Page 73 of Omega's Faith

Diana’s response is almost instantaneous. The phone arrives almost as fast, coming by courier that afternoon in a sleek black box. With it, someone has printed out instructions for me on how to turn it on and get into the accounts. A handwritten note paperclipped on top reads: “My number, Alex’s and Ricky’s are all pre-programmed in. Let me know if you need anything—D”

Mom sits by my side as I turn it on and work out how to navigate the controls.

“How much did this cost?” she asks.

“I have no idea.” It looks expensive. It’s slim and glossy, and the colors are super vivid. The lock screen has a wedding photo of me and Alex. Diana – or one of her assistants – have personalized it to me exactly. I notice that along with the numbers mentioned, they’ve also added one to the office at theestate, my parents’ landline and those for each of my siblings.

I open up the messaging app and add Alex’s number.

Hello! This is Jonah. Diana kindly arranged a phone for me. Thank you for such a lovely time last night.

I don’t know how to end it.

Love Jonah?

Kind Regards, Jonah?

What’s the etiquette? In the end, I just add my name and press send. There. Contact has been initiated.

Two days later, he still hasn’t replied. Diana has.

Sorry, Jonah. I’ve not heard from him either. Mrs. Atkins says he’s not at the estate. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.

I don’t know whether to be worried or angry. Amicable indeed. He can’t even reply to a single message.

My parents haven’t asked if the marriage was consummated. I can only imagine the horror they’d feel at the thought of even asking, and I certainly haven’t volunteered the information. Pastor David knows, of course, thanks to the drunken crudity that Alex put him through at the summerhouse.

So when it’s time to take my test, I don’t tell anyone. I just sneak into the bathroom upstairs and close the door.

I need to know.

My hands shake as I tear open the packaging. I follow the steps mechanically. Cap the test. Set it on the counter. I haven’t worked out how to set the timer on the phone yet. I imagine Alex would find that hilarious but I’ve got Mom’s egg timer from downstairs and that will have to do.

I pee on one stick, then another one just in case. Then I wait.

I sink to the floor, back against the tub, knees drawn to my chest.

My stomach churns. What am I hoping for? A negative result that lets me keep living in this limbo? Or positive?

Two minutes.

I think about the naked panic Alex's face when I mentioned pregnancy that morning in the kitchen.

One minute.

Maybe he's right to not want children. What do either of us know about being parents? My own childhood was good but sheltered, controlled. His was lonely, marked by loss. What kind of parents would we make?

Forty-five seconds.

My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat, still giving no outward sign if anything is happening inside. If I'm pregnant, it's been growing for three weeks already.

Fifteen seconds.

I close my eyes, trying to pray, but no words come. What do you pray for when you don't know what you want?

The timer buzzes, sharp in the quiet bathroom.

I stay on the floor for another moment, prolonging the before. Once I look, there's no going back.