Thelab technician glanced at me. “Do you always get woozy from having bloodtaken?”
“Nope,but I guess there's a first time for everything, right?” Nausea shoved againstmy gut and I slammed my eyes shut. “Oh, God, I think I might puke.”
Shegrabbed a bucket and handed it to me, where I didn't, in fact, puke. I justgripped the plastic, feeling it rapidly warming from the heat of my sweatingpalms, and muttered an endless mantra of, “oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” as ifthe Almighty didn't have anything better to do than rid me of the urge to puke.
Afew moments later, somewhere between my sixth and seventh “oh God,” a sectionof gauze was pressed to my arm and a piece of surgical tape was placed over it.Lastly, a little pad reeking of rubbing alcohol was held under my nose.
“Thissometimes helps,” the tech said, and she was right. After a few deep breaths,the dizziness and nausea faded to something a little more manageable and I satup, wiping at my sweaty brow.
“Sorry,”I felt the need to say.
Shesmiled, deepening the creases on her face. “You wouldn't have been the firstpregnant lady to pass out or throw up in my chair.”
“Well,thank you very much for draining me of my blood.”
Nodding,she turned away to collect the vials. “And thankyoufor not giving me amess to clean up.”
Ileft the lab with a pack of cookies and a little bottle of orange juice, thenstepped out onto the sidewalk, ready to head home and take a nap.
NewYork autumn was in full swing, with a freshness in the air and passersbybundled in cozy sweaters and leggings. They hurried along, caught up in thebusiness of their own lives and carrying coffee cups and cell phones. I took amoment to stand beneath a strip of scaffolding, to listen to a guy playing hisguitar and singing about a girl he once knew, but never found it in his heartto get over her. I smiled, listening to themusicandhonking cars as they slowly drove by, and I remembered that, although I movedhere to be closer to Brendan, this was one thing I loved so much about thecity. That beneath the rush and brash demeanor, there was heart and life, awarmth that kept us all from becoming too cold.
Myphone disrupted the moment and I pulled it from my pocket to see Brendan's nameon the screen. For maybe the first time ever, he had taken the initiative, andthat had to say something.
“Hello?”I shouted into the speaker, plugging my other ear with a finger.
“Hey,Kendo.”
Thesound of his voice should have filled my ears with relief, and yet, all I couldfeel was a heated annoyance that he hadn't called sooner. That he could soeasily just say my nickname, likeall ofthis timehadn’t passed between us, while I was busy being pregnant with his child.
“Hi.”
Iwalked briskly from the guitarist and further down the street, past hot dogvendors and shouting cab drivers.
“Youworking?”
Myeyes narrowed, incredulous. “What? No. I just got done having blood taken.”
“Oh.”He paused. “Is everything okay?”
Throwingmy head back and nearly bumping into a guy and his Chihuahua, I gawked at theopen sky, bordered by a frame of skyscrapers.
“Yeah,Brendan, everything's great. I'm just throwing up a minimum of six times a dayand having my body drained of its life source. No big deal.”
“Kendo—”
“Andyou know what's really awesome?” I continued, now hot with anger. “That myboyfriend, who knocked me up, hasn't spoken to me in almosttwoweeks. Imean, being abandoned to handle all of this on my own has seriously been adream come true.”
Hewas silent as I pulled my key from my purse and opened the door to myapartment, situated two floors up fromFamigliaBella, a hole-in-the-wall pizza place with the best pepperoni pie I'd evereaten. It was just too bad the building didn't have an elevator. I could managethe stairs now, but I wasn't sure I'd be happy with them once I was nine monthspregnant or toting an infant around.
Iliked to consider myself a level-headed woman, someone who is understanding andforgiving and who only argues when it wasabsolutelynecessary. But with Brendan's silence, I had quickly found grown moreinfuriated by the second. By the time I’d reached my door, the blood I had leftin my veins was bubbling with rage. He'd already had a week and a half to bequiet, and I was done waiting for him to speak.
“Youknow what, Brendan? I'm done. I can't do this anymore.” I hadn't expected thewords to hit me so violently as I said them, as if we hadn't broken upcountless times before. But with the keys still hanging from my limp hand, Islumped against the dingy wall beside my door and released a ragged sob. “I-Ijust can't do this. I can't deal with you and your, your flakey bullshit. Ijust can't. I can't do that to myself, and I won’t do that to this baby, I … Ican't.”
“Kendall,please ...”
“No.You don't get to beg me. You don't get to act like this is so hard—”
“JesusChrist! Will you just let me talk?!”
