Positively Mine Read online

  For J.T.

  One strong mama!

  Contents

  The First Five Pounds

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Next Twelve

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Thirteen More Pounds

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  The Last Ten Pounds

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The First Five Pounds

  Chapter One

  Everyone warned me about Colman College. The workload is heavy. The professors don’t mess around. To say I am overwhelmed is an understatement. I have a math class, a writing seminar, a phys. ed. requirement that’s being fulfilled by taking a class in Swedish massage of all things, a course in biology that I like, plus a lab to go with it, and an Intro to Legal Ethics class that I can’t stand.

  I also have a positive pregnancy test – two, actually. Way to get things started.

  The blue Victorian that houses the Woman’s Choice Health Center of Greater Rochester has an ironically inviting feel about it. Tucked between similar buildings, the only thing that hints at a women’s clinic is a small sign next to the screened front door. Otherwise, a porch with a rocking chair and a potted chrysanthemum disguises it pretty well. If you didn’t know it was here, you’d walk right past it.

  I take a deep breath as I chain my bicycle to a nearby rack.

  “The test might be wrong,” I hear myself saying aloud. I look around to see if anyone has heard me. There’s no one on this side of the road.

  For a building that seems so sleepy on the outside, inside the place is hopping. Almost every chair in the waiting room is taken by women filling out paperwork or reading magazines. A few are watching the news on a flat screen mounted to the wall. Nobody looks as nervous as I feel. All different ages are represented around the room and although most of the women are older than me – maybe in their mid-twenties – one girl seems about my age. I wonder if she goes to Colman too and, like me, felt ashamed going to the student health clinic on campus. There’s the freshman who didn’t make it four weeks before getting knocked up.

  I walk over to the receptionist, who is talking on the phone and typing into a computer. When she sees me she mouths, “Just a minute.”

  I watch her as she talks and types. She’s got an outdated haircut and a rear end that doesn’t quite fit into the chair she is sitting on. But her voice is gentle.

  As soon as she hangs up the phone, I blurt out, “I don’t have an appointment.”

  “Okay.” She has kind eyes. I sense she can see the terror in mine. I am petrified that she will ask me in front of all these people why I am here, but she doesn’t. She looks at her computer and smiles again. “You might have to wait for a bit. If you take a seat, one of our nurses can be with you within the hour. Does that work for you?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Laurel.”

  “Here.” She hands me a pen and clipboard with a bunch of papers attached to it. “Fill these out while you’re waiting, Laurel, and we’ll be with you as soon as we can.”

  “Okay.” I take the papers and look around for a seat. The girl about my age moves her bag off a chair without saying anything.

  I slide in, avoiding eye contact, and get to work filling out the forms. As I make my way through the top page, I find I have more questions than answers.

  Name: Do I have to give my full name?

  Address: Generic circa 1950s’ dorm on the hill.

  Phone: 917-preggers

  Do you have insurance? Yes.

  Type of insurance: I pull out my wallet and search for the ID card my father gave me when I turned eighteen last May.

  Member ID: 6572535***002

  Are you the primary insured? No. That would be my dad.

  If not, primary insured’s name: I have to give my dad’s name?

  Primary insured’s social security number: Why do they need his social security number?

  Primary insured’s address: Are they mailing him my test results?

  Primary insured’s phone: Sure, go ahead and give him a call. Tell him his pregnant daughter says hi.

  Primary insured’s employer name and address: Hey, may as well tell the whole law firm while you’re at it.

  I put the pen down and count how much cash I have. $45. My eyes scan the room for an ATM. I think this visit calls for cash. And maybe a fake last name.

  I walk back to the receptionist. She offers a half smile or maybe it’s not a smile at all. Am I starting to annoy her?

  “Can I help you?” she asks, her voice still soft.

  “I just…um…have a question about the insurance. I have insurance, but I’m not the primary insured.…”

  She interrupts, “The nurses will discuss all your payment options when you get inside. Just fill out the health information for now.”

  I am obviously not the first person to be concerned about this. “Okay. Thanks.”

  I turn to the yellow health questionnaire. After my name and date of birth it asks for the first day of my last menstrual period. I start counting back in my head trying to recall some point of reference. I know I’m supposed to keep track of this every month, but I never do, and then when I go to the doctor, I always have to jog my memory to try to remember.

  My mind reels through the summer in reverse, from the day I left Shelter Island on August 15th to every day before then. Then it comes to me. August 2nd. Tara’s birthday. She was visiting for the week, and we went wakeboarding. I was bummed when I got it because it always comes on with a fury.

  August 2nd. As I write the date, my face feels warm. It’s already September 16th. I am WAY late. According to the home pregnancy kit, it’s 99% accurate when done after your period is due, and that was over two weeks ago.

  I finish the paperwork with the final question, “Why are you here today?” Trying to hold the pen steady, I write I think I’m pregnant.

  Forty-five unbearable minutes of waiting later, a mousy-looking woman with brown straight hair and thick glasses appears at the door holding a chart. “Laurel?” She looks around the room.

  I stand up, clutching my backpack.

  We walk down a long hall to a cramped office with a desk too big for the space and a bunch of mismatched file cabinets. She gestu
res for me to take a seat while she closes the door and then sits next to me, not behind the desk.

  “I thought we would talk for a few minutes before we go to the exam room. My name is Karen. I’m the head nurse practitioner here.”

  I nod, knowing I should say something, but I’m feeling a huge lump in my throat, and if I open my mouth, the tears might start flowing. So I swallow hard. She reads through the clipboard.

  “You think you might be pregnant?”

  I nod.

  “Have you taken a home pregnancy test?”

  I hold up two fingers.

  “And they were both positive?”

  Still unable to speak over the lump, I nod again.

  “When did you take the tests?”

  I take a deep breath and whisper, “This morning.”

  She writes this down. “And your last menstrual period was on August 2nd?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re pretty sure about this date?”

  “Yes.”

  She pulls out a card with a wheel on it and turns it until she’s lined something up. “So that would put you at about seven weeks if the test is accurate. Do you happen to remember about when you had the unprotected intercourse?”

  Unprotected intercourse. It sounds so clinical. “On August 14th.”

  She looks up from her writing, “And no other time before or after that date?” Behind her thick glasses are eyes so blue, they’re icy.

  “Only that one time.”

  She goes back to writing. “Okay. And you’re eighteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what happened? Did you just blow off the birth control?”

  That was kind of harsh. I don’t answer even though the truth is yes. We did just blow it off. Although blowing it off implies there was some concerted effort to not do something. So, no, I guess we didn’t blow it off. We didn’t even stop to think about it.

  She changes the subject. “Do you go to Colman?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess. We see a lot of students from Colman. The campus clinic isn’t always ideal when you want privacy.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you’re a freshman?”

  “Yes.”

  “This must be difficult for you.”

  I can’t hold the tears in any longer, and my face is a river. “I’m freaking out!”

  Expressionless, Karen reaches on the desk and hands me a box of tissues. “Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.” She stands and opens the door. “First, you’re going to give me some urine, and then I’ll take you in for an exam.” She gestures for me to follow.

  I sit on the examination table butt-naked from the waist down with nothing but a paper sheet wrapped around me, waiting for Karen to return with the results. The room is cold. Freezing! The air conditioner is blasting. I gaze around at the yellow walls with peeling paint and cheap framed posters of flowers, at the stainless steel sink and gallon-size container of anti-bacterial soap alongside and then at the small silver tray holding K-Y Jelly and the strange-looking instruments she’s just used to examine me with. They reflect the harsh fluorescent light and appear ominously sinister. Everything about this room is sterile.

  Tap, tap. Karen opens the door a crack. “May I come in?”

  She pushes the door open all the way, puts my chart on a side table, and then wheels a cart in holding what looks like a small computer monitor. I check my sheet to make sure I’m not flashing anyone in the hallway.

  Once the cart is in the corner, she closes the door. “Laurel, you are pregnant.”

  My heart skips a beat.

  “I’d like to do an ultrasound to confirm how many weeks along you are, and then we can talk about some options for you, okay?”

  I nod my head as the sensation of pins and needles takes over my entire body.

  “Here, lay back on the table. This won’t hurt at all.”

  She plugs the machine into an outlet, turns it on, waits for it to boot up, and turns off the lights. Then she grabs a bottle of something from the cart and pulls the paper sheet down to my pubes.

  “This is cold.” She squeezes on the tube, and a thick cool gel squirts out all over my abdomen. Next, she grabs a small white probe and lays it on top of the gel. She presses on it while moving it in circles.

  She continues to do this for a few minutes, pressing into my belly firmly while staring at the monitor. Finally, she stops moving the thing around and begins pushing hard in one spot. I thought she said this wouldn’t hurt? Then she hits the keyboard, lifts the probe off, and types something into the computer.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Everything is fine. The ultrasound has just confirmed that you are indeed seven weeks pregnant.”

  “So you, um, could see the baby?”

  “Well, it is still an embryo.”

  I bite my lip. “Can I see?”

  “We recommend first considering what you want to do. If you decide to continue with the pregnancy, then we can do another ultrasound. You can listen to the heartbeat. We’ll even print up a picture if you like. But first you need to decide.”

  I shake my head. “I want to see it now.”

  Karen hesitates, but then turns the monitor so it faces me. She sticks the probe back to the same spot and presses again. At first it’s just a dark grey cone on the screen, but then something appears that looks like a lima bean.

  “There,” Karen says.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s so tiny.”

  “According to the computer, it’s 1.24 centimeters. So about half an inch.”

  “What is it – um – doing?” I ask this realizing as it comes out of my mouth how stupid the question sounds.

  “Well, it’s doing what it’s going to continue to do. It’s growing,” Karen answers.

  I absorb her words for a moment, and the pins and needles sensation returns. Growing inside of me.

  My neck, back and shoulders tense up.

  “And you can hear the heartbeat already?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Can I hear it?”

  “We don’t advise it until you know what you are planning to do.”

  What she is saying makes sense. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but something inside me won’t let me walk away without listening first.

  “I want to hear it.”

  She re-adjusts her glasses. “Okay.” Then, she presses into my belly again, waits for the bean to appear and turns up the volume. Suddenly there’s this muffled, superfast heartbeat filling the room. “We don’t always hear it so early without a Doppler,” she offers. “It’s strong.”

  “It’s so quick.”

  “149 beats per minute.”

  “Is it supposed to be that fast?”

  “Yes. It’s perfect.”

  Perfect. Nothing about me has ever been perfect, so of course I have a perfect embryo. I close my eyes and listen. Then without warning, Karen removes the probe, and the beating stops. She tugs at the paper sheet, which at this point is pretty much hanging off me exposing everything anyway, and wipes away the gel.

  “Get dressed, and meet me in the office so we can talk.” She turns on the light and pulls the ultrasound cart out with her.

  I’m left lying on the table, staring at the holes in the ceiling, and I have only one thought going through my head. What have I done?

  Chapter Two

  I leave the clinic, numb, with a manila envelope stuffed to the brim with pamphlets that explain in detail all my options. According Karen, if I choose an abortion I should schedule it right away so that I can do it by taking a pill instead of having a medical procedure. You can only take it up until nine weeks of pregnancy, she explained. Her business card is crushed in my hand, damp from my sweaty palm, in case I have any questions. She’s also given me a bunch of horse-sized prenatal vitamin samples and a questionnaire that is supposed to help me come to a decision. A decisi
on about if I should have a baby or not. A fucking baby! How could I let this happen?

  I somehow manage to pedal my way back to the dorm, my body disconnected from my mind. I leave my bike, unchained, at the rack outside the front door and am jolted back to consciousness as I head inside and see all the activity going on in the main lounge. Half the dorm is here. Four guys who live on the first floor are pushing furniture out of the center of the room and into the corners. Rita, the dorm RA, and June, a shy girl who lives right across from me, are setting out chips and pretzels. Mike McDonough, the one guy who I’ve actually had more than a few conversations with, is playing around with his iPod and some speakers. Olivia and Mikayla, also from my floor, are struggling with a helium balloon machine as Tom and Owen are unfolding tables.

  For Miller, this amount of activity is unusual. I deliberately picked the only freshman dorm on campus made up of all single rooms. To quote the brochure, “One of the quieter places to live on campus.” Although I’ve never considered myself anti-social, coming from New York City, I’ve learned to relish the rare opportunity for some space to myself.

  Turns out, the description was right. As a result of not having roommate situations that require the occasional escape down the hall, people here tend to go to their rooms and stay there. I mean, they’ve been friendly enough. The dorm is co-ed by floor, and the first few weeks we were encouraged by Rita to mingle. Encouraged with a capital E. She practically forced people out of their rooms during freshman orientation. But she’s a junior and once her friends returned to campus, she backed off. Though every once in a while she storms through the floors, pounding on doors, calling an impromptu dorm meeting that turns out to be an excuse for everyone to eat ice cream together. She’s big on the ice cream social concept. We’ve had three already and judging by her love of junk food – she hoards it in her room – there are more in our future. Otherwise, the main lounge, the only common place outside of the laundry room, usually sits empty.

  As I try to sneak past without being noticed, it hits me. Tonight is our turn to host happy hour. A Colman tradition, each dorm on campus picks a Friday night to have one during fall term. It’s like a dorm open house, and from the ones I’ve been to already, they get pretty crazy.

  We’re not allowed to serve alcohol, technically, but that hasn’t stopped people. I haven’t been to one where there wasn’t at least beer involved, not to mention strange blue and red concoctions being served out of huge plastic bins that get you really drunk, really fast. Usually, these are tucked inside people’s rooms out of sight from the campus police and the RAs. But it doesn’t take long to follow the cup trail, and as the night goes on, the parties tend to move from the common spaces to the residential floors.