Page 28 of SEAL’S Baby Surprise (Lanes #2)

LEE

The next day after the crash, I don’t feel so great. My scrapes are scabbing over, pulling the skin tight. My bruises are bright purple, and I feel queasy and dizzy when I stand up.

Austin wants me to go to the doctor, but if I do that, they will want identification. I can’t. I just can’t.

Austin makes oatmeal for breakfast. He loads it up with raisins, cinnamon, and nuts. He’s gone to a lot of trouble, and I don’t want him to feel bad about getting bicycles for all of us. It isn’t his fault that stupid newsie was hiding in the bushes.

I try to force the stuff down, even though just the scent of the cinnamon rising off the bowl is making me want to hurl.

Normally, I love cinnamon. I mean, like, bring it on, the more the better. But not today. I just manage to put the bowl aside and run to the garbage pail before it all comes back. I think, maybe, it even includes lunch yesterday and my toenails.

Austin is with me in an instant, his arm around my shoulders, steadying me. I lean into his strength, trying not to heave again.

Oh, wow! Oh, no! Here I go again . . . not much left to come up this time. Maybe a toenail or two…talk about vomiting your guts up!

I lean into Austin. It’s the only way I’m able to stand up. He scoops me up in his arms, walks over and settles me in my chair.

He gently wipes my face and hands with a damp cloth. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the doctor?” he asks.

I shake my head, and then wish I had not. “It’s just being upset,” I say, willing it to be true. “I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.”

“Your bed or mine?” he asks.

“Mine,” I say. “I can get off it easier…just in case.”

“Good point,” he says. “I’ll put a clean bucket in here. You want some ginger ale?”

Right then, I don’t want anything except for the world to stop spinning. But I know that I need something in my stomach, or it will start rebelling just because it hasn’t been fed.

“Sure,” I say. “With ice cubes?” I add hopefully.

“Just got the ice a little bit ago,” he says. “I’ll put it in a thermal cup with a straw so it will all stay cold.”

“Thanks,” I say. I try standing up. The world spins around, but I try not to let on. If I’m not careful, Austin will hover all day. I really, really just want to lie down.

Austin steadies me without saying anything, and he doesn’t try to scoop me up. I wobble my way into the van and nestle into my narrow bed. “Audio book or music?” Austin asks.

“Book,” I say. “Documentary.”

I’m listening to a narrative about the origins of Egypt. The content is dry as the Sahara, but the reader has a lovely, baritone voice that will curl your toes just to listen to him.

His recitation of the ages of the pharaohs is like hearing Tom Lehrer sing the periodic table — only better.

After a while, I hear Mrs. Hubbard’s voice, then Mrs. Turner’s. Mrs. Turner slips in, sticks a thermometer paper on my forehead, and takes my pulse. She shines a light in each eye. “Lee,” she says, “I don’t want to be an alarmist, but when was your last period?”

“Don’ know, don’ care,” I mumble into the pillow. “Jus’ wan’ die.”

“Did you and Austin have a drinking party last night?”

Drink? Austin? Hah. Pigs will fly first. “Nuh-uh,” I say, remembering not to move my head. “Coffee, I think. Anyway, not your business. Go ‘way, let me be miserable.”

Mrs. Turner laughs softly. “I think you are going to live, and you’ll feel better in a few hours,” she says. “Meanwhile, I brought the makings for tea.”

Austin crowds in behind her with a steaming cup of something minty. When I sip it, I can taste the underlying gag-me-with-an-entire-place-setting flavor of homegrown chamomile.

It’s Mrs. Turner’s kill or cure hangover medicine, made with strong mint, strong chamomile, and honey from a local beekeeper.

I drink it down as fast as I can because I know that if it gets cold it tastes like dirty dish water strained through old socks. It’s nasty tasting stuff, but as I lie back down, I can feel it going to work.

My stomach grudgingly decides to settle, I get a kind of floaty feeling, and the tip of my nose feels numb. You’d think there must be something totally, sinful, and illegal in it.

But when I ask, the answer is “Nope, just really good home-grown chamomile and enough strong mint to hide the flavor.”

Right then, I don’t care. All I care about is that the world seems to stop spinning, my stomach settles, and I can even sip a little of the ice-cold ginger ale.

I must have slept then, because the next thing I know, the sun has shifted around and is shining in the driver’s side of the van. Austin is squatted down beside my bed.

“Lee,” he says, “I hate to disturb you. But my friend, Richard, has invited us to dinner. Do you feel well enough to go?”

I push myself up on one elbow, and blink at him blearily. “Go? Go where?”

“To Richard and Kandis’s house,” he says. “Julia wants to go, and so do I. It’s been quite a while since I had a chance to catch up with Richard. We were good friends in college.”

Richard! Kandis! Alarms peal through my brain. “No thanks,” I say. “I’m feeling somewhat better, but I’d rather sleep some more, and maybe rewind my audio book and see if I can make sense of it.”

“All right,” he says. “If you’re sure. Mrs. Turner has gone to work, but Mrs. Hubbard is at home and so is Pops. I’ll leave Ark with you in case any more crazy newsies show up.”

“Thanks,” I say, snuggling back into my blankets. The air felt cold. Austin must have the AC cranked to the max.

Sometime later, I awake to a quiet van. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the fan. My ginger ale is warm and a little bit flat, so I must have slept for a while.

I do feel better. I get up, wander down the hall and into the outdoor kitchen. Ark gets up from his favorite shady watch-spot and comes over to me. He plonks his head on my knee and looks at me hopefully.

I know that Austin probably fed him before he left, but I open a can of dog food and give it to the big lug anyway. He’s a long way from fat, so a few extra calories aren’t going to hurt.

I rummage in the ice chest and find some fruit, then in the metal lock box where I find crackers. I settle down to munch on them. As the food hits my system, my brain comes back online.

What had Mrs. Turner asked me? When was my last period? I dig into my art box that sits under my chair, and thumb through my journal. I look at the date on the chronometer in Austin’s room.

I’d last had to put up with the messy part of womanhood about eight weeks ago. I double check everything. Maybe I’d just forgotten to make note of it.

My menstrual cycle is usually pretty easy, no debilitating cramps or headaches like some women I know. Could I have just missed it?

There is one easy way to find out. I want something more for lunch, anyway. I’ll go to the little store on the square. Austin has a charge account there, and he’s put me on the list to use it.

At the store, I pick up a melon, some cottage cheese, more ginger ale, and one of those over-the-counter pregnancy tests. I check out, go home, and unpack my purchases.

I open the melon, scrape the seeds out of one half, and fill it with cottage cheese. Mmmm…perfection. Chased with ginger ale, it was just what my tummy wanted.

Feeling a lot more solid in myself, I take the pregnancy test kit to the bathroom inside the van. No way is it going to test positive. But it will take the suspense out of waiting for my next cycle to begin.

I open the little package, follow the directions, and wait for developments. When the time is up, I stare at the little stick thing. I cannot believe what it is showing. I can’t be pregnant. I just can’t.

I have the implant. We used condoms . . .

Then that little voice at the back of my head starts reminding me of things I don’t want to remember.

It had been my freshman year in college when I got the implant, and I’d not been to a gynecologist since.

Four years to earn a bachelor’s degree, two more for a master’s, plus one year just pretending to work and bumming about with a camera while trying to set up a boutique. That would make it seven years since I’d gotten the implant.

And then there was the condom that had broken. And sometimes condoms leak or something.

I thumb back through my journal with a growing sense of panic. I can’t be pregnant. I just can’t. I’m not married. I can’t get married because that would mean I’d need identification. I can’t go to a doctor, because a doctor will want Identification.

Can’t do this, can’t, can’t, can’t. I need help. I need someone who will know what to do. I need to not be pregnant. Need to go somewhere, see somebody . . . can’t do this! Can’t, can’t, can’t . . .

Sitting there on the toilet, I clutch at my head, bend over and put my head between my knees. I try to breathe steady and slow, like Austin showed me for meditation, like old Grizelda had taught when she was showing a gaggle of silly girls about Tai Chi.

“It’s all about the breath,” she’d said. “In, and hold, and out. Count with me now. . ..”

In, one, two, three…hold, one, two, three . . . Out, one two three…

After about fifteen cycles of this, I get hold of myself. Mrs. Hubbard had given me a card for the family clinic. I put myself together, go back out, and dig in my art box.

Sure enough, there it is. Someone there will know how I could be not pregnant; someone will know what I need to do next. There will be grown up people, professional people.

I know I’m not thinking clearly. I know I need help. I can also see that the address on the card isn’t in the village. It is in the city.

It is too far away to walk, and I don’t want to hitch, so that means … oh, horrors! That means I am going to have to get on that bike again.

It will take a while. I pack a lunch for me; then, as an afterthought, put in two cans of dog food and some kibble for Ark, because no way is he going to let me go alone.

I write a note and leave it on my bed. It isn’t fair to Austin not to tell him something.

The sun is coasting toward the west when I put on my hat, push the bike up to the road to the village, and start pedaling, with Ark pacing along beside me.

It is a good day for a bike ride. Someone at the other end will know what I need to do. Everything will be fine.