CHAPTER SIX
Jackie
I woke up and groaned. It was Thursday—the day after my day off. I should have felt refreshed and ready for the rest of the week. But I didn’t. I felt horrible. I rolled over and managed to get myself into the bathroom just before I was sick. I leaned over the toilet, retching dryly and thought angry thoughts.
Great. This is exactly what I need. Now I’m sick too.
As if, I thought, brushing my teeth firmly, I hadn’t had enough horrible surprises this month. Three or four weeks ago, I’d had that whole issue with the gang. Then the guy who’d picked me up. Then dad had got sick and I’d had to take him to the hospital. He was fine now after treatment for his lungs. Now I was sick, for Pete’s sake.
I put the toothbrush down and stared at myself. As I often did, my mind wandered back to that night. The weird night, four weeks ago, when I’d met the guy. Scott. I thought of him often.
“He’s probably the first guy who’s actually made me feel pretty.”
I sighed. That explained why, every time I caught sight of myself in the mirror, or more often than not, I thought of him. I brushed a strand of mousy hair out of my eyes and rinsed my face.
“Right. Let’s get ready for work.”
I washed my face, showered and dressed. Did makeup. Ate breakfast. As I ate my muesli my stomach gave a queasy lurch and I thought I might be sick again, but I kept it down.
At work, things were as they usually were. The teachers handed me the list of referrals and I saw the students, one after the other in my small, anonymous office. It was tough work. Most of them came from families who could have been textbook examples for what not to do—their stories wiped me out completely.
I was feeling particularly exhausted that day and, when lunchtime came along I dragged myself to the tearoom feeling finished.
“Hey,” Barbara, one of the teachers, called. “You okay?”
“I’m fine…” I murmured. “Actually, I don’t know.” My head was throbbing and I closed my eyes, feeling myself sway back. Dammit, what was wrong with me? “Coffee,” I murmured. “I need some.”
Barbara chuckled, then took my arm, looking into my face with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jackie?” she asked. “You look finished.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just seem to have caught some stomach thing or something.”
“Hell, Jacks—you probably should have taken the day off. That sounds serious.”
“No,” I murmured, sitting down with my coffee cradled between my palms. I felt cold and shaky and the coffee, mercifully, was helping. “I think I’m okay. I don’t know what this is. It’s just that, when I wake up, I’ve been feeling sick just lately. Probably something that disagrees with me. Maybe I should cut out dairy or something.”
“Maybe,” Barbara said. She was looking at me shrewdly. “You feel dizzy sometimes?” she asked.
My head was pounding like a bass-player was having a go at it and I couldn’t focus. I sure was dizzy. “Yes,” I said. “Why?”
As I said it, I realized something. Feeling sick in the mornings. Dizziness. Nausea.
Oh, shit.
I really thought it wasn’t possible. I thought I had a cycle as regular as clockwork and there was no way in hell anything could happen in the first week of the month. But apparently not.
“What is it?” Barbara asked.
“N…nothing,” I murmured. “I think I’ll just go lie down a bit. See you.”
“See you.”
As I dragged myself off towards the sick room, my head still aching, I found myself shaking, only this time it wasn’t fever or longing. It was concern.
I couldn’t possibly be pregnant, could I?
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I should—since I was quite regular—get my period tomorrow or thereabouts. But I hadn’t had any of the usual signs. I thought about it more and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was probably right. I was expecting a child.
Scott West’s child.
I made a note to buy a pregnancy-testing kit on the way home—before I got myself all stressed out about this, I might as well make sure of my facts.
I bought a kit when the day finally ended. Took it home. Used it. I thought I might actually faint.
The result was positive.
“Oh, my…” I closed my eyes, feeling a strange sensation in my chest that was mostly panic and horror, but a tiny, jewel-bright thread of wonder.
What was I going to do?
I thought about my options. I didn’t really have many. I had seen too many unwanted children to be entirely against termination—though myself, for personal reasons, I didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to think about it. Already, this tiny life below my hands—tentative, a month in the growing—felt precious to me. If I closed my eyes to imagine him or her, I could almost see the little face before me. A face that was part, Scott, part me. My heart ached.
I do have some maternity benefits, I told myself, thinking about my options. It wasn’t as if I had no way to support myself. I was state paid, which meant I wasn’t paid extremely well, but there was leave and compensation and I could afford medical care. As far as the short term—the next five years—I would be okay. By the time my kid needed to be educated, I would have to have a better income.
That’s in the future, I told myself determinedly. I am going to focus on the present and the next five years first.
I knew perhaps it was bad not to take a longer view. Maybe if I did, I would consider other options. Termination, adoption. Fostering. But for now, all I knew was that I wanted it to be possible to keep her. I wanted my child.
Scott’s child.
I sat on the bed, leaned back on the pillows. Recalled his face to my mind. I hadn’t seen it for a few weeks but I could still remember it clearly—the smooth planes of it, the chiseled bones, the eyes. I felt a tear run down my cheek. I wished I could tell him. Wished I could share this with him. Yeah, he might have used me and walked out without a goodbye, but I felt close to him. Something had happened between us that night, something I couldn’t forget.
I cuffed away the tears, feeling angry and impatient with myself. I should forget him. He had used me.
Scott West, you are an asshole. I repeated the phrase that kept me upright. Kept me hating him and forgetting about him.
I needed to hate him. I needed to forget. Because, deep inside, I knew I felt more strongly about him than I had felt about anyone else in my life before.
And now I was carrying his child.