Eleven Weeks (17 page)

Later, Shae’s words still sting like they always do, but the wound is so much deeper because I know it’s true. In the last six weeks, I’ve fallen pregnant, decided to keep the baby but done nothing about considering how it will all work. I really am the
dumb blonde
she talks about …

I walk over to my desk and boot up my computer, then I Google the sort of financial support I can receive from the government once the baby is born. I also look up jobs available in the local area; maybe I will only be able to work in a call centre or something, but at least I’ll be trying. I’ll be trying to support my child.

I spend three hours researching and planning, making tables and charts, calculating what I need to earn and it all points to one thing—I’m going to have to tell my family. Soon.

I blink. All the ads are blurring into one in my head, and I end up drawing up a blanket resume that will fit every kind of phone sales role I can think of. Well, every one bar the sexy kind, that is.

Tears mist my eyes once more, and again my mind is drawn back to Sean and Sally opening the present for the baby. Why didn’t I think of that? For weeks I’ve been promising my small human that I’ll get things right as a mother, but already I feel inadequate, once more pipped at the post by my freaking family.

I scrub at my eyes, and bite my lip.
This is something I can make right.

I visit the online store for Myer, one of the biggest department stores in our area who thankfully, do online shopping. I want this small human inside me to have the best start to life possible.

I buy a tiny little jumpsuit, very similar to the one Sean bought Sally, as well as what looks to be the softest little toy rabbit and some to-die-for booty things that seriously look so tiny, I doubt they’d warm my fingers. My eyes mist over again, but this time, I smile. I can’t wait for my package to come in the mail. It’s money I don’t really have to spend, but it’s it.
I’m going to be the best mother ever.
I haven’t neglected my small human on its first ever Christmas.

“Stace?” Mum opens the door, peeping her head into the room. I quickly click the Internet browser closed. “Did you want to invite Kate and her family over for Christmas lunch?

“I don’t think so.” I purse my lips. “Kate told me she doesn’t want to do Christmas this year. I think they just want to focus on their … stuff for a while.”

“Huntington’s sounds like a truly horrible disease.” Mum leans her body up against the doorframe. “I can understand them wanting to just shut everything else out for a while.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

“All right, well lunch is ready in twenty minutes, so I’ll need you to come downstairs. And take a shower before you do.” She scrunches up her nose. “Do I smell chicken in here?”

“No!” I widen my eyes and position my legs so they’re blocking the trashcan under my desk. No chicken bone in there.

“Okay,” Mum turns to leave. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She digs into her pocket and pulls out a tiny package wrapped in tissue paper. “This was on the front stoop when I went out to bring in the bins this morning.”

She hands it to me. This tiny purple package has my name scrawled on top in black marker. It feels flimsy in my hands, delicate. “Thanks.”

Mum closes the door and I unwrap the package with shaking hands. What the hell is this?

Inside, there is a gold pendant. It’s thin and delicate, just a simple sliver. It’s the numeral one. I furrow my brow. What the hell kind of present is this? And who would give it to me?

I wrack my brain but after five long minutes of thinking, I can only draw one conclusion. I know I’ve evoked a code of silence, but this calls for at least a text.

Me:
Thank you doesn’t seem like enough. Is it because I came first in drama?

His reply comes less than three minutes later.

Michael:
And first in whatever you decide to do in the future.

I press my lips together and try to stop those stupid tears leaking from my eyes again. Gosh, I’m like a freaking tap! Why does he have to be so nice?

They say opposites attract. All my life, I’ve wondered if that were true. It’s in this moment, with the nicest guy I know thinking of me, caring about me—
believing
in me—that I know the saying is one hundred per cent correct.

And that officially makes me the meanest bitch I know.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the bathroom. This is it. Things are going to change. I’m taking control of my life.

I pick up the pair of scissors from inside the cabinet and take one last look at my long, blonde hair.
Say goodbye, Rapunzel.

Snip.

The first cut is clean, and a long chunk of my hair falls into the sink. I smirk. I guess there’s no going back now.

Snip.

A second chunk of hair falls onto the white basin, honey-coloured wisps marring the white porcelain.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip, snip, snip.

When I finish, I shake my hair from side to side and try and push it up a little, like they do at the hairdressers. I can’t help but grimace. Apparently, me taking charge of my life might have been better done in a hairdressing salon. Calling my new style uneven would be like saying the leaning tower of Pisa is pretty straight.

Regardless, I smile. It’s nothing that a hairdresser can’t fix, and besides—no one said taking control would be easy.

With a grin the size of a banana spread across my face, I waltz my way downstairs, ready for Christmas lunch. Ready to stand up for myself.

“What did you do to your
hair?”
Shae shrieks.

When did she stop loving me and start hating me?

I narrow my eyes. I don’t have time for this now.

I’m ready to make a change.

December 29

I
FEEL
like my life is on hold. Waiting to have my first ultrasound. Waiting to hear back from the zillions of jobs I applied for, so I can try and look after this tiny pumpkin inside of me. Or at least save some money until it’s born, anyway.

I want to give this little human inside me something awesome. I want to look after it, and help it grow, and learn, and just … just be there for it. Because it’s a part of me.

I’m even waiting to try and finish the scarf I started knitting two weeks ago. Because seriously, this domestic shit is hard work.

The only thing I’m not waiting on is spew. God, do I vomit like a hell queen. I’ve heard it said before, but they really don’t drive this home enough: it’s not
morning
sickness, people! It’s eat-a-bread-roll-so-I-can-spew-it-up sickness. And heaven forbid you should smell a whiff of seafood.

That’s why, when Kate suggested we go to lunch, I pushed for some retail therapy instead. Anything to avoid having to eat and vomit in front of her.

Although I’ll have to tell her soon.

God, that day can’t come quickly enough. To not be in this alone anymore, to not feel like such a freak—

“I like the first one.” Kate interrupts my musings, pointing to the back of my hand that is covered in tiny pink marks, stripes of colour. I blink. It’s nothing special. I quickly make a mental note of things to Google later: are you allowed to wear lipstick when pregnant? I mean, I know you’re not supposed to dye your hair …

“Really, though?” I hold up the tester tube next to my mouth. “Because I think it might be a little too candy, not enough pink. Know what I mean?”

Honestly, I couldn’t give a rat’s, I’m just trying to take her mind off her dad, while not divulging the contents of mine, as well as trying to sound somewhat coherent after what I am now referring to as the title of my new part-time job, Applying For Jobs on the Internet. Seriously, every night since I decided I was Stacey In Control—gosh, the name sounds like I’m a Barbie figurine—I’ve stayed up until well past midnight Googling jobs. After my initial broader search, I’ve narrowed it down to anything within an hour’s driving distance of my house that involves the word “phone” in the job title. I barely even look at the job descriptions, anymore; I figure as long as I get to sit down while I’m chatting away, I can probably work almost right up until baby-time. And since I have a lot of things I need to save for, that’s going to be imperative.
If only the interviews would run a little more smoothly …

So far, my in-person appearances have not been great. After Prospective Employer Number One tried to look down my top, Prospective Employer Number Two asked me what my five-year plan was and Prospective Employee Number Three got a little bit vomited on—
oops
—things were not going so well. I give a quick glance at my watch, and breathe a sigh of relief. I have one more interview later today, but at the rate our conversation is flowing, I have no doubt that Kate will be relieved when I have to leave in the late afternoon.

I stifle a yawn, and try not to stare too long at the baby care section. I can see baby wipes, formula, and some kind of a cream that looks like it could be for diaper rash or maybe cracked nipples. I rub my hand across my chest surreptitiously. My breasts have gone from substantial to super-sized over the past few weeks. I’ve always loved my boobs so much … It seems a shame that they’re going to be ruined so young …

I hold them a little tighter. I hear they’re going to sag and then flatten. Maybe I can find a rich man to buy me some implants later in life …

I pick up another lipstick and twirl the tube around between my fingers. Kate looks up at the ceiling, and I all but hand her the gun myself. This is painful. This isn’t how we hang out.

I’m going to tell her. She’s going through a lot, but I’m sure she’ll want to know. Especially since I’m keeping it, and who am I kidding, I can’t keep this a secret any longer.

“Kate, I—”

“I was just walking along, thinking that this was one of the most boring days of my life, when who do I see through the window of the pharmacy? Only two of the hottest girls I know.” Michael swaggers over to us. Kate blinks, as if he’s woken her from her trance.

My mind flashes back to the last time I saw him. Him, showing up and doing something sweet. Me, straddling him on the bench at the drama school, his lips against mine, his hands in my hair, on my chest, his hardness through his pants—