*****
I put the phone down, trying not to laugh out loud. “He's coming back tomorrow!”
Debby gave me a look as she was passing my canvas. “He's coming back home,” I mouthed. She feigned excitement then frowned at me. I seemed to be disturbing the class.
The rest of the hour I struggled to focus on my sketch and keep my breakfast down. Later in the day, I had to attend an oil painting exhibition with some of my colleagues. One of our teachers had been awarded some title and he wanted to boast about it with another one of his silly parties. Paintings especially selected for the evening, bad food choices and cheap wine were the things he thought appropriate for such an occasion.
I checked my phone. Two hours before the ordeal gave me enough time to shower, take something for the nausea and do my laundry.
I had managed to accomplish all of these tasks and was just leaving my apartment when another wave of nausea forced me to get back inside and run for the bathroom.
“What is this?” I asked myself, tightly hugging the toilet.
I needed to see a doctor. Until then, I had to get presentable and endure Professor Boast-a-Lot for an entire evening.
I almost didn't make it there, as I got terribly sick in the cab. I couldn't stop apologizing to the driver, even after leaving him triple the fare. He didn't seem like he understood much English.
Completely embarrassed and feeling lousy, I stepped through the heavy doors and into the tasteless living-room-turned-art-gallery that occupied the professor’s ground floor. He hadn't bothered to remove the open floor kitchen, which was now used as a makeshift bar for whatever oddity he had tonight.
A group of friends intercepted me before I had the chance to see the host. I didn't need much convincing to give up on that.
I grabbed a glass of wine, if only to look like I was enjoying myself, and followed the group around. We were supposed to be looking at every painting, as tomorrow the professor would ask us detailed questions about his own work.
I usually fared just fine at these events, but tonight something was wrong. And not with the style of the paintings, or the overall feeling of the party, or even with the sleazy attitude of the host. No, something had to be terribly wrong with me. I couldn't stand the smell of paint and the wine. God, I had thrown that thing away the first time I had seen a pot of plastic flowers.
I needed air, so I went outside. Debby caught on that something was up and she followed me out.
“You alright, girl?”
I nodded, clenching my teeth to settle the nausea.
“You don't look alright. Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
By the time she came back, I was bent over the railing, emptying my stomach. Again.
“Oh, God! Dianne, what happened?”
Great, exactly what I needed. Debby fussing over me at every cough and sneeze.
“I'm alright, thanks. Stomach flu, probably.” I tried to play it down. It felt like I was dying, but I couldn't tell her that.
“You should see a doctor,” she said, more like a demand than a suggestion.
“I know, I have an appointment tomorrow.”
“Good, now go home.”
“What?”
“You look like hell. Go home. I'll deal with Mr. Dick here.”
With every annoying thing Debby did, I still didn't know how to thank her for tonight. I couldn't get home fast enough, eager to cuddle up with some hot tea and a good book. I was sure everything would be fine by tomorrow. I had to be at my best for the competition, after all, so I had to feel better.
But the evening and the next morning didn't go as planned. I virtually slept in the bathroom, and I was feeling worse with every passing hour, as my stomach couldn't bear the pressure anymore. By the time the sun rose, I was barely breathing, so tired I could barely walk in a straight line.
I dared to have some water and look in the mirror. Both were very bad ideas.
Half an hour before my doctor's appointment, I managed to shower and get dressed. The prospect of another cab drive filled my mouth with bile, so I chose to walk. Maybe some chilly November air would do me some good.
It did, indeed. By the time I reached the clinic I was feeling better. Maybe it was nothing after all.
Because I had arrived late, I had to wait to be called again. And, with the noise and the smell of the waiting room, back came the nausea and the headaches. They had to usher me in sooner.
“What seems to be the problem, miss?” the old doctor asked.
I expressed my concerns regarding a stomach flu and my need to feel better by the afternoon, when I had the competition, and after some poking and prodding, the doctor finally sat back.
“Have you peed today, Miss Colt?”
Weird. “No. Why?”
“Would you mind going to the bathroom and doing one more test? I'll have a technician draw blood to confirm, but I'd like to see the results as soon as possible.”
“OK. Anything to get this over with.”
He handed me a pregnancy test and I stared at it dumbfounded.
“No, this can't be right. I'm not pregnant,” I said, happy to right a misunderstanding.
“Would you do it for me, please? I have forms to fill out. I can't just take your word for it.”
Alright, I understood bureaucracy. I smiled nicely and went into the bathroom at the end of the hall.
In a couple of minutes, I lifted the test and looked at it. Positive.
My immediate reaction was to puke. Then denial. They had to give me four different tests before I could calm down.
Everything after that was a haze. I heard the doctor saying something about a vulnerable pregnancy and that if I didn't wish to have an abortion, then he would recommend something to help me with the symptoms.
I was speechless. As if in a dream, I watched myself reach for the nausea medication, thank the doctor and a couple of nurses and push through the door to the street.
It was long after I had left the clinic that I realized that the annoying sounds that were bothering me were coming from my phone. I pulled it out and saw Peter was calling.