Notes

i. 2007

The slow drip drip drip of the faucet is driving her crazy, she thinks as she looks at her sallow reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her skin is yellowish underneath the heavy makeup she wears, and her green eyes are glassy. She feels as she looks: murky, almost clownishly grotesque.

Time is an abstract concept that holds no meaning.

She counts the minutes by the slow leak of water.

Drip

Drip

Drip

Scott knocks on the door. "Are you okay in there?" he asks and she can hear the worry in his voice. "Can I come in?"

He doesn't wait for her reply and lets himself in, making a beeline for her, and pulling her tight against him — she sees his eyes zeroing on the three little plastic tests that rest on the sink.

"How long?" he asks.

"Not much longer," she answers, nuzzling her nose in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

Drip

Drip

Drip

"It's going to okay, Tess," he says, stroking her hair.

Her voice quavers. "I'm three weeks late and eighteen years old. Nothing about this is okay."

He tightens his hold. "Whatever happens, it's going to be fine. I'm here for you."

"I can't have a baby. I can't ruin everything."

"Stop this. You're not ruining anything."

Drip

Drip

Drip

"I'm so fucking stupid," she cries. "It'll feel better without a condom, you'll see, Tessa. He's such a jerk, I can't believe he talked me into this and I fell for it."

His jaw clenches. "One step at a time." She can feel his anger radiating in her whole body.

"I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing, we'll deal with this together like we do everything else."

Drip

Drip

Drip

"I can't look," she says after a while.

He pulls away from their embrace and faces the sink. She feels her body go limp as she slumps on the floor, her legs no longer holding her; she's never felt this sick before, like she's about to throw up her whole stomach and her intestines could empty themselves at a moment's notice.

Her heart is hammering in her chest, threatening to burst her ribcage open — organs splattering in a bloodbath on the white tiled floor.

Her ears keep ringing with the sound of the blood pumping against her eardrums so violently.

"It's negative," she hears his voice cut through the fog.

"Wha-at?" she stammers.

"Negative," he repeats, kneeling in front of her. "All three of them." He shows her the tests and all their pink one lines.

"I don't understand," she says, breathing heavily.

"You're not pregnant, Tess."

"I don't understand," she repeats, haggard. "I haven't gotten my period in nearly two months."

"You're not pregnant," he says again. "Come on," he says, sliding his arms under her armpits and lifting her up. "Let's get some breakfast in you. My treat."

The relief she feels is divine and unreal, and yet she can't move of her own accord. Her body feels heavy, like lead has invaded every inch of her skin. She can't move, but she can't stop shaking either.

"You're going to be okay," he says gently, pulling her against him and holding her firmly to stop the tremors that have overtaken her body.

(She's eighteen years old and she's not getting her period anymore because her body can't sustain a pregnancy. She's eighteen years old and, already, she can't do what most women can so easily achieve.)

ii. 2013

She doesn't know how to dress to get an abortion. It's silly, she knows, but she always knows how to dress herself — what pieces to put together, which colors are harmonious and look best on her, which bag goes with which coat, which shoes go with which bag.

She looks at herself in the mirror, hands roaming her stomach; it's perfectly flat and toned, she can feel the muscles ripple underneath her taut skin. Her mind tricks her into thinking she feels a flutter there. Is it life? Is it guilt?

She ends up putting on a pair of stretchy leggings, an oversized hoodie, and big fuzzy socks with kittens printed on them. She feels like a kid.

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table. I'm there, she reads.

She takes her bag (the heavy black leather one which can carry all her earthly possessions) locks the front door, and hurries to the curb where his car is waiting for her.

"Hi," he says. "I got you a coffee." He points to the Starbucks in the cupholder.

"I can't," she says. "I'm getting general anesthesia, I'm not allowed to eat or drink anything."

He rubs the back of his neck. "I should have known that, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry," she shrugs it off.

She's worried sick.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

"Like I'm about to have a panic attack," she says, wringing her hands.

"Everything will be fine," he soothes her.

"I know it will. You'll be there."

His hand squeezes hers so tightly it loses all blood-flow for a full minute — the pins and needles she feels afterward the only outward sign her body can react to something.

The drive to Canada is long and familiar; though there isn't Scott's usual driving playlist full of his favorite country songs, there's no laughter, no singing battles, no inside the actors studio games. They get the same border agent they always do and she has to force herself to make the usual small talk with him. Her heart skips a beat when Scott mentions family as the reason for their unusual trip home in the middle of the week.

They get to a small hospital an hour outside of London, one that she's chosen for precisely that reason and she's shown to her room by an overly friendly nurse. She puts her bag on the (baby) blue blanket that sits on the bed.

"Are you sure?" he asks her for the hundredth time.

"The Olympics are next year," she replies, her tongue feeling like sandpaper in her mouth.

"That's not an answer."

She exhales deeply. "I'm sure," she affirms.

"I love you," he says, coming up behind her, resting his hands on her hips and his head where her neck meets her shoulder.

"I love you too," she whispers, biting down on her lips until she makes them bleed.

When she's gets to the OR, it's as easy as falling asleep — she closes her eyes pregnant and wakes up…empty. It feels like someone is hammering at the bubble wrap surrounding her head.

"Hey T," Scott's voice calls her through the haze, lacing his fingers with hers. "Everything went fine. You're fine."

"My nose itches," she clears her throat.

He laughs. "I'm sorry," he says, letting her hand go. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks. "They told me they gave you something for the pain."

They put her in some uncomfortable mesh panties with heavy padding. It feels foreign and wrong and she wants to rip it off her body. "I want to go home," she slurs.

"Soon," he promises her.

The anesthetic wears off after two hours, but she's not hurting, she's mindlessly numb to the whole thing except for a mild discomfort. They make her eat a yoghurt, a bread roll, and drink an apple juice before discharging her — she throws them all up as soon as she's done signing the papers.

A few hours later, he helps her change into her loosest pair of pajamas and tucks her into bed — her own bed. She hopes she doesn't ruin her perfectly white sheets; she should have thought of that instead of wasting thirty minutes on which outfit to wear this morning.

Her lower abdomen feels like an anvil has taken home there. Finally…pain; the sweet agony makes its way through her body. She curls in on herself, fetal, her uterus contracting around emptiness, warm blood trickling down and coating her vulva, hot tears streaming down her face.

"I've put your antibiotics and painkillers on your bedside table," he informs her, sitting down on the bed next to her. He lays a hand on her arm, stroking her softly.

"Thanks." She wants to appear stronger for him, but she can't help the sobs that wreck her body.

"Tess…" His voice is breaking. "Can I stay with you?" he asks gently.

She can only nod and after a few minutes of rummaging, shuffling and padding, she feels him slide in behind her, carefully wrapping one arm around her, and nestling his head in her neck.

"Everything is going to be fine, baby, I promise," he whispers in her hair.

"I know," she hiccups.

They stay like this for what feels like hours — hands roaming bodies, fingers stroking and squeezing, breathing each other in.

"Tess," he asks after a while, breath caught in his throat. "Was it mine?"

"I don't know."

iii. 2022

"Do you want to hear the heartbeat?" the technician asks, slowly moving the wand inside Tessa.

"Can we?" Scott asks excitedly.

The technician smiles. "Of course you can."

She fiddles with a monitor for a few seconds and then… There it is.

Whosh whosh whosh

Whosh whosh whosh

Whosh whosh whosh

It's the sweetest sound they've ever heard.

"Scott," she says, voice strangled with emotion, reaching blindly for his hand, incapable of tearing her eyes away from the monitor and their little bean.

She feels him squeeze her hand. "I know," he replies, clearing his throat.

She looks over at him and grins. "Would you happen to have a tissue, please?" she asks the technician, watching Scott wipe away his tears.

"We made that," he wonders, taking the tissues being handed to him and kissing her temple.

"I'm so proud," she beams at him, pressing her mouth to his.

"Good job, babe," he says against her lips.

*

To Scott's endless amusement, she's already buying all the cute baby clothes she can get her hands on, has already started three separate birth lists, and is reading every pregnancy book with the compulsion of a three-time Olympic gold medalist. She's almost out of her first trimester, she feels like she finally can…dream, hope, plan, organize, but more than anything: tell everyone. They planned a little dinner party to that effect and she's bubbling over with excitement and anticipation.

"What do you think about Oliver?" he asks, softly stroking the skin of her belly. There's barely a bump there, but the skin of her lower abdomen feels firmer and a bit rounder.

"Why are you always suggesting boys' names?" she laughs.

He keeps on drawing circles, playing with her belly ring. "Between your family and mine, a boy is more likely."

"Your science seems a bit shaky there," she smiles, covering his hand with hers.

Happiness tastes of domesticity.

*

She's busy testing every neutral shade of yellow, white and cream on the walls of the future nursery when it happens. The pain is all too familiar and it forces her to double over, sliding down against the wall for support.

"Scott!" she yells and he immediately runs upstairs, knowing in his gut that something is terribly wrong.

The floor is stained red when he gets to her and gathers her in his arms.

Everything is a blur after that: the drive to the hospital, the doctors telling her they need to take her for an emergency D&C, the coldness of the operating room, the mint flavored anesthetic gas, waking up groggy and disoriented, and the ride back home a few hours later, arms laden with pamphlets.

She feels a bit numb — the sedative they gave her is working its way through her system, providing her with a false sense of calm. She buries herself in between the couch's decorative pillows and afghans, staring vacantly at the black screen of the TV.

"I was just painting the wall," Tessa says.

Scott nods. He hasn't stopped crying since the doctor told them he couldn't find the heartbeat.

"I was almost at fourteen weeks," she continues.

He sits down next to her and tucks her against his side, kissing the side of her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispers so low he's not sure he's hearing her right.

"It's not your fault. Don't apologize," he whispers back, wiping his tears with the back of a hand.

She burrows deeper against him, sliding a hand underneath his shirt, needing to feel his warm naked skin underneath her fingertips. "Never let me go," she makes him promise.

He squeezes her against him so hard he's afraid to break a rib. "Never."

*

They don't leave their bed for five days — they're dirty, they smell like sweat and bad morning breath, and they couldn't care less. Everything is going up in flames except for their bubble. They only find comfort in each other's presence. After the third day, their parents and siblings take turns bringing them food and tidying up the house.

"You need to talk to someone," Alma says on the fifth day as she brings them both breakfast.

She's never seen his son or her daughter-in-law in this state before. Grief stricken is too weak a word to describe them. They cling to each other like koalas, never letting go, never not touching each other. They look like they've both lost weight and like their heads are too heavy for their bodies to carry — their skin tinted sickly green, their under-eyes a deep purple, their lips cracked scarlet.

"We don't want to talk, Mom," he replies, pulling a still-sleeping Tessa closer to him.

"This is not healthy," she warns him. "You need to get help. This is not the end."

"I promised her," he says, stroking her hair. "I promised her to never let her go. I was supposed to keep them safe."

"This is no one's fault," she says, laying a hand on his arm. "Scotty, you're both wasting away. You need to eat, get out, try and go back to normal."

"I don't know how to make this right," he breaks down, tears streaming down his face.

"You take it one step at a time," she advises gently.

*

She can't get herself to open the door. She hasn't been there in two months. Every time her hand hovers over the handle, she can feel the panic blossoming in her chest and settling heavily in her bowels.

"You don't have to do this," he says as he catches her one morning.

"You did it," she replies. "I need to do it. J.-F. says I need to face it to process it."

"I did it so you wouldn't have to."

She knows he took it upon himself to get rid of every single piece of evidence — every book, piece of clothing and paint sample are gone. He even painted the room back to white. She doesn't know what he did with all the baby stuff, she assumes he packed it away in some corner of the basement, with their dream of having a family.

Her hand keeps shaking. "I need to do it for me."

He covers his hand with hers. "Not today."

She exhales deeply. "Not today."

*

"Do you resent me?" she asks one evening as they're taking a shower and he's washing her hair.

He stops in his tracks immediately and turns her around to face him. "Tess…" he says, his voice quavering.

"I had an abortion and I lost your baby," she says slowly, blinking back tears.

"I could never resent you. We're in this together. I love you and I always will. No matter what happens," he says, wrapping himself around her.

"What if I can never…" she says, laying her biggest fear at his feet.

"I don't care. I only need you." He seals his words with a tender kiss, more unbreakable than any wedding vow they could ever take.

"Scott…" she starts, but he cuts her off with another searing kiss.

"One step at a time," he murmurs against her open lips.

+i. 2024

She wants to feel everything, she's decided ever since it looked like this pregnancy would take. She's been numb enough, she doesn't want the haze of anesthesia anymore — she wants to remember every moment, every contraction, every push, take it all in, revel in the pain of their miracle. She's tough; she willingly let surgeons cut open her legs (twice), she trained harder than anyone she's ever known, she's surmounted every obstacle that stood in her way (their way). She can do this.

She regrets it approximately eight hours into labor, but she hangs on tight. She doesn't want to give their families the satisfaction of being right.

"Are you sure you don't want anything for the pain?" he asks, letting her crush all twenty-seven bones in his left hand.

She struggles to breathe evenly and even speak. "Please don't tempt me," she pleads, tears at the corners of her eyes, sweat beading on her forehead, matting her hair.

"I don't like seeing you in this much pain," he says, brushing her hair back and wiping her brow. "I can't do anything about it."

"Don't let go of my hand," she asks.

"When have I ever?" he smiles.

Ironically enough, she doesn't remember a lot of what happens next. She feels like she pushes for hours on end and she's pretty sure she tells everyone to go fuck themselves at some point. But then… then she feels an unbearable pressure down there before a final pop, a bit of wiggling, a slide, and finally she hears a high-pitched cry.

"It's a girl!" Scott yells out and she hears him cut the cord. "It's a girl, Tess! She looks just like you!" She's never heard him this excited before. She feels the electricity hum out of his body.

A few seconds later, she feels a warm and wet body being put on her naked chest. She looks down; her throat closes up, her pulse starts quickening, and tears fills her eyes. It feels like her heart has just grown ten sizes bigger.

"Hi," she coos at her baby. "Hi, my love, it's your mommy," she whispers, sliding her little finger into her daughter's teeny tiny fist. "Remember me? I've told you stories and made you listen to a bunch of music?"

Her baby is so warm on her chest and she wiggles so much; she wants to hold her tighter, but is a little afraid to break her. It feels like she may never stop crying from this pure and all-compassing bliss. She hears Scott take a picture and then he's right there next to her head, wiping away her tears, kissing her with abandon — her temple, her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her jaw, and all over again, whispering words of love and adoration against her clammy skin.

He strokes his daughter's cheek and hand with one finger. "Hi, Liv," he whispers, wiping away his own tears. "You are so loved and so wanted."

"I love you both so much," Tessa says, her voice quivering as she presses her baby a little closer to her.

"We love you too," Scott says, beaming with happiness and kissing her again.

"Thank you," she whispers against his lips. He tastes salty and sweet.

He laughs. "Why are you thanking me?" he asks. "You're a warrior, Tess. You just gave me the best gift I could ever ask for."

"For twenty-seven years together," she says, pressing her lips against his, over and over again. "And for Liv."

"It's just the beginning, Tessa Jane," he says, kissing her cheekbone, tasting her tears. "It's just the beginning."