~ Secret ~

I’ve put it off as long as I must. It’s inevitable. Time to prove what I know.

You’re here, so come with me. I prefer not to share my upcoming discovery with you, but it looks like we have no other choice.

Going over to my oversized camera bag on the floor by the half-moon mahogany table near our front door, I pass by the stairs and look upward. Is Denny still mad at me or is he merely concentrating on sales-commission spreadsheets?

Pulling my bag open, I quietly retrieve the small oblong box, palm it in my hand, and head to our downstairs powder room tucked next to the staircase. Slipping inside the room, all-white except for the same dark wood flooring that’s everywhere but the two upstairs bathrooms, I turn on the fan and light switches, knowing the fan’s sound produces a relentless, high-pitched, metal-on-metal screech. We need to get it fixed; it drives everyone who uses that bathroom crazy. But for the moment, the loud clanging will mask any possibility of Denny knowing what I’m doing.

Behind me, I lock the door, a rarity in my routine. After lifting my shirt, unbuttoning my jeans, and pulling down my underwear, I sit down on the opened toilet seat, trying not to notice a chip in the dark purple nail polish on my big toe. Reading the step-by-step instructions on the box, I ignore the words mentioning the test works best in the morning. I zero in on the little pee-stained white plastic stick and check the second hand of my Seiko watch. It keeps ticking and ticking. The time takes forever.

I wonder, but I know the truth. I feel it inside me. As the little straight line slowly merges into a plus sign, I learn my fate.

I’m pregnant.

Sure, you’re thinking the marker’s reading it wrong since it’s evening, not morning. It must be a mistake. Please, just this once.

Barely nodding my head back and forth, I let out a quiet, hopeless sigh followed by a whispered cuss word that seems more pronounced than the clattering fan above my head.

Life’s never perfect. Life’s never planned. Things happen. There are consequences. As Denny says, “Everything has a reason.” Sure.

After I put the used stick and instructions back in the box, I rest it on the counter, clean up, and re-dress. I look at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands with decorative soap in the shape of a sea urchin, and rinse and dry them on the nearby hand towel. My unemotional posture forces my determined movements to be automatic.

I muse. You know, I’ve heard the television commercials saying one out of four women read that silly stick wrong. Maybe I’m one of them. Would you be able to read it correctly?

Tomorrow I’ll get another box and test again, but this time I’ll do it the second I get out of bed, making some lame excuse so Denny doesn’t question why I’m spending more time than usual in the bathroom. Maybe I didn’t do it correctly or wait for the right amount of time to pass. Think so?

No, I know I’m pregnant.

Picking up the used product, I crunch it tightly in my hand, wanting to squeeze away the plus and turn it into a negative. I close my eyes in frustration and rest my back against the wall that’s opposite the sink, allowing my bare feet to slide onto the plush rug so my body drifts down to the floor.

I’m pregnant.

Do I want to be?

What do you think? Have you been pregnant? What was it like? What should I expect?

What have I done?

It’s my stupid fault for forgetting to use contraception when we took that weekend trip to Santa Barbara three weeks ago. It was an early celebration of our second wedding anniversary; I thought it wouldn’t be a problem.

What do you think I should do?

I bet you’re jumping to the first conclusion that pops into your head. Stop that train of thought right now, this second!

Yes, of course, it’s Denny’s child. What kind of person do you think I am? I’m loyal and in love with Denny. And I’m not promiscuous—never expect to be, either, unless my husband does something pathetic like falls for Brittany, the overly solicitous, flirty, and flighty receptionist at my office who practically drools whenever he happens to stop by. Or unless we grow too far apart somehow. Or maybe, I snort, unless I find someone better than him. Zoey, my dear friend, calls finding a replacement “upgrading.” You get rid of the clunker car and upgrade to the luxury one as time passes.

Jeremy, a guy at work, comes to mind. He and I clicked right away; we’ve become good friends because we spend a lot of time together. But I think he wants more than I do. I can’t see a physical relationship, only an emotionally growing one.

I guess what I’m saying is Denny’s my man, and I hope it stays that way. Do you believe me now?

Having missed my last period, I’ve been avoiding taking the telling leap to verify or accept the reality.

I don’t want Denny to know about the baby.

Denny probably won’t know.

And you’re not to tell him, either. Keep it to yourself, please.

After getting up off the floor and straightening the rug, I glance at myself in the mirror one last time. My eyes are glistening as a single tear sneaks out, running slowly down my face. I can’t tell you why I’m crying, only that I am. It’s uncharacteristic of me. I’m feeling an inherent sadness that’s unexplainable. I don’t want you to see me like this, but there are no words to describe my current emotions.

Wiping the tear away with the back of my hand, I exit the bathroom, tightly clenching the all-telling box and gently holding my stomach.

I wonder if Denny has noticed anything different in me. Has my attitude changed? Did I give anything away at dinner during our argument? Do you think he senses it? Do you think I’m acting weird?

Everything’s happening too fast.

I didn’t expect this and didn’t want this.

Am I overwhelmed with female hormones and feelings? Is my body changing, and that’s why I’m frustrated, stressed out, and on the hate-Aunt-Amy bandwagon? Ugh.

I reenter the kitchen, open the trash compactor drawer next to the dishwasher, and put all contents of my findings inside. To further hide the evidence, I dig deeper into the bin, lift the mozzarella cheese package that has egg goo smeared on it, and cover the dreaded box. Wishing to forget the truth, I shut the compactor drawer quickly and turn on its compression button, hoping I could change the outcome.

Wishing for other things.

The result’s positive.

I don’t want this baby.

But Denny does.

Denny has always wanted a baby. He wants several. I want none.

“The fruit of the womb,” he jests.

As my mind starts spinning, I open the dishwasher and put in a plastic spatula, then move two plates to the back of the lower rack.

You’re here; I need your advice. Is there a way you can tell me what you’re thinking? Can you give me any suggestions on what to do next?

There’s no reply, which makes me produce an audible sigh.

Okay, let’s think this through objectively. My career is launching; I’m getting noticed for my writing and photography. We’re doing well financially, but we have the townhouse mortgage, two car payments, credit card debt, and student loans. Now is not the right time. In five or ten years, maybe, but not now. The timing is off. Twenty-eight years old is too young to be a mother.

Denny keeps saying anytime is a good time. Remember, “It happens, and there’s a reason.” He’s convinced that he alone can manage the bills and I don’t need to work with his adequate income if we cut back and watch expenses, but in today’s volatile economy, I’m skeptical about whether we would make ends meet. He’s a commission-based sales representative for audio, video, and computer equipment, so, before COVID, he was on the road often. Now that the virus is manageable and the industry is making a comeback, he’s going back to driving around Southern California more often. He’ll be spending nights here and there, attending national conventions throughout the year, and sometimes being gone a week at a time. I’ll be raising the kid most of the time; I don’t want to do it by myself. No thank you. I don’t want a child—especially in today’s world! I have plenty of time for that later in life when things get more normal. Granted, we’re accustomed to the constant barrage of COVID variants, but what about new strains or diseases? How will they affect children?

Amy would want us to have a baby; that’s for sure. Dozens of them, so she can implement her cult beliefs and nuances from day one. She can “raise ’em right” in her mind. She’d be over constantly, telling me how to diaper and burp, how to discipline and correct—and how to pray. No thanks.

My parents wouldn’t mind more grandkids to coo and cuddle, although they live a state away in Oregon. I don’t see them enough, but I think Daddy wouldn’t mind having another grandchild.

My sister and her husband, Tom, went through so much red tape to adopt two adorable Korean kids. Silvia would be on my case about my weight and eating and sleeping patterns. In some ways, my only sibling who’s older than I am is more protective than Daddy, Mom, Denny, or Amy.

And Mom may be on my side, saying my desires should be put first at this stage in my life. She’d understand I’m young, have years before the maternal clock stops, and could select the child’s sex, specific traits, and characteristics. I should wait a few more years until the advanced technology is refined.

But I can’t tell my parents right now. They wouldn’t understand. Plus, they’re coming to visit next week. Maybe I’ll tell them then.

What about me? What about my career? Don’t I get to make money, even more money than my husband? I’m competitive in everything, especially when it comes to my job.

I don’t want to stay at home. I want to be out in society, among my peers. I want to be noticed, particularly at Valley News.

Ever since my photo-and-article report on the governor’s son getting killed during a convenience-store robbery, I’ve been getting accolades at work. Can I be the one who gets to be out and about instead of being stuck at home changing diapers and having barf on my nice clothes? I’m not Silvia and don’t want to be. I am Sarah Colton. Women these days can and do demand well-paying, prestigious jobs before and while having children; we’re strong enough to decide what we want for ourselves. Mom would agree with me. Do you?

Call me the alpha woman and all that women’s lib stuff, but don’t I get a say in this?

I put both hands on my hips, resolute in my thinking.

I don’t want to tell Denny yet. Why should I? He doesn’t have to know. Not yet, not this minute. I’m only a few weeks along.

Funny, you’re the first to know, yet I don’t know your name, age, sex, favorite color, or preferred food. But maybe, somehow, you can help me think through this mess. Can you give me some guidance?

Even so, at this stage, it’s barely alive. It doesn’t have a name. It’s a nobody. I doubt it feels pain, sadness, anxiety, joy, or happiness.

I could get rid of it now and deal with the consequences later, if there are any.

It’ll be my little secret. My evil, sinful secret.

I shut the dishwasher door with additional firmness.

Keep it to myself for now. Don’t tell anyone—it’s our secret. No one else needs to know.

And please don’t question me right now.

Why? Because I say so . . . I’m sensible. I’m in control of my body. Tomorrow I’ll go back to work, and I’ll give it a day or two before I tell Denny or do anything rash. Everything will be fine; you’ll see.

Everything will go back to normal in a week or two.

Everything.