Knocked Up Page 5

  “Yes, they are all the same.”

  I picked out four and walked to the counter.

  “So, is this the one you have decided on?” asked the pharmacist, picking up the box closest to him.

  “Oh no. I want all four of them.”

  “You want them all?”

  I wondered if I should crack a joke about buying early Christmas gifts for my friends, but, remembering the reaction to my previous attempt to be clever, I concluded that home pregnancy tests were no joke to a pharmacist.

  “Yes, yes, I’m going to buy them all.”

  “Okay,” he said, ringing them up. “That will be $92.14.”

  There is nothing that makes a woman more bitter than spending money on things she doesn’t want to spend money on, like toilet paper and toothpaste. These supplies are necessary, but you’d rather spend the money on something frivolous, like a new belt. But considering I had spent $45 on shampoo just two days earlier, I figured this was not the time to start being cheap.

  “Can you double bag that?” I asked. I was afraid that I would run into someone I knew. Of course, most people I know—aside from Lena, an aspiring novelist, who works out of her home, as I do—would be at work. But I had lines prepared just in case. “Oh, yes. One of my good friends thinks she might be pregnant,” I would say. “Can you imagine? She’s too embarrassed to come in here herself, so I offered to do it for her. I’m going to her place now to drop them off.” I didn’t run into anyone. There was nothing to do but go home, drink some water, and do the test. I mean, tests.

  I’m not sure why I’m not racing to do the tests. Possibly because the whole experience of buying the tests was so exhausting. Maybe I don’t really want to find out. Is it conceivable that I will be disappointed if I haven’t conceived? Maybe I do want to be pregnant. One thing is certain: I will feel like a moron if I’m not pregnant, knowing I went through all this drama for nothing. There is one person I need to tell that I am doing the test. It is only right. I call the fiancé. Okay, I lie. I call Lena, the first person I told about my pregnancy.

  “Hey, I got the tests,” I say when she picks up. I don’t even say hi.

  “You did?”

  “Yes, they’re right here. I got four of them.”

  “You bought four home pregnancy tests? Why? Are you crazy?”

  “Well, in my defense, the editor of Jane magazine did seven home pregnancy tests. I remember reading that. I think I was being quite good only buying four. Hey, do you want to stay on the phone with me while I do it?”

  “Definitely.”

  While I have a big problem peeing in front of the fiancé, I do not have a problem peeing in front of my girlfriends. Girls pee in front of each other all the time—not just when we go to the bathroom together in restaurants or bars, but when we’re at home. We’ll take our cells or our cordless phones to the washroom and continue chatting away. You can’t put a good conversation on hold for something as mundane as a pee break.

  I take Lena to the washroom with me via my cordless phone, giving her a play-by-play of what I’m doing. “Okay, I’m opening the box. Okay, I’m taking the pee stick out of the box. Okay, I’m ready to pee now. Talk to me about something so I don’t scare the pee away.”

  “Um, um, uh. Did you see the latest issue of Us Weekly ?” Lena asks. “Kate Hudson looks amazing. She looks so much like her mother, it’s crazy.”

  “Okay, I just peed on it. I hope I did it right. I’m going to flush now and wash my hands. Give me a sec,” I tell her, putting the phone down on the side of my bathtub, where I also place the home pregnancy test that I just peed on.

  “I’m back.”

  “How long does it take?” asks Lena.

  “I could know within thirty seconds and I’ll definitely know by two minutes. That’s what it says on the back of the box.”

  I haven’t really read the detailed instruction page inside, opting instead to figure it out myself. I mean, how hard is it to figure out how to pee on a stick?

  Before I know it, I’m pacing.

  “Do you know,” I say to Lena, “that I’m pacing? What’s that about?”

  “Thirty seconds is definitely up. Go back to your washroom and check!”

  “Okay, here I go,” I say, taking Lena with me. “OH MY GOD! TWO BLUE LINES! TWO BLUE LINES!”

  “OH MY GOD! Wait—what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! I didn’t read the damn instructions!”

  “Well, you idiot, read them!”

  “Okay, let me look . . . give me a sec . . . Oh. Yup. Two blue lines means . . . I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh my God. I knew you were.”

  “What? You didn’t believe me when I told you. You said, and I quote, ‘You are not pregnant. What are the chances?’ I remember you specifically saying, ‘You are not pregnant.’”

  “I know. I know. But I still knew you were.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, I just had a feeling.”

  “You did?” Well, why the fuck didn’t she humor me then?

  “Well, congratulations.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, I guess.”

  “How are you feeling about this all?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Are you going to call the fiancé and tell him right now?”

  “Maybe in a bit. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Are you happy, sad, what?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Stop freaking out, Beck. You know, the most surprising people can turn out to be the best mothers.”

  “You’re right. Let’s talk later,” I say, hanging up.

  Wait—the most surprising people can turn out to be the best mothers? What the hell does that mean?

  1:00 p.m.

  I am not going to call the fiancé at work to tell him the news. First I have to figure out what to say.

  1:10 p.m.

  Yeah, I really shouldn’t call the fiancé at work to tell him. I should wait until he’s at home, so as to not disturb him at the office. And definitely until I figure out how to break the news.

  1:12 p.m.

  Definitely not going to call. Definitely not.

  1:15 p.m.

  I couldn’t help it. I called the fiancé at work to tell him that I did a home pregnancy test and it was positive. Luckily, it went straight to his voice mail. God, apparently, doesn’t think I should tell him just yet either. I hung up without leaving a message.

  3:00 p.m.

  Peed on the second test, waited thirty seconds. It was also positive.

  5:30 p.m.

  Ditto with the third test. Positive. Quel surprise!

  8:00 p.m.

  The fourth test is positive. I’m starting to believe that I really might be pregnant.

  FEBRUARY 18

  I’ve lined up all my positive home pregnancy tests in a row on the bathroom counter. I’ve memorized the pamphlets, which all pretty much say the same thing: “The test is greater than 99.9 percent accurate. In consumer studies, over 100 participants’ results obtained with this test were all correct. In laboratory studies with 298 urine samples, the answers were all correct when compared to tests used in hospital laboratories. You can therefore be confident of getting hospital-quality results at home.”

  There’s no chance that four home pregnancy tests which are 99.9 percent accurate are all wrong, is there?

  I call Lena.

  “Lena. They’re all positive!”

  “You did them all?”

  “Yes. I stayed in all day yesterday doing home pregnancy tests. They’re kind of addictive. I wish I had another one.”

  “Well, at least you know now for sure, for sure, for sure you’re pregnant. Now you have a real reason to freak out and not just a pretend reason, like you usually do.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  “Hey, you know, you could’ve done all the tests at the same time. You could have peed on all four sticks in
one go.”

  “Yeah, that’s also true. I never thought of that. But isn’t it clear? I’m a freaking idiot!”

  I call Ronnie too. Does every other woman know what they are supposed to do right after taking a home pregnancy test which turns out to be positive? What are you supposed to do? Ronnie was driving her son to his playgroup or a birthday party or the dentist, somewhere. I’m not sure. I really wasn’t paying attention.

  “I told you. I was right!” I begin.

  “Right about what?”

  “I’m pregnant. I did four tests and they all came up positive. What do I do now?”

  “You did four tests? And they’re all positive?”

  “Yes! I told you I was pregnant, and remember you didn’t believe me? You should really listen to me!”

  “I’m sorry, Beck. But I think you also told me you could feel the baby moving inside you three hours after you had sex, which is impossible.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “First, call your doctor. He’ll give you a referral to an obstetrician. You have to get one fast. But if you want, you can use mine. He delivered all three of my babies and I love him. I’ll call you later to give you his number. And you have to get Materna immediately. And also, you should pick up some pregnancy books. I’ll give you a couple of titles that all my pregnant friends swear by. And you have to quit smoking immediately. You’re smoking right now! I can hear you inhaling!”

  “Ronnie! You’re freaking me out. What is Materna?”

  “It’s a vitamin that has all the vitamins you need in one. It has folic acid in it, which is very important so your baby won’t have spina bifida. Go get it right now. If you don’t get it by tomorrow, I’m going to drag you to the drugstore and buy it for you.”

  “Well, can I at least tell the fiancé that I’m pregnant first?”

  “You haven’t told him yet?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? You have to tell him. This is not something you can keep a secret, like the time you returned that bracelet he got you for rent money. He’s going to find out.”

  “I think, in the back of his mind, he already knows.”

  “You have to get married now too. And learn to cook! And you definitely have to get your driver’s license. You can’t be a mother without a driver’s license.”

  I love Ronnie, but she made me feel like I have already screwed up this child by not being married, by not having a driver’s license, by not knowing what Materna is, by not knowing how to cook. My license was taken away from me after I got three speeding tickets in one week and failed to pay the fine within the six-month period. I obviously was not meant to be a driver. Am I meant to be a mother? Now, along with figuring out how to raise a child and where to get Materna, I also have to get my license back? Why don’t I just shoot myself now? I need a drink.

  I call Dr. R., who has been my physician for as long as I can remember. I must have called during a slow time because he comes to the phone immediately.

  “Hi, Dr. R.,” I say. I always get nervous when I talk to him. I’m not sure why. “I just did a home pregnancy test and it’s positive.”

  Dr. R. tells me I should come to his office for a blood test, which, frankly, is a bit of a pain as his office is quite far from my house.

  “Really? Even though I did two home pregnancy tests, which both came up positive?” I don’t want to tell him I did four. It now seems a little overboard.

  “When was the first day of your last period?” asks Dr. R.

  Thank God, I know the answer to this. “January 13th or 14th, around there.”

  “Well, your period is only a couple of days late then. It could just be your hormones going wonky. You need a blood test. Come in tomorrow morning.”

  Maybe it really is too soon to tell, 100 percent, if I’m pregnant. Maybe my hormones are just wonky. No sense in not having one cigarette. No sense in telling the fiancé until I know not just 99.9 percent, but 100 percent. I’m going to do a blood test tomorrow, and when I get the results back, I’m going to tell the fiancé immediately. That’s the plan and I’m sticking to it.

  FEBRUARY 19

  Of course, plans don’t always go according to plan. I told the fiancé that I did a home pregnancy test and was going to my doctor to do a blood test. I couldn’t help it.

  “I did a home pregnancy test this morning,” I lied, calling him, exactly as I said I wouldn’t do, at his office. He doesn’t need to know that it was done yesterday.

  “Let me guess. It was positive, right?” This is why the fiancé gets paid the big bucks. He knows what’s going on.

  “It was.”

  I heard him sigh. I don’t like it when the fiancé sighs. When he sighs, it usually means he’s frustrated or, worse, that I’ve done something wrong.

  “But,” I said, hopefully, “I called my doctor and he said that it could be just my hormones going wonky because it’s really too soon after I missed my period to know anything for sure. I’m going there tomorrow,” I lied again. I was actually heading to see Dr. R. in twenty minutes, but I needed to buy myself some time to think. “Then we’ll know for sure.”

  “How long until you get those results back?”

  “He said two days at the most. Don’t worry. What are the chances?”

  The fiancé responded by sighing.

  I have put the four home pregnancy test pee sticks in my desk drawer. I am pretty sure this is completely unsanitary. I don’t care. I want to keep them, no matter how gross it is. I’m only going to be pregnant once, after all.

  FEBRUARY 20

  4:00 p.m.

  Just picked up my home messages. I actually managed to do a couple of interviews today, and to write a feature. I feel very accomplished. And at least readers will know everything about married women hiding secret credit cards from their husbands. They shouldn’t be punished just because I’m going through all this.

  A sexy new intern showed up at the office today. Word is Sexy Young Intern looks like a twenty-year-old Sophia Loren, and she’s also been put on the Young Hip beat. My beat. Is it possible my boss is already looking for a flat-stomached, non-pregnant replacement for me? Oh God, men love Sophia Loren. Women love Sophia Loren.

  And then . . .

  “Hi. It’s Dr. R. Your blood work came back. It’s definitely positive. Call me to talk about what you want to do next.”

  I listen again. “Hi. It’s Dr. R. Your blood work came back. It’s definitely positive. Call me to talk about what you want to do next.” And one more time. “Hi. It’s Dr. R. Your blood work came back. It’s definitely positive. Call me to talk about what you want to do next.” I save the message. It turns out that I am super fertile and that the fiancé has supersperm. It turns out that you can get knocked up after only one time without protection, no matter how much you had to drink beforehand. It turns out that no matter how unprepared you are to be pregnant and raise a child, you can still get pregnant. God, I really do not want to get fat. I must remain skinny like Sexy Young Intern. And, yes, that’s really on my mind.

  11:00 p.m.

  “Hi. It’s Dr. R. Your blood work came back. It’s definitely positive. Call me to talk about what you want to do next.” I couldn’t help it. I had to hear it just one more time.

  It’s not that the fiancé and I have never discussed having children. If you’re in a relationship and a number of your couple friends start getting pregnant, you’re kind of forced to have the discussion. But the fiancé has always said, “Children are for life,” and “We have to live together before we have a child,” and “I’m not sure why anyone has children.” Which is why I don’t think the fiancé is going to be thrilled when he finds out he’s going to be a father in eight months. While I have always known the fiancé is “father material,” he doesn’t seem to know it. I don’t know much about parenting, but I’m sure raising a child would be much better if the father was into it and not all like, “I’m not sure why anyone has
children.” Unfortunately, when the fiancé talks about being a parent, he makes it sound like such a downer. I have to admit, I see his point. Whenever I see a mother trying to calm her baby down in a restaurant or trying to shut it up in a grocery store, or especially on an airplane, I’m not sure why people have children either. Once you have a child, it is forever.

  I have to tell the fiancé. I will, first thing tomorrow.

  2:00 a.m.

  I can’t stop thinking about what has gone into my body over the past few weeks.

  THINGS I HAVE DONE THAT COULD ALREADY

  HAVE SCREWED UP MY UNBORN CHILD

  Numerous cosmopolitans on night of conception

  Entire bottle of Advil since conception

  Maybe five glasses of wine

  Twenty-one cups of coffee

  A few tablespoons of NyQuil

  A dozen or so chocolate bars

  A dozen or so spin classes

  One hair coloring

  Numerous bad thoughts

  Nightly hot baths

  Cigarettes

  Sushi

  THINGS I KNOW I HAVE NOT DONE

  THAT COULD HURT MY BABY

  Heroin

  Bounced on a trampoline

  FEBRUARY 21

  I told the fiancé. I just came out and said it. “The blood test came back positive.”

  I told him we couldn’t tell anyone just yet because it’s very early and we have to figure out what we want to do. I did not tell him that Lena and Ronnie and Dana already knew. I had a solid list of arguments prepared. I was going to say something like “I’ve really thought about this. I’m not too young to have this child. It’s my choice, and if you don’t want to participate in the raising of this child, that is your choice and I will be okay with that. I will do it on my own. I will still love you, and I totally understand.” Of course, I would totally not understand. I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t get to use any of my prepared speech. I didn’t even get to use my favorite line: “I know this isn’t the ideal time. But, really, when would be the ideal time to have a baby?” I don’t actually remember what the fiancé said in response to my news. I know there were sighs. I know there were no tears, of sadness or of joy. I’ve never seen the fiancé cry anyway.