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“Denny!” I scream frantically.
No answer.
“Denny?”
No answer.
“Den!”
Typical. When I need him the most, he doesn’t answer. Probably wearing those over-priced, noise-canceling headphones so can’t hear a mouse peep. You can hear me, but my husband is oblivious to my yelling.
“Alexa,” I press the access button on the refrigerator, hoping she’ll calm my nerves. “What just happened?”
“Um. I don’t know . . . ,” she replies.
“Alexa—stop!” I never can ask the right question in the right way for these robotic electronics to answer me correctly.
I try again. “Alexa, what was that strange sound I heard seconds ago?”
“According to what I found on the Internet, the sound heard sixteen seconds ago is undetermined.” Great, a non-answer. Ugh. This is why I don’t like talking aloud to things made of plastic and metal.
I must tell Denny about the girls. I want to ask him if he heard that strange sound or happened to look down from the office window to the playground. Can he check the security camera for replays? What’s his take on this? Where is he, and why hasn’t he come out of his office? No way could he not have heard that sound. What’s he doing?
Do you have any clue what’s happening? Are you as baffled as I am?
I run toward the staircase and start up the first two steps, but something stops me.
A cramp, a pain in my abdomen.
A sharp throb, as if a pointed, serrated knife is jammed into the lower right side of my abdomen.
Barefoot, I pivot on the stairs, holding onto the wood banister, and step back onto the floor. Balancing myself along the wall to the downstairs bathroom, I try not to stumble or fall.
Sharp, sharp pain.
I stop and take a shallow breath.
“Denny?” I cry but not as loud.
I’m scared. What do I tell him? What will I say? Will he have to know that I’m pregnant? Will he get mad that I didn’t tell him? How should I phrase it? Should I pretend I’m full of joy about it? What should I do? What’s this incredible pain? Do you know what’s happening to me?
I trip into the bathroom, accidentally hitting both the fan and light switches at the same time. Cussing to the nonstop swirling noise, I slam the door closed behind me. We must fix that fan; there’s something wrong with it being so loud as it rhythmically clangs.
Repeating my recent life-altering experience, I unzip my jeans and sit down on the toilet seat again.
Blood rushes out and colors the water.
I check to see how much blood—not much, but enough—plenty. Do you think that I . . . ?
The pang within me instantly subsides. Now it appears that I have menstrual cramps.
Hmm, I ponder. Could I be having my period?
Maybe the fever I had last month messed up my cycle. That, or I have internal bleeding; maybe I lost the baby. Perhaps this bleeding was the baby; maybe it couldn’t live in my womb. Do I have something wrong with me, a bad tube or ovary, scarred uterus, or cancer that’s causing this blood? My mind races through possible death-threatening issues within seconds.
Do you do that when you’re frightened? Within nanoseconds, you think up the most unbelievable situations imaginable, although they’re most likely impossible to happen. Hate when I do that, but here I’m doing it again.
Or I must not be pregnant.
Yeah, do you think so?
I’ll bleed a little, and that’ll be all. Everything will be fine; I know it. Either way, I’m in control.
Guess I should call Zoey and make sure everything is all right with me; she knows what to expect.
I open a nearby cabinet, retrieve a tampon, and grab a bottle of Motrin for the pain.
Woah.
A relief encompasses me as I clean myself up and wash my hands.
I’m not pregnant. I can’t be pregnant now. There’s too much blood.
There must be no baby. Maybe there never was a baby, right?
A misreading on the stick. A false alarm.
All that fretting was a waste of time.
I’m okay.
See, everything is back to normal. Good.
I pop two capsules in my mouth and cup my hand to the running water from the faucet to capture enough liquid to down them.
Recalling how I looked at myself in the mirror minutes ago, I determinedly inspect my reflection with triumph.
I’m not pregnant. I’m fine.
All is back to normal.
Nothing to worry about except for getting the obnoxious-sounding vent in the ceiling above me fixed.
With my hands damp from the water, I pat my cheeks to restore their color. I feel refreshed. I feel anew. Confident and determined. I stare at myself and repeat aloud, over and over, the words I’ve often said for many years—my mantra: “I’m in control. Sarah, you’re in control.”
I’m relieved. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.
I’m sorry I put you through that, but I bet we’re both glad it’s over.
On to the next topic: What’s the deal with that strange sound, and what about those two little girls? Where did they go? What was with their clothing being sprawled all over the playground and grass?
Do you know if that odd sound was important, or was it a fluke?
You had to hear it, so does that mean Denny did, too?