The week before Christmas, I got really sick. I threw up in the trash bin under my desk at the office because I couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time. When it happened again the next day, my work friend Kim placed a pregnancy test next to my keyboard.
“I just have a feeling,” she said.
I went home that night and peed on the stick. The test was positive. I froze, staring at the two pink lines in disbelief. I ran out to Duane Reade in my pajamas and bought half a dozen more tests—every brand the store sold. They were all positive.
My heart pounded behind my rib cage. How had this happened? I was on the Pill; we were careful. Had I been sloppy and forgotten a day or two the previous month, with the chaos of work and the stress of Jake’s cooling detachment? It was possible.
I didn’t call Jake. He was already back in North Carolina for Christmas and hadn’t invited me to go with him, even though he knew my parents hadn’t spoken a word to me about joining them for the holidays. I’d only received a rushed, poorly crafted email from my mother, stating that they’d flown to Barbados and hoped I’d have a nice holiday in New York with “the boyfriend.”
Part of me was still too pissed at Jake for leaving me alone at Christmas to call; another part worried about his reaction to the news. Pregnancy was quite a bomb to drop.
But as I lay in bed that night and imagined the growing cluster of cells inside my body—half me, half Jake—I remembered his words from the summer, which were never far from the center of my mind. Let’s make Jake-and-Sisi babies. How awesome would our kids be?
Jake wanted this; he’d said it. There was nothing more miraculous than a baby, a new life, and perhaps that was what we needed to solidify our love, to get back to the place we’d been before.
I woke up the next morning with a fresh perspective, ready to share the news. But when I called Jake, he didn’t answer, and the automated greeting said his mailbox was full. I waited all day for him to try me back, but the only person who called was Kim, and I lied when she asked me if the test had been positive.
Jake didn’t call the next day, or that weekend, or on Christmas. Sleepless nights passed, my body shaking with nausea, my mind churning, my heart sick with desperation. Where was the father of my baby? Why was he ignoring me? Ignoring us?
Jake was already back in the city when he finally called two days after Christmas, claiming he’d forgotten to pack his phone charger and hadn’t been able to find one at home.
I wasn’t stupid. By that point, I’d understood that Jake was in no way ready to be a father. Not yet. This child wasn’t going to save us. On the contrary, telling him about the baby would rip us right down the middle.
I realized this first in my gut, then my heart, and luckily the rest of my body wasn’t far behind. It was a Saturday night, and Jake was out playing a show in East Williamsburg. I’d told him I was coming down with something, too sick to go, but he didn’t seem to care. I still remember the blood, the way it ran down my thighs onto the floor, how it smeared the seat of the toilet. I let it sit there till the morning before I bothered wiping it up. That blood was all I had left of the most precious thing I’d ever known.
January was a frigid month in the city, but not as cold as Jake. He’d withdrawn again, dodging my calls and blaming the band for the lack of free time that was turning him into a shitty partner.
One Sunday morning, he finally mustered the balls to dump me, but not before I saw him with you, Molly. I was a shell of myself by then, empty and hollow as a tin can, never not thinking of the blood, the sight of it swirling down the toilet. But I hadn’t lost my common sense.
I spent the Saturday before he left me in Tompkins Square Park, which was kitty-corner from his studio. He’d told me he’d be there all weekend, practicing with the Lanes. The day was blustery, below freezing, but I was too immobilized by pain to feel the icy cold. I waited to see him leave the building, my eyes peeled for the sight of his distinct hair, the familiar of the line of his shoulders.
When Jake finally emerged from the swinging doors, he wasn’t alone. You were with him, hand in hand, both of you bundled in winter coats. I remember you were wearing a gray wool jacket and a red hat with a pom-pom, your wheat-blond waves long and loose—I’ll never forget that very first sight of you. From my post in the park, I watched the two of you walk south on Avenue A. While you waited for the crosswalk to change, he leaned over and kissed your cheek, and it took every fiber of restraint not to run over and claw at your face. I waited until the two of you were out of sight before walking the six blocks back to my apartment, bitter wind whipping my face. I turned on the shower as hot as it would go, stepped under the water, and screamed.