“I bet she’ll arrive August first,” Sarah says solemnly.
I admit, I had forgotten the exact day Sarah’s mom, Marcie, passed until Sarah spoke. I miss her almost every day, so maybe that one day in particular has lost all its meaning.
“Mom would love that day to be good,” she adds when I don’t answer. “She’d have loved to have a granddaughter to spoil.”
“I would love that too.” I kiss the top of her head. “But we don’t know if it’s a girl.”
“If it’s a girl, you should name her Sarah.”
“And if it’s a boy?” I ask.
“Sa-rah-yan,” she fumbles.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“We’ll call him Ryan for short.”
“Can you go home and get knocked up too?” I whisper, half-serious.
“No, definitely not.” She nuzzles into me.
“Rude,” I huff.
“I’m not made to be a mom. We’ve been over this.” She pats my cheek, then sits up, her kind eyes steadying me. “But I am going to be the best auntie ever.”
It hits me all over again. A turning-over feeling in my gut, like the seconds before a tall wave hits. An anticipatory spike of awareness. “I’m having a baby, Sarah.”
“Sure seems that way.”
“There’s a kid floating around in here.” I point to my stomach. “A human being.”
“We should download one of those apps to figure out what it’s got going on.”
“Huh?”
“You know, what size it is. Like if it’s an apple seed or a papaya.”
“It’s probably really tiny at this point.” The thought of that fills me with a nagging sense of dread. How tiny? How fragile? I try to push those thoughts away, but they linger quietly. The realisation that even if I choose to have this baby, it may not stick hits me like a freight train.
“I’ll find out,” Sarah says, pulling out her phone.
I blow out a breath, trilling my lips. “I was on the pill, for the record,” I say, though Sarah’s preoccupied and not entirely listening.
My knee starts bouncing as I think of all the things I’ve done in the past few weeks that a pregnant woman absolutely shouldn’t. I had a drink at Sarah’s last weekend, ate mystery meat from the food truck outside the grocery store, sat in my gym’s sauna after a swim the other night, smoked a joint after a long shift a few days ago. I haven’t even drunk water today. Actually, I might have left my water bottle on the bus, now that I’m thinking about it.
This could explain the intense brain fog I’ve been feeling for the past few weeks.
Sarah snorts sarcastically, as if to say, uh-huh, sure. “I’ve seen you forget to take your pill every time your phone is dead before nine p.m.”
“I was getting better at it,” I say defensively.
She turns toward me, purposefully looking between my stomach and face in a slow, sarcastic sequence. “Clearly.”
“You have to be nice to me now. I’m with child,” I say, dramatically tilting my nose into the air.
“Hey!” Sarah points to her phone. “It’s the size of a coffee bean,” she says, her voice full of adoration, showing me her phone’s screen. “You’re going to have to drink less caffeine. You know that, right?”
“Yes,” I answer snidely.
“I still don’t want you living at your place. Will you please consider moving in?”
“Listen, Daddy Warbucks, I appreciate the offer, but my apartment is fine.”
“It was fumigated two months ago,” Sarah argues.
“Which means the problem should be gone.” I reach for the seat belt behind my shoulder, then buckle myself in.
“Just think about it.” Sarah reaches for her seat belt and drops her phone into the cupholder between us. “Where to now?” she asks.
“Wherever. I took all day off work for this. I convinced myself I was dying when my period was late.”
“Ah, yes. So much more likely than a baby.” Then she stills. “Wait, how long have you been worrying about this? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Just a week. I didn’t want you to stress.”
Sarah frowns. She and I frequently argue about this. Ever since Marcie died nine years ago, I’ve felt even more responsible for her. I’m only three months older, but growing up, I definitely took on the older sister role of looking out for her.
Sure, now she’s got more money than me and a loving husband to share the load with, but Sarah is pure. She is outgoing, a touch naive, and has a tendency to get herself into situations where people take advantage of her kindness. She’s also been through a lot. Too much. I don’t want her to ever worry. Especially not about me.
“Next time, let me.” She turns the ignition and begins pulling out of her parking spot.
“Wait, so where are we going?” I ask.
She smiles, checking her blind spot as she changes lanes. “My place. Caleb is going to flip.”
During the brief car ride to Sarah’s house, I read pamphlets out loud until we’re both sure that pregnancy and babies are completely terrifying and, in equal measure, magical.
I also, quietly, think of Bo.
I wonder where he is today and what his normal workday looks like. What he might look like out of pirate costume but not naked. In his line of work, suits might be required. That, I’d like to see.
I wonder whether he’ll be horrified or glad to hear that he’s going to be a father—or, more likely, somewhere fluctuating between the two.
I wonder if he’ll show up for the baby, unlike my dad or Sarah’s.
I wonder if I want him to, or if I’d rather do it all myself. Lessening the chance of disappointment, the blow of rejection for me or this kid down the line.
Once we arrive, I allow Sarah the honour of telling her husband my news. The moment Caleb walks into the kitchen to greet us, the words burst from her lips, immediately sending him into a state of shock.
“He’s frozen.” I turn to my best friend, who’s giggling into her phone, taking photos of her dumbfounded husband. “You broke him,” I say.
“No, you did.” She laughs again. “He’s just rebooting. He does this sometimes.” Sarah slides her phone into her back pocket. “Caleb,” she singsongs his name. “Come back to us, sweetie.”
“Why is no one else freaking out?” he asks, lowering himself onto a kitchen stool.
“I think it just hasn’t fully hit me yet.” I shrug, throwing back some shredded cheese from a bag in their fridge.
“I had a premonition that this would happen someday.” Sarah does this. She loves to claim that nothing in life catches her by surprise, due to her very much–unconfirmed psychic ability she proclaims to have. I find it oddly comforting.
“What—what do we do?” Caleb asks. “What are we going to do?” he asks, nearing hysterical.
“Well, you do nothing,” I answer. “As incestuous as this may often feel, you’re not the father.”
“This is so strange. It’s always just been the three of us.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his elbow propped up on the counter.