Just A Little Bit Pregnant. Eileen Wilks

crooks and politicians had referred to her as “that damned reporter,” but even her detractors agreed she was as compulsively truthful in print as she was passionate about lost causes and underdogs. Her co-workers at the Houston Sentinel had nicknamed her “Outlaw” in honor of her comfortable relationship with chaos, and her boss had once, in a fit of good humor, been heard to call her the best investigative journalist in the state.

      The one name Jacy had never expected would apply to her was Mother.

      She inhaled raggedly. The darkness receded, leaving her standing in the middle of Dr. Nordstrom’s pleasant office. He sat behind his big desk looking up at her with an expression of professional concern. The way the oval lenses of his glasses reflected the overhead lights made them seem to be winking at her.

      He had no wrinkles. That bothered her. How could he know enough to advise her on what was happening with her body when his face was as smooth as a baby’s behind? Jacy didn’t want to look at his too-smooth face. She didn’t want him looking at her. Quickly she glanced around the office as if she might find an escape route.

      A picture on the nearest wall caught her attention, and she took four quick steps to it. Her skirt swirled around her legs, and if the rest of the world swirled a bit, too, she was convinced she could ignore it.

      The picture was an artist’s rendering of a woman’s torso featuring the poor lady’s insides. Her exposed womb held a baby curled up, head down. Both the baby and the woman had pinkish pale skin.

      Jacy didn’t. People often assumed she was part Mexican, and maybe she was. She didn’t know. Her dusky complexion might have been due to a number of possible heritages, from Mediterranean to Bedouin—but her eyes, those Irish green eyes, announced some international mixing and mingling in her genetic past.

      “So when am I due?” Her voice was steady, which pleased her. Her question even made sense. Maybe her brain was working, even if her head felt stuffed with ghosts instead of thoughts—haunted, irrational wisps she couldn’t quite grasp.

      “Next March.”

      “Of course.” Apparently her brain wasn’t working after all. It hadn’t occurred to her to add nine months to the only possible date of conception.

      Conception? A hint of wonder slipped past the other emotions. Her hand went to her middle. Her palm felt warm on her midriff through the stretchy knit of the top she’d chosen that morning because the bright red reminded her of courage, and of Sister Mary Elizabeth.

      “Ms. James, this has obviously upset you. Please, sit down.”

      “I’m fine,” she repeated. “I just...don’t know how to do this.” Now there was the understatement of the decade. How could someone who’d never had parents be one? She shook her head.

      More gently, he said, “You must have suspected your condition when you made the appointment to see me.”

      But she hadn’t believed it. That was one of the reasons she’d given herself for not mentioning the possibility to Sister Mary Elizabeth on her visit last Saturday. “Look,” she said, turning around, “I’m no more logical than most people. I guess I knew...but it didn’t seem possible. I haven’t been sick in the morning or anything. And...”

      And it had been just that one night, she wanted to cry. It wasn’t fair, not fair at all—and if that plaintive thought made her feel closer to sixteen than thirty-one, well, wasn’t an unplanned pregnancy something that happened to careless teenagers? Not to a savvy career woman who respected herself too much for casual sex—who had never even been tempted to have a one-night stand. Never, until that night two months ago.

      Not that she’d known it was going to be a one-night stand. Not even when Tom had climbed out of her bed and started pulling his clothes on. Not until he’d paused on his way out the door and looked at her. “This was a mistake,” he’d told her. Then he’d walked out.

      Jacy held her head high and firmed her shoulders. “He used protection.”

      “Yes, and condoms are quite reliable when used with a spermicide, but I believe you said you didn’t use any cream or foam.” Dr. Nordstrom shook his pale blond head. “The sheath was probably torn or improperly applied. People accustomed to other methods of birth control sometimes find condoms a bit tricky to put on.”

      She smiled without humor. Somehow she didn’t think Tom lacked experience in donning protection. But he had been in a hurry, hadn’t he? Oh, yes, he’d been urgent enough. She’d thought him as desperate, as involved, as she was.

      Memories pushed at her from where she kept them trapped deep inside—dark, heated memories that she fought back down. She never wanted to feel again what she’d felt that night.

      When she shook her head to chase the ghosts away she realized the smooth-faced doctor was speaking.

      “...need to know, first, whether you intend to continue with this pregnancy.”

      “Continue—oh, God.” Abruptly she did want to sit down. She came back to the pale green chair that faced the doctor, and sat. She hadn’t thought...hadn’t even considered...

      As quickly as spring in Houston turned into the baked heat of summer, Jacy turned an inner corner. In that instant what the doctor had told her became true and real. “Yes,” she said. Her hand went to her still-flat stomach. “I want my baby.” A baby. Her baby. However many doubts and fears threatened her, she had no doubts at all about keeping her baby. That certainty steadied her.

      “Very well. I’m afraid my predecessor’s records are not complete, so I must ask you a few questions. Your medical history doesn’t identify your ethnic background.”

      “Pick one.” She gestured widely. Her old doctor had known about her, and briefly she resented the stranger who’d taken his place when he retired last year. “I was raised in an orphanage. I have no idea who my parents were.”

      “I see.” He frowned, tapping the medical record on his desk. “Also, the nurse said you refused to discuss the father’s identity. We are not being nosy, Ms. James. For the sake of your baby’s health as well as your own, I need medical information on the father, particularly since you have Rh-negative blood.”

      She was going to have to tell Tom.

      For one brief, craven moment Jacy reached for a way, a trick, some justification for keeping this from him—something other than the fact that the idea of contacting him made her sick to her stomach. But Jacy had spent the past several years of her life fighting to uncover and report on the truth. She was no good at avoiding or concealing it.

      God help her, she would have to tell him.

      “Ms. James?”

      “Give me a few days,” she managed. “I’ll get his medical history, or have him come in and fill out some of your forms. Just give me a few days.”

      When she left Dr. Nordstrom’s office fifteen minutes later she had a prescription for vitamins, an appointment in another month and a couple of colorful brochures.

      It was August, it was Houston, and it was hot. By the time she crossed the parking lot, sweat dampened the nape of her neck beneath the heavy fall of her hair. She slid into the cherry red ’65 Mustang she’d finished having restored last year, leaving the door open to let some of the sunbaked air out. The humidity was high that day, and the car’s interior felt like a sauna. The white leather seat burned the back of her legs through the crinkled cotton of her skirt.

      Jacy welcomed the heat. It made her feel more real.

      She started the car to get the air-conditioning going, and then she just sat there with her door open, listening to the radio. The sound of the Beach Boys praising California girls rolled over her comfortingly.

      Jacy loved old rock music, especially the soppy, sentimental songs of the fifties. Few people were aware that she had an equal weakness for old TV shows like “Lassie,” “My Friend Flicka” and “Leave It to Beaver.”