Reviews 1 — Rachel W. Holm

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Rachel W. Holm

Podcasts and Interviews

Rachel W. Holm

Podcasts and Interviews

Podcasts and Interviews

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Michelle

“Listen, I don’t normally do this, but . . .”

Has anything good in the history of the universe ever followed a sentence beginning that way? I rack my brain to think of an example not ending in disaster. I have plenty of time, since it seems to have slowed to a crawl. My leg bounces violently while I sit in the CVS bathroom down the street from my apartment waiting for the slowest three minutes of my whole life to pass.

This morning, I delivered a forecast of nothing but sunshine and blue skies for the weekend ahead. That reality feels a world away in this windowless bathroom smelling like the perfectly disgusting combination of chemicals and stale urine.

The timer on my phone rings in my hand causing me to throw the device face down onto the floor. “Fuck,” I mutter, hoping my screen didn’t crack. Though, depending on what’s displayed on the stick resting on ten squares of folded toilet paper on top of the dispenser, a broken phone may be the least of my problems.

With a shaking hand and heartbeat in my ears, I reach to pick up the test, my gut twisting with anticipation. And there on the screen reads the word I’ve been expecting since I realized this morning my not-so-regular period is late. Really late. Pregnant.

“Fuck,” I mutter again, wrapping the stick in more toilet paper and shoving it back into the box I ripped clean in half in my haste to get it open. I take a moment to try to slow my breathing, taking in a few deep breaths. Picking my phone off the floor and shoving everything into my tote bag, I emerge from the stall. I stare at the woman in the mirror while I wash my hands in a daze.

Michelle Lewis. Natural Redhead. Meteorologist. Lover of Margaritas and Karaoke.

And . . . Mother?

I emerge from the bathroom with a determined stride. As a scientist, we never trust the results of only one test. Marching to the aisle where the pregnancy tests hang mockingly next to the packs of condoms, I snatch five more brands off their hooks. I grab a box of condoms with the recognizable black packaging. When I flip it over, the words seem to jump off the back despite their fine print: up to ninety-eight percent effective.

“What a time to be a member of the two percent,” I mutter, before spiking the box onto the bottom of the display. Guilt runs through me, so I lean down to pick up the offending cardboard and hang it on the hook. It’s not some poor CVS employee’s fault I haven’t found a new doctor since my move to Washington DC and let my birth control prescription lapse. Nope, this is between me, a magnum-sized penis, and my, apparently, overripe uterus.

At the last minute, I tuck the pack of condoms into the pile of pregnancy tests in my arms. It might come in handy to have that disclaimer in print over the next few months.

I arrive at the front of the store, groaning internally when I see the self-checkouts are out of order. When it’s my turn, I place my boxes carefully on the counter and look everywhere except at the cashier ringing me out.

“You’d be surprised how often these items get purchased together, sweetie,” the kind older woman scanning my purchases says. Her tone is gentle and strikes a chord inside me, one that makes me realize this is real. This is happening.

“Yeah?” I say, wincing at the wobble in my voice. “Do they ever come back to let you know which one was the more necessary purchase?”

She chuckles softly. “Why don’t you be my first?” She holds my bag out to me while I press my card to the machine.

“I might just do that.” The idea of sharing my news with this kind stranger feels easier than telling my cousin, my friends, or god forbid, my mom. The father . . . is a shitstorm I don’t want to consider until I know my next move.

I check my phone leaving the store, a smile crossing my face despite the weight pushing down on my shoulders. My friend Jax and her boyfriend—fake fiancé? Whatever you wanted to call him!—Preston have made up. I type out a message letting her know I’m not moving another box, but I’m happy for her.

My hand instinctively goes to my stomach as I walk down the street, barely noticing the sunshine and blue skies I had so accurately forecast a few hours ago. Even though I’m carrying a bag full of backup tests, I know in my gut they’ll all say the same thing. I pull my phone out again, this time to start making a list. Among the doctor’s appointments and topics to research goes a Tinder handle belonging to a man who has strayed into my thoughts more often than I’d like to admit over the last eight weeks. Ridgeman93.

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