Bombshell. Lynda Curnyn

seeking out the soft cotton yoga pants that had become my evening uniform as of late. As I began to slide them on, I caught a glance at my naked body in the mirror on the back of the door and stood, hesitantly turning sideways to check for any visible changes.

      And began to imagine that the roundness I saw in my abdomen had nothing to do with my recent indulgences and everything to do with the longing that had taken over my mind.

      A baby, I thought, running a hand over the small swell.

      Suddenly everything seemed…possible.

      A cold breeze accompanied me up the steps of the building where Shelley Longford, C.S.W., kept her neat little office, and as I climbed them I felt, for the first time in weeks, a sense of anticipation. Maybe it was because, for the first time since I had been coming to see her, I was actually looking forward to it.

      I had news to share, after all.

      “So what makes you think you’re pregnant?” Shelley said, finally breaking the silence she had fallen into ever since I cheerfully made my announcement, effectively sidetracking her interrogation as to why I had canceled my recent appointments. And as I embellished my story with the dates of my last ovulation, the bloatedness I felt, the tenderness in my breasts, I saw her usually placid expression purse with suspicion.

      Clearly she wasn’t buying it. “The symptoms you describe could easily be premenstrual.”

      I bristled. “I think after nearly thirty-five years, I know my body,” I argued, suddenly aware that I was arguing. In a somewhat calmer tone, I added, “I mean, have you ever been pregnant?”

      Suddenly my question seemed inappropriate. For I had never broached the subject of her personal life in a session before. It had never been an issue before and I suppose it wasn’t now, I thought, glancing at her ringless left hand. A flutter of questions rose in me about the stranger who sat before me and I stared at her, hoping she’d give me some information for a change.

      Of course, she didn’t. “Have you ever missed a period before?”

      “Never,” I said—a bit smugly, considering the fact that I couldn’t entirely remember if this was true. “And I’ve never had a condom break inside me,” I continued, finding the validation I was looking for in the facts of this particular case. “Besides, I feel…different. My body feels different.” It was true. Ever since my period had failed to show up in its usual clockwork fashion, my body seemed to have shifted onto a new timetable. I was aware of myself in a way I hadn’t been before. I woke up in the morning with a heaviness in my limbs that I couldn’t attribute to sadness, for my mind felt suddenly clear.

      Now here I was, sitting before a licensed professional and finally giving voice to that which my body already believed, and growing ever more suspicious of her by the second.

      Just who the fuck did she think she was, telling me I had cramps? You see, that was the whole problem with this therapy business. As if anyone else could truly tell you what the hell was going on inside of you.

      “I’m just saying it’s a possibility you are simply suffering from PMS,” was all she replied to my protest.

      I retreated then, deciding I didn’t give a shit what she thought, and moved on to the subject of Claudia, who, predictably, had already started to pine for Laurence Bennett, Eligible Bachelor Number 6,785.

      “I just don’t get her,” I said. “If she wants the fucking guy, she should just go after him. But instead, just like she always does when she meets a guy, she’s going to go on and on about how hot he is. Then, when he doesn’t notice the way she’s gawking at him across a meeting room, whine, whine, whine to me about how no one appreciates her for the goddess she is, how she’s better off alone, when what she really needs is to get fucking laid.”

      I should mention that Shelley did not utter so much as a word during my discourse on Claudia. This was another thing I found irritating about her. How do you have a conversation with someone who seems to have no response to anything you have to say? It’s so fucking ridiculous. And because she was really getting on my nerves today, I decided to tell her so.

      “What makes you think I don’t care about what you’re saying?” she replied.

      “You should see yourself,” I said, angrily trying to pull together a prim yet blank expression for her benefit. “It’s clear to me you don’t give a shit about what I just told you about Claudia.”

      “Maybe you don’t give a shit about what you just told me about Claudia.”

      That silenced me. Probably because I had never heard Miss Priss utter a swear word—or any other word my mother might deem distasteful. Or maybe it was that she was right. I didn’t give a shit—not really—about Claudia’s love life. Or lack thereof. Then what the hell was I blabbering on about it for, especially at these prices?

      So I moved on. Or thought I moved on, anyway, to the new campaign, the work I suddenly found myself deluged in. Until I came back around to someone else again, this time Lori. And just as I was summing up my assistant’s weepy little love fest, I realized I was doing it again. Going on and on about nonsense. What the hell was wrong with me? I had more important things to think about. Like the fact that I could be a mother in less than a year.

      But knowing that wouldn’t yield the response I wanted from Shelley, and because she indicated in her usual miserly way that our time was up, I decided not to go there again. I mean, couldn’t the woman throw in an extra five minutes of therapy once in a while, for chrissakes?

      When I stood up, I suddenly realized I was exhausted. Probably from the effort of talking. I couldn’t remember the last time I had spoken so much in a session.

      Then, as if I couldn’t resist getting in one last little bit, I turned to Shelley once I reached the door. “Oh, I guess I should tell you. I got a letter back from K. Morova.” Then I laughed mirthlessly, as if finding humor in the fact that I had been all but obsessing over a signature I had believed belonged to my biological mother, but had in fact belonged to my aunt, who was equally a stranger to me. “As it turned out, K. Morova is also my biological aunt—Katerina, I think she signed it.” Then, as quietly and simply as I might have commented on the weather, I said, “Kristina would have written herself, I suppose, except she died last year. Cancer.” Then I shrugged, tugging my pocketbook more firmly onto my shoulder and reaching for the doorknob. “So I guess I’ll see you next—”