life change with a whole bunch of other life changes that would take us away from what steady employment and supportive family and friends we have.”
Gabby bites her lip. “That’s a good point. You know my brother would help us out with the money. Anna-Marie and Josh would, too.”
I don’t love the idea of taking money from her brother—or any of our family—but I’m even more resistant to the idea of taking it from friends, even ones she’s as close to as them. “And we may need the help,” I say after a beat. “But first I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure we can take care of ourselves.” The words sound sure coming out of my mouth, but I’ve failed so entirely over these last years that I’m not at all sure I can follow through with this.
I can try, though. I can call all my old contacts in film, see if anyone has any openings. I can go back to retail, for god’s sake. It would be more income than I’m making now, at the very least.
“We’re going to need a bigger apartment,” I say. “There’s no room here for a baby.”
“Not right away, though,” Gabby says. “We can make it work for a little while.”
I look around, seeing the cramped layout with new eyes, and not sure how exactly that would work. “I suppose we could replace the couch with a crib.”
Gabby looks horrified. “Are you talking about Cushionless Couch?”
I can’t help but smile. Gabby is willing to work all hours of the day and night so I don’t have to get a job, but heaven forbid we part with the couch that has long ago lost its cushions. I elbow her. “Maybe your brother would buy it. That’s what we did with our last unwanted couch.”
Despite herself, Gabby returns the smile. “He really does want to help us out. Do you think you would accept money in return for the couch?” It’s clear she desperately wants me to be willing to accept her brother’s offer. And, really, we could use it, the hit to my pride—such as it is—notwithstanding.
“If he has to keep that monstrosity in his house, then I think I can live with it. That would be hilarious.” At least that thought makes my pride feel a little better.
Gabby grins, somehow ignoring that I called her beloved couch a monstrosity. “And then I could visit it. But we’re not getting rid of Bertrude.”
The coffee maker? “Why would we get rid of Bertrude? She has personality.”
Gabby leans over and throws her arms around me. “I love you,” she says, and I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight.
I close my eyes and press my lips to her temple. “I love you, too,” I say. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“Are you really going to look for a job?” she asks. There’s this mournful quality to her voice, like this is the greatest tragedy of all, when really, it’s well past time for me to do that anyway.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll start with my old friends from Passion Medical.”
She takes a breath to protest. I hated writing for the soap opera, but I’m not looking to go back there. “A lot of them have moved on,” I tell her. “They’re working on different projects now.”
“But if you get a job writing, you might not be able to keep up with your novel on the side.”
She’s right, but the truth is, it’s not like I’ve been keeping up with it as it is. “I don’t have a lot of other skills. I guess I could go back to bookstore management.”
Gabby’s clearly not any more thrilled about that than the soap opera. “That just feels like a step backward. What about self-publishing the book?”
“That would cost money,” I say. “For editing and cover design. And from what I understand, it’s unlikely I would make that money back. Especially with only one book to put out, and who knows how long the next one will take.”
Gabby sighs. “I might still look into it more. Someone is making money at this.”
Probably someone who doesn’t write literary science fiction noir epics. And a lot of someones who can produce books at a rate of more than one per five years. “Okay,” I tell her. “If you can come up with a plan that would work, I’m all ears.”
We both look at each other. I want to tell Gabby that it’s all going to be okay, but really, I feel like we’re standing at the edge of a chasm together, looking down into the deep dark.
I’m not sure that it will be okay.
But I love her, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make it so.
Thirteen
Gabby
The next day before work at the Ren faire, I stop at another pharmacy to buy more pubic lice cream, just in case my infirmary gets inundated with way more itchy faire workers than my previous stockpile can handle. I figure I can return these if I don’t end up needing them, but I’d rather be prepared. And maybe it feels good to be able to do something about Ye Olde Plague of Crabs, since I can’t do anything about my stressful situation besides stress about it.
I see the pregnancy tests in the aisle and come very close to taking another one just in case yesterday’s three were faulty, but decide that I am a medical professional and know better, and should resist the crazy as long as possible.
Unfortunately, the plastic bag rips when I get into my car, and so when I get to work, I end up having to carry the whole stack of pubic lice medicine in my arms into the faire. It’s a big stack, too—I can barely see over the top of the wobbly pile, though maybe it serves as a warning to all faire employees that they should stop hooking up behind the stables until the outbreak is under control.
Even so, when a lady tugging a clothes rack of fancy gowns to her vendor booth runs her wheeled cart over my foot and I yelp and drop them all, I’m thinking I may have gone overboard.
The lady continues on, either not having noticed or perhaps not particularly caring in her rush to get set up before the faire opens.
I sigh and start to pick them up.
“Hey, let me help you with that, my lady,” a genial male voice says.
I look over to see Channing Tatum—er, Sir-Stick-Up-His-Ass; I forgot what April said his real name was—bending down even in full knight armor to help me gather the scattered boxes.
“Um, thanks,” I say.
“You’re the new nurse, yeah?” He straightens, holding about half of the boxes.
“Either that or I’m some weirdo carrying around a lot of pubic lice cream,” I say, and he laughs.
“Yeah, I’d heard there was a bit of a problem with that around here.” He smiles. “I’m Chris, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Gabby,” I say back, wondering why he’s being so nice to me all of a sudden. April had said he was a nice guy, but I remember him being distinctly more curt that first time I met him, and after what Delia said . . . Maybe he’s about to ask for one of these boxes for himself?
I hold out my small stack for him to set the boxes on top of, but he just looks amused.
“I can help you carry these over,” he says. “My chivalrous deed for the morning.”
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it. These may not be heavy, and the infirmary isn’t far, but this sure will make it easier. “And if you need to take one for yourself, go ahead. I don’t need to, like, confirm or anything.”
His cheeks go pink. “Um, no. I’m good, thanks.”
We walk across the big open entrance courtyard, past the King’s Pavilion, where a tall guy in a jester’s outfit is already juggling, even though he’s got no one to entertain but us workers until the faire opens for the day. I ask Chris how long he’s been a knight, and he tells me he’s been doing this for about four years now, and pretty much does this full-time, traveling from faire to faire across the country for about eight months out of the year. He’s a pretty open, chatty guy, and I’m starting to think that maybe April was right.
Until we round the corner and reach the infirmary, and see Delia standing there. She smiles, but then her smile wavers and she looks confused at seeing Chris helping me carry pubic lice cream boxes.
“Hey, Gabby,” she says, pointedly ignoring Chris.
Who freezes. “I—uh. My ladies,” he says, his tone all cold and stiff like that first time I met him. He practically shoves the boxes he’s holding at me, and I scramble to stack them on top of mine without dropping them all again. “Good day.”
And then he strides off without looking back.
“Oh my god, what the hell was that?” Delia says, glaring at his shiny armored backside. She shakes her head.
I don’t know what that was, but I’m starting to think it’s not that he’s a jerk—to anyone except Delia, strangely. “I don’t know,” I say. “Are you sure he doesn’t have some kind of issue with you, specifically?”
Delia looks surprised, but then she looks thoughtfully in the direction he went. “I don’t think so. I didn’t think he even remembered me.”
I want to ask what she means—did they have some sort of torrid affair interrupted by the last Ren faire crabs outbreak?—but my arms are starting to ache from balancing the boxes of cream.
“Can you—” I gesture with my chin to the infirmary door, which Delia opens for me. I drop the stack onto the cot and sigh. How does it already feel like it’s been way too long a day?
“I just wanted to thank you again for doing this for us,” Delia says.
“You’re welcome. How’s it been working?”
“Like a charm. Though after this pleasant experience, I’m starting to re-think my anti-Brazilian wax stance.”
I smile. “I don’t blame you. Though I’m not sure how medieval that is.”
“Having a colony of lice all up in my business is more medieval than I ever want to experience again. By the way, can I grab one of these for my friend Heather? She spent yesterday evening trying to discreetly scratch at her skirts, so I think she may be needing some.”
“Absolutely. Spread the love.” I pause. “I mean, don’t be spreading the love until that’s all cleared up. But I got enough of this stuff for an army, so share that with anyone you think needs it.”
Delia laughs and grabs a box, then heads off to work.
And I spend the morning trying to focus on my job, and not on the fact that somehow my corset feels extra tight and the air in the infirmary extra stifling.
My stomach having already swollen in the last twenty-four hours is clearly all in my head, but maybe the heat thing isn’t. Fortunately (for me, at least) I’m distracted for a while by treating the gash in the forehead of a man who had his toupee snatched by a raptor that escaped from its falconer. It’s not deep enough to require stitches, but he does a lot of muttering not-quite under his breath about how he’s going to sue the faire for “emotional damages.” By the time my lunch break rolls around, I’ve given out a couple bottles of water to people who came in complaining of feeling light-headed, though usually I don’t start seeing the dehydration patients until the afternoon.
Regardless, I’m ready to escape the oven that is the infirmary when my break comes. I texted Anna-Marie last night to see if she could meet me again for lunch today, and she must still not have many scenes to film on Southern Heat (Maeve only barely getting out of her coma now), because she’d agreed immediately, along with this:
Can’t wait—I’ve got some news!
I’ve got news to share, too, and I’m guessing mine is bigger.
Anna-Marie wanted to meet at the faire again. She clearly loves these things, and she and Josh can afford for her to pay the entrance fees just to come eat some overpriced vaguely-medieval-themed faire food.
I find her looking over some swords and daggers at a booth. “Check it out. Sting,” she says, holding up a blade with a design etched on it.
The singer? Does he like swords? I wrinkle my nose. “Is that a tantric sex thing?”
Anna-Marie grins. “No. It’s a hobbit thing.”
“Ah. You really do belong here. Way more than me.”
She sets the small sword down, and the vendor looks disappointed. “Well, that news
I was telling you about?” Anna-Marie says, blue eyes gleaming. “It turns out I’m going to get to. For a day, anyway.”
I blink. I don’t know what news I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “Really?”
“Remember when you suggested seeing if I could get a role here? Well I mentioned it to Josh, and he placed a few calls, and it turns out that on the weekends they do these charity jousting tournaments with celebrities—”
“You’re jousting?” My jaw drops. I can’t believe Josh would be okay with Anna-Marie being knocked off a charging horse by some armored dude with a lance, and there’s no way in hell I’m okay with it.
“Oh my god, noooo.” Anna-Marie laughs. “I’m going to be the princess. The one whose hand in marriage the knights are competing for. They’ve got a gown for me—I’ll just need to get fitted for it.” She beams and does a little spin, as if she’s already wearing it.
“Oh, good. That sounds awesome.” I’m both super relieved my best friend isn’t going to be killed in a joust and also weirdly envious. Of course Anna-Marie would get to the be the princess all the knights are vying for. And she’ll be perfect for the role, beautiful in some gorgeous, princessy gown made to fit her exactly, fawned over by handsome knights and the admiring public. While I’m the Healer Wench, sweating to death in a second-hand (or probably tenth-hand) corset, and checking out people’s pube-bugs.
This disparity is not new, nor is it her fault. I’m just in a bad mood.
Speaking of which . . .
“I’ve got some news, too,” I say, as we walk away from the booth. I can feel that news like a boulder in my gut. Even if in reality it’s much, much smaller. “Let’s get some food first, though.”
We decide to grab some turkey legs and walk around while we eat, which, despite the heat, I could definitely use after feeling extra trapped in my tiny infirmary. I bite into the turkey leg, and the grease immediately drips down my chin. But dang, these turkey legs are amazing.
Or do I just think so because . . .
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, my mouth still partially full of turkey.
