STILL HIGH FROM the overdose of sexual satisfaction I took that morning, I watched the sun make its descent into the blue-gray sky at late evening. Andrew was watching a baseball game with Gavin, and I was alone with my latest canvas and the remote control. I laid down in the recliner and closed my eyes, tuning out the latest episode of Law and Order. Set in Biloxi, Mississippi, that was a little too close to home for me to imagine a serial rapist who left women’s bodies in the gulf near the Beau Rivage.
As I got up to retreat to my art corner, sharp abdominal pains ferociously attacked me again. My period must be on its way. Yay. I sat back down.
Until then, my Saturday floated along perfectly—a walk in the park with iced coffees following our delicious lunch in the Fairhope French Quarter. Andrew was really laying it on thick. He had not taken a walk in the park with me since the day before we made love for the first time. Couldn’t just one day end this beautifully? Why did I have to be in pain? I hope it’s not my appendix…
I lost my concentration and flipped off the television as the pain worsened. Stumbling to the bathroom, my hands groped through my medicine cabinet—unsuccessfully. No pain medicine. I had forgotten how debilitating menstrual cramps could be, since my pre-birth control days were far from the forefront of my memory. My mother-in-law told me I should meditate and exercise, but I found Yaz and over-the-counter pain medicines to be a much more effective combination.
My doctor’s office line rang at least a dozen times before someone finally picked up. Forever later, she located my medical record.
“My lower abdomen is killing me, and I’m terribly dizzy,” I explained. “It’s only going to get worse. Please give me something for the pain.”
“But you’re not on birth control anymore, am I correct?” the nurse huffed, clearly bummed out to be working on the weekend. “Could you be pregnant?”
“No, I’m not on the pill anymore, but I really don’t think I’m pregnant. I only stopped taking them recently. I remember these cramps …”
“Are you taking any medication?”
“I tried over the counter ibuprofen, but it’s like eating a sugar pill.” The pain was shooting through me in waves, and I drew my breath in sharply, fighting tears. “Can you get my doctor to prescribe me something else?”
“Mrs. Cook, you need to take a pregnancy test first. Implantation pains can closely mimic menstrual cramps. Better safe than sorry.”
I groaned dramatically. “That means I have to go to the store.” The last thing I wanted to do was shuffle through Wal-Mart on a Saturday night.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hoisted myself out of the recliner, twisted my hair in a loose knot, slipped on a pair of tattered flip flops and grabbed my keys to make the aggravating trip. The quicker I got the test, the quicker I could get stronger pain relief. Andrew’s cell phone went straight to voicemail. He was probably avoiding me so I couldn’t bug him about what time the game would be over. I scribbled him a note and walked out the door.
My fingers instinctively knew which key to reach Grace on speed-dial. Two. She answered immediately.
“Grace, I have awful cramps and they won’t give me any meds until I take a pregnancy test. Isn’t that nuts? There’s no way in hell. Andrew won’t answer the phone.”
Grace squealed. “You better let me know immediately! Oh my goodness. I’m so excited. I need a Xanax. I won’t sleep tonight if you don’t let me know.”
I rolled my eyes. “Grace, I’m not pregnant. The pain was like this before.”
“Jana, I can see you rolling your eyes at me.”
I purchased the cheapest test available and rushed home, my abdomen still throbbing. Two glasses of Sprite and it still took me twenty minutes to pee.
I put the test down on the counter to wait for the minus sign to pop up. In an effort to distract myself, I grabbed a load of laundry to start. After starting the washer, I spotted the huge load in the dryer that needed to be folded. As I tackled the mountain of clothes we accumulated over the previous week, it dawned on me that I had dried three of Andrew’s favorite Polo shirts. Oops. I had been ruining his shirts for years in my failing quest to become a Proverbs 31 wife.
The pregnancy test, I remembered thirty minutes later. I folded two more wrinkled undershirts and then grabbed my cell phone, ready to call the dejected nurse with my negative result.
Wincing at the sharp pain radiating throughout my lower abdomen, I started to dial the doctor’s office as I sauntered into my bathroom.
I picked up the test and dropped my phone, narrowly missing the toilet.
No way.
It was positive. A dark purple plus sign stared at me. My whole world darkened except for that ominous glowing plus sign.
Oh. My. God.
“Wow,” I whispered aloud to the air around me. “Yay…?” How was I supposed to feel? Shocked? Yes, definitely. Excited? Somewhat. Panicked? Absolutely! It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast…
“Jana, it can take a year to conceive after being on birth control so long, and you have a family history of fertility issues.” I watched my doctor scan my medical record. “Just realize that pregnancy probably won’t happen overnight.”
My doctor and my mother-in-law were both dead wrong.
I froze in place for what seemed like ages, followed by a compulsive gallivant around my bedroom, my heart racing wildly. I was going to be a mother! I dialed Andrew’s number at least ten times, and then Gavin’s at least five. No answer.
What are they going to say at work? Before the fear could engulf me, I forced the thought out of my mind. This was my moment.
Caught in a frenzy of panic and ecstasy, I frantically administered the other two tests in the pack. Two purple plus signs. There was no mistake; I was definitely pregnant.
Andrew finally called back an hour after I’d seen the first positive result. “You need to come home,” I demanded. “I have something to tell you.”
“Oh, c’mon, can’t it wait?” he whined. I could hear the television in the background. “Hey, man, did you see that?” he called to Gavin.
“No, really, it can’t wait. I need for you to come home now.”
“Jana, I’ve spent a lot of time with you today,” Andrew replied dryly. I imagined an agitated scowl crossing his sun-burnt face. “We had breakfast, lunch, and spent most of the afternoon together. I’ll see you in a little while.”
I used the razor sharp tone that was only let loose when I meant business. “No, I am serious. Get your ass home now.” I hung up the phone, fuming at his trademark stubbornness.
Andrew casually waltzed through the door an hour later. He thrust our bedroom door open, where I was still pacing anxiously. He was disheveled and tracking in dirt, oblivious to the fresh mopping and vacuuming that had just taken place by yours truly. “Now, what’s the problem?” He looked me squarely in the face, irritation crossing his bronze complexion. “This better not be about anything work related.”
Breathlessly, I shoved the test in his face. “I’m pregnant.”
He stiffened, the test clutched between his fingers. As I watched closely, a huge smile spread across his features. “That fast. Wow … we’re going to be parents.” He swallowed me in a bear hug, and I glanced in the mirror behind me. Catching his beaming face warmed my heart, and my nervousness melted away.
“Let’s not tell anyone right now, except our parents and Grace and Gavin.” This was my secret to tell, when I wanted to tell it. No one wearing Covington Company scrubs would know until I held an ultrasound photo that revealed a heartbeat.
Although my conversation with Jeff did not change anything, my issues with Collin took a backseat to my excitement about our new arrival. I ignored his verbal beatings, daydreaming of baby clothes and diaper cakes as he barked. I poured myself into my job with a new positive attitude, determined to show Jeff how dedicated and hard-working this mama-to-be could be.
I kicked pregnancy’s tail for the first couple of weeks e
xcept for an increasing tiredness. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Mama kept warning me.
So much for the power of positive thinking. I knew Tony Robbins was full of it, and Joel Osteen seemed way too cheery to be real. Around nine weeks into the pregnancy, on the way home from a dinner party at Grace and Gavin’s house, the sickening nausea hit me like a Mack truck. It couldn’t wait the sixty seconds until we got home.
“Pull over,” I screamed at Andrew, barely wedging the car door open before I vomited profusely.
Oh. My. God. There were much worse things that I wanted to say. No matter how much I retched, the nausea never ceased. My body convulsed from the heaving, and a cold sweat beaded my forehead.
Andrew rubbed my back as I slammed the door and crumpled back into my seat. Sobbing, I pushed him off me. The hot flashes were debilitating and touch sickened me. The sticky leather seats repulsed me. Hell, everything repulsed me. I peeled off my tight party dress, ripping it at the seams, and searched through my overflowing duffel bag for a T-shirt and cotton shorts, my body threatening to degenerate from the most intense fatigue I had ever experienced. This is what a cancer patient must feel like, I thought miserably.
“I thought I was supposed to get sick in the morning,” I gasped in between sobs. “Baby, this can’t be a stomach flu, can it?” I wiped off my forehead. I could run for miles and not break a sweat, but now, I was sweating profusely.
“No, Jana … I wish I could take it away.” He looked as miserable and helpless as I felt.
Amazing as my husband was, he was still a man, a creature insane enough to ask for sex from his pregnant wife after she spent hours hugging the toilet. After we got home and I spent several hours hugging the toilet, wanting to die, I soothed myself with a luscious face mask. At the sight of me lounging in bed with a Cosmopolitan and a glass of grape juice, he figured I must be feeling better.
For some reason—maybe it was the memory of the nausea, or the fear it would return—the thought of having sex was dreadful for the first time since I’d lost my virginity. I postponed the inevitable with a bubble bath, a prolonged phone conversation with Jessica, and the pile of laundry that desperately needed folding. Somehow, I still ended up in bed at eight-thirty with Andrew on top of me, grinding like it might be the last time he ever got any. I faked an orgasm for the first time in my life (and hopefully the last), extremely proud of my performance. Every throaty sound, my lustful moves, calling out his name one breathless time … I almost believed myself, I was so good.
He didn’t notice. He got his, and now I could pass out. Everybody was happy.
That first night of misery would copy itself daily for the rest of my first trimester. Nevertheless, there would be no sick days on my Outlook calendar. I was determined to fight each post-Zofran hangover like a champion.
As luck would have it, Jeff presented me with the “opportunity” to collaborate with Brooke at a convention. Her territory manager was on vacation, and she needed a second hand. Hiding my pregnancy-induced nausea and disdain of Collin was a full-time job without the “opportunity” to deal with Brooke.
I pulled up to the resort where the convention was to take place around three-thirty, hoping to squeeze in some much needed rest. Parking and rolling down the window, I leaned back and closed my eyes, breathing in the coconut-scented breeze feathering off the ocean. The perfect sunshine permeated my skin, luring me to sleep with its sensual warmth. Just as I started to slide into dreamland, Grace called.
“You’re working a convention with Brooke Bennett? How’s that whore doing, anyway? Who’s she screwing these days?” Grace was chewing gum.
“She’s still the bomb no one wants to set off.” I glanced up at the clear blue sky, wishing I was on the beach with a margarita in my hand. I missed margaritas. “I think she’s sleeping with my boss.”
Brooke’s name was on Jeff’s lips a little too often, and his eyes rested on her a little too long at local area meetings. Considering she was in a different division, there was no good reason for them to spend time together. Also, Brooke had been an associate longer than me … why hadn’t she applied for my position?
Grace guffawed. “Are you serious? That bitch is so deceptive. She comes across as composed and professional, doesn’t she?”
I shook my head. Brooke was the embodiment of the power of deception. “Definitely. Passive aggression at its worst.”
“Maybe you should try that,” Grace offered.
I rolled my eyes. “Not my style.”
“When am I going to see you?” she pouted. “I miss my best friend. Gavin is having another affair with his guitar, and I’m bored.”
“This weekend,” I replied. “I plan to have an affair with my art very soon.”
I daydreamed about my latest canvas on the way to my room. Much to my dismay, I literally tripped over Brooke’s designer suitcase in the hall. She was in the process of opening her room door, directly across from mine.
Without saying a word, I picked it up, set it in place, and dusted off my pants.
Her face transformed into a wide, fake smile.
“Hey, honey,” she said in her exaggerated Southern drawl. “Did you have a good day?” She casually flipped her tight curls over her shoulder.
“Yes, sure did.” I forced a smile back. “I’m looking forward to tonight. We’re going to have a blast!” I rustled through my purse for my room key, desperately wanting to vanish from her sight. I felt like vomiting, unsure if the urge resulted from Brooke’s presence or the extra estrogen.
“A lot of the guys want to go out tonight.” I could feel her evil eyes shooting darts into my back. “You up for it? If I remember correctly, you were quite the diva on the dance floor in college.”
The “guys” she referred to were the young, handsome surgeons, mostly looking for women, who attended every convention. Any invitation to get out of town for these was met with a “YES” RSVP. Normally, I was game for hanging out as long as they understood I was not hooking up. If I had too many drinks, I’d point out which one of their prospective conquests they had the best shot of bedding. Typically, I was spot on with my assessments.
I was confident that Brooke was game for the after-party.
“I don’t know,” I responded a bit evasively. “Depends how late it is. I haven’t been feeling really well lately.” I opened my door, hoping to shake her.
She closed her own door and followed me, uninvited. “What’s wrong?”
I opened my door and set my suitcase down, rummaging through my things, trying to appear very busy. “Stomach issues and fatigue, that’s all.”
“Jana, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Have I done something to you?” She folded her arms tightly across her chest as she scooted to the center of my room.
Oh, great. I put my makeup bag down and slowly met her gaze. “No, why would you think that?” I sighed, unsurprised at her dramatic outburst.
She feigned concern. “You’ve just been acting differently.”
“Oh, no,” I said reassuringly. “I just haven’t felt well lately. Nothing is wrong.”
“Stomach issues, fatigue…” She cocked her head and gazed at me, pursing her lips. “Are you pregnant?”
I froze. What could have made her suspicious? Had she heard me in our storage unit the week before talking to Andrew on my cell about our upcoming ultrasound, and I failed to notice her? Damn passive aggressive whore!
“Um, um…” I stammered, wondering where my acting skills had taken off to. I shook profusely, my nerves exploding from head to toe.
She clapped her hands together. “I knew it! That’s why you always look so tired, and are never feeling well. You’re pregnant! Congratulations. How far along are you?”
Ripples of what must be depression conquered the competing emotions of fear and disbelief. Not Brooke. Anyone but Brooke. I collapsed on my bed and crossed my puffy legs with thoughts of Collin’s nasty retorts resurfacing—“She’s at that age. Bet it won’t be long.”
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br /> “I haven’t told anyone on my team yet, including Jeff. I want to wait until I’m sure we won’t miscarry. Please don’t tell anyone.” It seemed like it was someone else talking to, begging, her. Gross.
A sickly sweet, almost sinister, smile played across her pale face. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” I barely heard the explosion of questions that followed, vaguely murmuring the appropriate responses. There was no way in hell I believed my secret was safe with her.
I retched violently as soon as she left, gasping desperately for air. Why couldn’t I have just lied to her like a good salesperson?
God, please help me. Don’t cry, don’t cry. Feeling childlike and vulnerable, I sensed the whisper holding me as I forced myself to dress for the convention.
Three hours after the convention session began, it was over. My palms were soaked with sweat, and my makeup was smeared after hugging the toilet three times. At least the bathroom was new and clean. It could have been much worse.
“You ready to go, Jana?” Brooke sauntered up with her partying posse, all of them dressed to kill. She crossed her arms and stared at me expectantly.
I never told you I was going, I wanted to shout. Instead, I self-consciously dabbed at the streaks of mascara on my cheeks and weaseled, “It would take me too long to redo this junk. It’s been a long night, and I’m turning in, but I hope you guys have fun.”
Some new intern feasted his eyes on my chest (which now boasted a nice, full D thanks to the surplus of hormones). His drunken flirting was obvious and a complete turnoff. “Hey, be my date,” he slurred.
I wanted to reply, “Are you serious? I’m vomiting up my guts, and there’s a baby cooking in here. And you are not half as hot as my husband.” Instead, I laughed it off and ignored Brooke’s icy stare.
The Storm (Fairhope) Page 5
