Page 14 of Rebound

“I’d suggest talking to her. She might be able to help you make a decision.”

“What if I make the wrong decision?”

“That doesn’t exist. If you make it, it’s the only decision that matters.”

My hand smooths over my soft, flabby stomach and exhale loudly. I don’t know how I feel and I’m trying to piece together my thoughts, but it’s just a lot of noise. It’s my brain’s way of shutting down and I know better than to force this to make sense right now.

“I shouldn’t tell anyone yet, right?”

“That’s up to you, but if you do plan to terminate the baby, maybe not.”

She’s right. If there isn’t going to be a baby by the end of the month, why tell anyone? It’s terrifying and there’s not a single part of me that knows the right thing to do. It’s only once I’m in the car much later, that I finally let myself cry.

The next day I’m bent over in a single seater, forehead pressed to my knees as the tips of my fingers graze the floor. I can’t hear anything but the loud pounding of my heart and heavy breathing. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this position, but the sudden realisation I’m probably squishing my baby makes me sit up quickly. Blood rushes to my head and I’m dizzy. I groan and wait for the feeling to pass. When I open my eyes, Dr. Sunita is watching me patiently.

From day one, she’s allowed me to set the pace for our conversations and waits for me to be ready to talk. I even like that she gives me homework after a few sessions, a lot of it self-reflective to help navigate the mess in my brain.

“That did not help,” I tell her and she nods.

“It distracted you.”

“And now I still have to talk about why I booked an emergency session.”

Dr. Gopalan called me this morning to confirm that I’m nine and a half weeks pregnant and the first thing I did was contact Dr. Sunita. I’ve done my research about abortion and adoption in India, but I know my counsellor can help me make the right decision. Or at least guide me in the right direction.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

Dr. Sunita smiles. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I think.” I look out the window, trying to find something to fix my eyes on, but the sky is clear. “Patrick’s the father.”

“And this angers you?”

“It confuses me.”

“Shall we unpack that?”

I chuckle sadly and shake my head. A few days after I slept with Patrick, I had a session and told Dr. Sunita everything about our history and how seeing him again made me happy, angry and sad all at once. She said a bunch of things and I made a joke about not wanting to unpack any of it.

“I’m stuck on what I should do.”

“I’m assuming you know your options.”

“Yeah. Between Dr. Gopalan and Google, I know what I can do. I don’t know what I should do.”

Dr. Sunita makes a note; my indecisiveness isn’t new to her. “Let’s go through this step by step.” At my nod she continues, “How do you feel about Patrick now?”

“Conflicted. He sent me a voice note the other day and asked me again what he did and how he can fix it. I just…I don’t know if he can. Or if we can do this again.”

“Why?”

“I know it’s been years, but seeing him brings back all the sadness and anger at being left behind. I hate that I’m desperate for his attention and a repeat of what we did that night, but he’s twenty years too late.”

“Is he?”

I scowl and look away again. This time I latch onto the books on the shelf behind her. I’ve always been fascinated by her collection—there’s popular fiction to sex therapy and everything in between. She’s even got a section of historical romances in mass market paperbacks.

“Are you aware you’ve got a hand protectively placed over your stomach?”