The Perils of Pauline (15 page)

The stupid test kit must have been designed by a man. I don’t want to pee on a stick. It’s much easier for men to perform peeing-on-stick
maneuvers. Where’s the woman-friendly pregnancy test kit? They could at least put in a few grocery coupons and a chocolate bar to eat while waiting for the result.

An alternate method is to pee in a cup, then dip the stick. But Serenity is bound to take over the bathroom if I go off in search of a cup. I can’t risk it. Besides, I have to pee now. I seize Donald’s toothbrush cup, and rinse it out.

Olympia is now twisting the door handle and scrabbling at the door.

“I gotta poo now.”

“Hang on,” I yell. I check my watch. In five short minutes I could be toast.

Olympia is now frantic, and howling, “The poo is coming out.”

I better let her in. I stuff the whole assembly into the cabinet behind the plumbing under the sink and stash the remaining test kit back in the tampon box.

I open the door to admit Olympia. Fine. I’ll go downstairs and plug in the coffee maker. Two minutes later, I race back upstairs only to find Olympia is out of bathroom and Serenity is now in.

I rap on the door again. “Hurry up in there.”

Jack appears beside me, and starts frantically hammering on the door too.

Serenity yells, “Hold on, I’ll be done in a sec.”

Since Jack is making such a fuss to go next, I might as well go back downstairs for my mug of coffee. Next pregnancy scare, I will use the downstairs toilet.

Ten minutes later, I race upstairs to the bathroom only to find the door locked again. Behind the door, I can hear familiar sounds of splashing, rumbling and snorting, like a bull walrus is rolling around in our tub. Damn that Donald; my whole future is hanging by a thread in there and he’s lolling in the bath. I can’t stand this waiting any longer. How do I get him out?

“Donald? I need … a tampon.” I congratulate myself on such quick and clever thinking.

“Hold on, I’ll grab you one,” he shouts back through the door.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Whatever possessed me to say that? The extra test kit is hidden in the tampon box.

I feel faint as I listen to the sounds of Donald rifling through the cabinets. Soon, he bellows out, “Where on earth do you keep them?”

The door opens, Donald emerges, wrapped in a towel and muttering, “Never mind, I’m done anyway.”

For the first time ever, I give thanks for his useless male can’t-find-things genes.

I hurry into the bathroom, lock the door, crouch down and grope about for the test, which is still hidden from prying eyes in the dark recesses behind the sink plumbing at the back of the cabinet. Got it. I stand up and look at the result. The room spins. My heart flumps around in my chest. It’s blue. Oh no. My knees go weak. I sit on the edge of the bathtub with my head spinning while I attempt to line up my brain cells and make them walk in a straight line.

Wait a minute. I seize the box to reread the instructions. Blue means negative. Phew.

As I tuck the test kit back in the tampon box, I can’t help but think what it might be like to carry Michael’s child. I have a sudden vision of myself reclining in a meadow, wearing a floaty dress while Michael trails daisy chains reverently across my bump and looks into my eyes adoringly. Glow, glow, glow.

Bernie has outdone himself this year for his birthday party. He shows us a homemade pinwheel consisting of a large bicycle wheel with rockets and sparklers wired to the spokes. It’s a pyro’s dream nailed through the axle to a tree in his backyard.

“One fuse to rule them all,” Bernie says as he points out the way all the ignition wires are connected.

“You even made your own mortar casings and gunpowder?” Donald fingers the wires, his eyes ringed with admiration. He’s acting like a big kid, begging to be the one to light the fuse.

Bibienne pulls me aside to whisper, “Are you guys back together? You seem to be getting along.”

“No. We’re still separated. Since Donald is leaving for Calgary soon, he took some vacation time. We’re trying to do stuff together, as a family, for the sake of the kids. And we both wanted to come over and wish Bernie a happy birthday.”

Bibienne looks doubtful.

“I know. It’s weird. We don’t talk much. We both seem to be waiting for the other to make the first move.”

I can’t bring myself to tell her about making my move with Michael, the weirdest part of all.

As soon as it gets dark enough, we all stand back to watch as the pinwheel, flinging green and gold sparks in a ten foot arc, reaches speeds of at least 80 miles an hour before it spins off the tree and goes careening into the bushes.

“Stupidest hobby ever. It’s a wonder my children survive him,” Bibienne says, shaking her head and ushering the kids back into the house. The men remain in the yard sipping their beers, eyes glittering in the darkness, reminiscing about last year’s strobe rocket launch.

Bibi wants to show me the set of tarot cards she’s been designing. They’re arranged in neat rows across her drafting table. “I started this project just for fun. Bernie threw up a website for me and I’m getting tons of hits. I’ve got dozens of orders already. The deck isn’t even completed yet,” she says. “I may even have to take a leave from the clinic to finish. I’m still working on the minor arcana of the coins, but the wands, swords, and cups are finished.”

I pick up the Queen of Cups card with a small pang, remembering the reading from last spring when she turned up. The good woman card: she was supposed to be me. Bibi peers over my shoulder.

“This card is one of my favorites,” she says. “You know, I kept thinking of you when I drew her. See? She even looks like you.”

I stare at the image. The queen is smiling but her eyes look sad.

“I drew her standing on a stone bridge to show her tendency to be caught between two opposing shores. Water means change. There’s a river flowing under her feet and she needs to get across safely. She has a cup in her hands and she has to carry her burden carefully so she won’t spill what’s inside.”

I set the queen card back down beside the Knight of Cups. I remember now, I got that card too. The man of poetry, romance, and passion. Michael. Funny how accurate the card reading turned out to be. Or maybe the cards are whatever we think they are.

I wake up at 3 a.m., my insides hollowing out with fear. Could it be I’m pregnant after all? Maybe I took the pregnancy test too early? In my head, I count the days again. To be sure of the results, I probably should wait a few more days before I test again.

I can’t get back to sleep for worrying. If pregnant, I will have to give birth once again. Serenity dragged her elbows along my spine during labor. Olympia’s head got stuck halfway down and the forceps halfway up. Jack tried to come out sideways. All three of them left me teetering on an inflatable ring for days afterwards. I lie awake, lemur-eyed in the dark. While waiting in vain for sleep, I have to get up to pee no less than three times. And so it begins.

I head downstairs to make a pot of coffee and, while waiting for it to brew, I’m hit with another horrific realization: coffee contains caffeine, which is verboten to expectant mothers. Ditto for meds and liquor. I can’t even have an aspirin. Which I will likely need soon since I just spied my next-door neighbor Lewis coming up the walk. I open the door.

“This is for you,” Lewis says as he hands me an envelope.

Inside the envelope is a letter outlining a number of items regarding our property that are in need of our urgent attention. There’s also a newspaper clipping on lawn care.

“Lewis, we cut the grass yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, but you cut it too short. You’re encouraging the weeds that way.”

Donald appears behind me and says, “Our lawn length is none of your business. What’s in that envelope?”

I hand Donald the newspaper clipping. Lewis stabs his gnarly forefinger at it, “See? It says here that the blade should never be cut shorter than 3 inches. You took it down to less than 2 inches.”

“You measured our grass again? Keep off my lawn.”

While they start into bickering, I look at the list. Among the usual complaints about our peeling porch, too many dandelions, and George’s barking, a critical issue is the presence of a couple of bird’s nests in our back yard. Apparently the neighborhood is overrun with starlings and robins and this is a serious matter for the gardeners who want to guard their worm populations. Not to mention the outrage of early morning birdsong and a few incidents involving bird poop and unprotected heads on decks.

There’s no way I’m scuppering any bird’s nests. And it’s too bad, but the peeling porch will have to wait. I’ve got other plans. Over breakfast, I share them with Donald: “I’ve been looking into starting a small business. My Mom is going to loan me the money.”

He snaps his head up from his newspaper and bulges his eyes out at me: “Like what?”

“I don’t know, maybe a flower shop. Or antiques.”

“I thought you wanted to finish your degree?”

“I do. But isn’t this better? I only have three more credits left to do; I can finish them at night school.”

Donald lays his paper on the table as if his arms have been drained of all their blood. “But you don’t know a thing about retail. Maybe you should take a marketing course at Dingwall first.”

“I can learn as I go. The small business center downtown has a lending library and free seminars. I’d like to head down there today, actually.”

Whoa, were did that last bit come from? Evidently, my strategic fudging skills have advanced considerably since I met Michael. Last night Donald asked me to go to the zoo with him and the kids today. I’m desperate for a good excuse to get out of it. After all, I volunteered to go on Olympia’s school zoo trip just last June. Why should I have to go on another excursion to the zoo again, so soon? Donald’s the one who needs to spend quality time with the kids before he leaves town. Besides, it’s his turn to be run ragged through the Lion Pit and the Monkey House.

An odd thing has happened. I woke up early this morning, and couldn’t get back to sleep due to my imagination producing the sensation of little kicks already. I slipped into the bathroom to do the retest.

This time I was prepared with a clean glass to collect my morning urine but the extra test has mysteriously vanished. I’ve racked my brains to think what I might have done with it. Maybe one of the kids has found it, played with it.

I checked Jack and Olympia’s bedrooms, but no luck. What could’ve happened to it?

After breakfast, on a sudden wild-blue-sky hunch, I confront Serenity re the missing test.

Serenity presses her lips together in a scowl. “I found it in the tampon box.” She bites on her baby fingernail. “I missed my period.”

“And?”

I’m Pauline Peacock. In the conservatory. With a rope.

It’s time for an emergency visit to the doctor for Serenity and me. Serenity has all the symptoms: sore, tender nipples, constant nausea, fatigue, and cravings. I have all the symptoms of a nervous breakdown: sore tender feelings, constant irritation, and a craving to pulverize my eldest daughter.

The doctor immediately sends us to the lab for blood tests; she wants us both to come back tomorrow as she’ll have our results by then, our paps are overdue and she wants to go over birth control options with Serenity. The doctor’s raised eyebrows clearly suggested she thinks I ought to sit in on a little egg-meets-sperm lecture too. Serenity, with a look of fury, rolls her eyes around as if this kind of thing has nothing to do with her.

On the way home in the car, I decide it’s time for a talk about the birds and the bees; in this case, I’m the one who is confused and naive:

“How is this possible? I thought you were … uh …”

“The word is ‘lesbian’ Mom. And, yes, I’m one of those.”

“I know, I know, but explain to me the part about how … ?”

“I was trying to get back at Shae I guess. She hates wishy-washy dykes.”

“So you think getting pregnant is a punishment for Shae?”

“I didn’t plan on the pregnant part. I just got slightly too high on the revenge trip with Jude.”

“Jude?”

“Don’t worry. He’s really nice. Gay, thank god.”

I’m back in the doctor’s office with Serenity. The doctor says she’ll go over my results first.

Thank you, thank you. The doctor says my test came back negative. My missed period was probably due to stress. Or perimenopause. The doctor explains, all cheerfully, that periods can become erratic as women approach real menopause, which is a gradual transitional period of four to fifteen years. During that time I may experience one or all of the following: vaginal itching and dryness, mood swings, hot and/or cold flashes, erratic cycles, heart palpitations, joint pain, weight gain, thinning of hair and bones. My spirits sag at the thought of turning into a hairless, bedridden old crone. Pregnancy is sounding better all the time.

Still, I’m relieved that I’m not pregnant. My relief lasts about 13 seconds as the doctor clears her throat, turns to her keyboard and pulls up the lab results from Serenity’s file. Serenity’s definitely going to need a full physical examination and prenatal vitamins.

On the way home Serenity wants to go shopping for maternity clothes.

“Not today,” I say. My eyes are misting over so much I can barely drive, let alone navigate a shopping mall.

“Why do you keep putting on the windshield wipers, Mom? It’s not raining.”

Because I’m fighting back tears, that’s why. I’m so confused. I’m going to be a grandmother. A grandmother! I’m only 37. It’s going to take a lot more than a wiper blade to smooth away these tears.

Whatever will Michael think? He’s doing a granny? Maybe we should go shopping. I may be much closer than I thought to incontinence pads.

Serenity will have to make do with her wardrobe as it is, for now. It would be cruel to show her what’s in store for her anyway. Ugly smocks and huge bras. Stretchy pink tops with bouncing bunnies and arrows pointing at the bulge. I hate to tell her but the skater stores don’t carry anything in panel pants.