A/N This is a derivative work of the 2007 movie / 2016 Broadway musical Waitress. This story is gayer and more angsty and has a completely different, happier ending. If you haven't seen it, no worries, you will be able to follow the story 100%. I almost prefer people not be familiar with it. I can't take credit for the overall plot, but the execution and style are all mine.
T/W Clarke's husband is human garbage.
Clarke stares at the pie case, its rotating tiers spinning in endless circles. She feels like that pie case; twirling in place, arms laden with pies, never getting anywhere. The pies are the only reason she's here; she's been baking and waiting tables at JoJo's diner for eight years, but she's been stuck in this town her whole life. Getting out now is about as likely as the pie case sprouting legs and walking down the highway, hitching a ride, and disappearing into the sunset.
"It's time, sweetie," Margie says, sidling up beside her and bumping her hip with her own as she tucks her billfold into her apron pocket. "You've put it off long enough."
Clarke would make a face if she weren't so exhausted.
"Could be a false alarm," Margie offers with a little shrug.
This time Clarke casts her a dubious look. She hasn't taken the test yet, but she knows. The symptoms are all there: fatigue, bodyaches, nausea. That and the fact that her period is four weeks late.
"Want me to come in?" Margie offers.
Clarke swallows and nods, walking toward the bathroom Stef is cleaning.
Stef looks up with a bright smile as Clarke and Margie enter. She's young and perky and reminds Clarke of herself when she was younger.
"What'chu two up to?" she asks.
Margie gives her a pointed look and Stef quiets her expression. "Oh," she says, subdued.
Margie hands Clarke the box and Clarke opens it, unwrapping the test stick.
She feels blank. She knows she ought to feel panicked or at least a little anxious, but she can't find it inside her to feel anything. After being on her feet for nine hours - including the lunch break she spent making a pistachio cream pie – she doesn't have any energy to put into anything. She'll be lucky if she can even undress before she climbs into bed tonight.
She pees on the white stick, tapping it on the bowl as Stef and Margie prattle on about something they overheard a customer say earlier. She knows they're talking for her benefit, to pretend this isn't as bad a situation as it is.
Of everything in her life, Stef and Margie are the least awful. They're not really her friends; Clarke hasn't had friends in years. They're friendly though, and if anyone has to be with her when she gets confirmation of what she already knows, she's glad it's them.
Once she sets the test on a paper towel on the sink, it's unavoidable. They can't pretend the next two minutes aren't tense.
"C'mon now," Stef drawls, looking down at the stick. "Just the one little line. We don't want no baby."
Clarke fixes her hair in the mirror, pulling her ponytail tighter, smoothing her powder-blue uniform over her stomach. She wonders how much longer her uniform will fit.
"We don't need no baby," Margie echoes, tapping her acrylic nails on the counter as though challenging the test to defy her.
Clarke sighs, looking around the bathroom with its faded floral wallpaper, smelling the overwhelming cinnamon of the air freshener.
Cinnamon.
She closes her eyes.
Bittersweet chocolate pudding with cinnamon and just a hint of chili pepper, served with banana slices on top and a dollop of whipped cream.
She pictures the ingredients folding together in the bowl, melted to perfection as she pours it into the pie crust, then sliding into the oven, filling JoJo's diner with the scent of chocolate and real cinnamon. Nothing like the synthetic crap itching her nose right now.
Margie's nail stops tapping on the counter and Clarke is pulled from her baking reverie.
She looks first to the girls' faces. They're trying to hold back a wince. She doesn't need to look at the test to know.
"God dammit," she says under her breath. She's not surprised, just resentful of the confirmation. She lowers the lid of the toilet and sits, putting her face in her hands. "I should never drink. I do stupid things when I drink, like have sex with my husband."
"I'm sorry, Sugar," Margie drawls, stepping closer and putting a hand on Clarke's knee.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, Clarke," Stef echoes.
Clarke lets out a heavy sigh, then sits up, keeping her eyes closed. She's acclimated to the synthetic cinnamon now, and she can make out hints of sour egg on her uniform. The scent clings to things in the kitchen, no matter what kind of pie she makes. Chocolate, strawberry rhubarb, banana cream, apple. None of them quite wash that sour diner smell out.
Must be another pregnancy thing. She smells eggs everywhere now.
Eggs.
Quiche with ham and basil and sliced up cherry tomatoes, served hot with a sprinkling of melted parmesan.
"Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?" Margie asks after a moment of silence.
"Tomorrow's lunch special."
"I'm sure it'll be delicious," Stef assures her. She looks down at the test, picking it up in the towel. "You want this?"
Clarke shakes her head. "I don't want to tell Chad yet."
Margie gives a pouting nod. "We'll sit outside with you 'til he comes."
Clarke doesn't argue, just stands and splashes a water on her face before going to her locker.
Before she picks up her purse, she takes the piece of paper folded in quarters out from its spot against the side of her locker. She opens it, reading it for the tenth time that day.
Washoba County Annual Pie Bake-Off
July 4th, Alabama Fairgrounds
$15,000 cash reward
Must register by June 15
She stares at it, wondering for the tenth time if it's real. It seems too good to be true: a contest of the one thing she's good at with a cash prize big enough to buy her freedom.
She doesn't want to get her hopes up. She thinks she has a good shot at winning, but Chad probably won't let her go, especially if he suspects she's up to something. If she's going to ask, she has to be strategic, and she doesn't have the energy or nerve for that tonight.
She takes off her apron and picks up her purse before walking out to the parking lot.
JoJo's Diner sits right on the highway, a long, squat little building with a gravel parking lot. There are no fancy signs or lights directing travelers here on their way through town, but they find their way, sitting amongst the locals, eating slice after slice of the pies Clarke bakes.
Stef and Margie take a seat on the little brick wall that holds a lackluster bed of flowers outside the door. There's a spot between them for Clarke, and Clarke sinks down in it.
"Whatcha gonna do?" Stef asks.
"Go home and heat this up for Chad," Clarke says, lifting the takeout box of macaroni pie in her hand.
"I mean about the baby."
Clarke shrugs. "Not much to do."
"You could get rid of it."
Clarke slumps. "State law says Chad has to consent."
Stef and Margie cluck their tongues. They understand Chad's about as likely to agree to that as the pie case running away.
"I don't envy you," Margie says, sighing out at the dark parking lot. "But... there are worse things."
Clarke nods, but she wonders what those worse things might be. She hates her husband, hates her life, hates the baby growing inside her.
The only thing she likes is baking pies.
"You gonna go to the doctor?"
Clarke nods. She has an appointment in two days anyway, her annual pap smear with Dr. Bollinger.
She stares at the gravel in front of her, wondering if she can name tomorrow's special I Don't Want Chad's Baby Pie, vaguely aware Stef and Margie are talking about Margie's boobs and how Margie thinks they're lopsided.
She sees the headlights and hears the blaring horn and scraping of gravel as Chad pulls into the parking lot, almost skidding as he breaks in front of them. He doesn't even roll down the window and barely waits until Clarke has closed the door before flooring the gas, leaving Stef and Margie in a cloud of dust as Clarke scrambles to put on her seatbelt.
Clarke smells the bitterness of his chewing tobacco that permeates the car and feels something lurch in her stomach. Maybe it's the baby, but the sourness of it makes her extra sick tonight. He's got something in his mouth now, but Clarke can tell from the snapping it's gum. She's not sure which she hates more, the chew that leaves yellow stains on their porch and sidewalk, or the gum and its awful, incessant snapping.
"How much you make today?" Chad asks without greeting.
"About fifty," Clarke says, reaching into her pocket to pull out the wad of bills.
"Just fifty?" Chad makes a flatulent sound with his mouth. "It almost ain't worth you working there if you ain't even gonna make minimum wage. I'd rather keep you home making pies for me ." He holds out his hand, waiting for Clarke to hand her earnings over.
Tucked into the side of her bra under her arm, Clarke feels the soft fold of bills she put there on her lunch break, the thirty dollars she'll tuck into a tin or in the couch springs or under the mattress once Chad is asleep.
Clarke grips the door handle, trying not to imagine the awfulness of being home with Chad every day.
"Jo depends on me," she offers.
"I depend on you," Chad snorts. "You don't owe that dumb bitch nothing."
Clarke should be used to Chad's casual hatred by now, but she isn't.
"Are you gonna ask me how I am?" Chad asks, glaring at her.
"How are you, Chad?" Clarke asks. She tries as hard as she can to keep any trace of mocking out of her voice. She has to play this just right if she has any hope of keeping her evening peaceful.
"Like you mean it," Chad demands.
"How are you?" Clarke tries again.
"I'm okay," Chad says, eyes back on the road, suddenly casual. The transformation is startling.
Clarke is encouraged. "How was work?"
"Aw, you know…" Chad begins. He's quiet for a moment, then starts to drawl on about something his boss did that ticked him off.
The car swerves around a corner and Clarke feels her insides rearrange themselves. She thinks of the baby, pictures it sucking her energy from her through a straw, and hopes she can pacify Chad enough that he'll leave her alone so she can go to bed early. She pictures her bed, imagines the softness of the pillow, and the sweet slipping away of consciousness.
It's the best thing besides baking Clarke knows.
"Did you hear what I said?" Chad demands.
Clarke startles back into the car. "Yes."
"What did I say?"
"You were going on about how unfair your boss was being."
"About what though?"
"About…" Clarke knows she made a mistake.
"Dammit, Clarke, how come you never listen to me?" Chad asks, slamming the steering wheel. It makes Clarke jump a little.
At least this time he only hits the steering wheel.
"I'm sorry, Chad," she says, hoping she sounds contrite enough. "I'm tired. I'll try to listen better."
"Damn right you will. And we'll talk about you working at JoJo's. I don't like you being so tired all the time."
Clarke swallows, knowing Chad doesn't mean the conversation is open for her to start.
Clarke has been Dr. Bollinger's patient for twenty-six years now. More, if she counts the time her mother spent in Dr. Bollinger's care while pregnant with Clarke. Dr. Bollinger is always cheerful and glad to see her, and Clarke wonders what it must be like to have a job she loves as much as Dr. Bollinger seems to love her work. Clarke loves making pies, but she could leave waitressing in a heartbeat.
She sits in the waiting room, a converted foyer in the old Victorian house of Dr. Bollinger's practice. She eyes the parenting magazines, the pregnancy booklets, the breastfeeding pamphlets. They seem to mock her. Soon she'll balloon up like the women in the magazines and she'll be too big to get out of town. She clings to the pie she's brought Dr. Bollinger, hoping enough good deeds will win her an ounce of reprieve from her own sadness.
A nurse in navy scrubs greets her, inviting her back into the exam room. She weighs Clarke, takes her blood pressure and temperature, and informs her the doctor will be in shortly. Clarke nods, not making eye contact, dreading Dr. Bollinger's reaction when she tells her. Dr. Bollinger will be happy for her, and Clarke will have to pretend she is too. She grips the pie harder.
After a knock, Clarke braces herself to smile, but instead of Dr. Bollinger, someone Clarke has never seen before walks in. She's young, barely old enough to have finished medical school, stethoscope draped gracefully behind her neck under the thick french braid that collects her wavy brown hair behind her head.
The doctor looks up, lashy, sad doe-eyes meeting Clarke's, and drops her clipboard.
She mutters apologies as she bends over, pen spilling out of her pocket as she tries to pick up the clipboard. Finally she collects herself, standing and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Sorry," she says. Her voice is low and serious and she doesn't smile or indicate she's even trying to be friendly. "Is this for me?" she asks, gesturing to the pie.
Clarke holds the pie closer to her chest. "You're not my doctor."
"I am now." She extends her hand. "Dr. Lexa Woodward."
Clarke tentatively sets the pie in her lap so she can take Dr. Woodward's hand. It's soft and warm, not yet wrinkled and cracked from decades of washing between patients.
"Dr. Bollinger is taking an unexpected sabbatical," Dr. Woodward explains. "I'm not actually sure if she's coming back. I joined her practice a few months ago, and I wasn't expect-"
Dr. Woodward stops mid-sentence, noting the dubious look on Clarke's face.
"Anyway," Dr. Woodward says, brushing the topic away. "I'm seeing Dr. Bollinger's patients now."
"But I've been seeing Dr. Bollinger my whole life. She delivered me."
"She was special to her patients," Dr. Woodward says as she walks to the sink, setting her clipboard on the counter to wash her hands. The clipboard falls again. Her voice is oddly cool and detached. Clarke supposes most doctors are like that. She's just so used to Dr. Bollinger.
The doctor turns back to her, rubbing a paper towel over her hands. "So what seems to be the problem?"
Clarke sighs. At least she doesn't have to pretend to be happy about this with this new doctor. "I seem to be pregnant."
"Congratulations." Dr. Woodward's voice is still detached and cool.
"Thanks, but I don't want this baby or anything that comes with it."
"Oh. I don't really do that-"
"That's not what I meant."
"Okay. We can run the standard tests. But first let me see what's going on," Dr. Woodward says.
Clarke lifts a hand apathetically, flopping it back down on the exam table
The doctor listens to Clarke's heart and lungs, looks in her mouth and eyes and ears. Then she settles onto her stool, rolling to the end of the exam table, and pulls the stirrups up for Clarke to place her feet in.
Clarke should feel strange about someone other than Dr. Bollinger or Chad having anything to do with her more private parts, but she feels a comforting sense of impersonalness as the air hits her.
As the doctor inserts the speculum and examines Clarke, she runs through the standard questions - how long it's been since Clarke had a period, if she's taking any medications, if she's experiencing any morning sickness. It's is quick and it's painless, and soon Clarke feels the speculum being removed.
"You can put your feet down now," the doctor says, turning away to put the swabs and tools back on the tray and into their test kits.
Clarke puts her feet down and smooths her exam gown over her lap.
Then the doctor asks a question that makes Clarke stumble.
"Do you feel safe at home?"
Clarke opens her mouth, speechless for a moment before she finds a response. "Define safe."
"Do you worry about your physical or emotional safety?"
Clarke pauses again, wondering if she should feel bad for lying to her new doctor.
Instead of lying, she finds a loophole.
"No, I don't worry about that."
And it's true. She doesn't worry about it anymore. Chad will yell at her, insult her, maybe even hit her once in awhile, but she's learned not to worry about when it will happen next and if she'll be able to take it. She's taken it for years. She'll survive.
The doctor gives a satisfied bob of her head. "Very well. Get dressed and meet me in Dr. Bollinger's office."
Clarke nods, relieved the exam is over. She dresses and picks up her purse, walking down the hall to the office where she can hear the doctor shuffling around.
It looks as though a hurricane ripped through Dr. Bollinger's office. Files are strewn everywhere, cold coffee cups sit with their cream curdling, and medical textbooks lie open on several surfaces. Even the chair Clarke is supposed to sit in has a stack of files.
Clarke looks around alarmed, still holding the pie.
"Pardon the mess," the doctor says, not looking at Clarke. "Dr. Bollinger left unexpectedly."
Clarke feels a little bit sorry for this new doctor. Clearly she's been left with more than she bargained for with Dr. Bollinger's sudden retirement and the transfer of so many lifelong patients to her care. Clarke extends the pie over the desk. "Here."
Dr. Woodward's eyes flick up, surprised. "For me?"
"No, for the other person in the room."
Dr. Woodward takes the pie, looking for a flat surface to set it on. She settles for moving a few files off a cabinet, setting the pie on top.
Clarke sits in her chair facing the doctor, who sits with her hands braced on the arms of her chair as it rocks a little bit.
The doctor doesn't say anything.
She just stares.
She stares to the point where Clarke feels her skin start to crawl. It's intense and uncomfortable and she doesn't know what to do.
This can't be the person Dr. Bollinger picked to replace her. She's humorless, cold, and young enough to have gone to high school with Clarke.
Desperate to fill the bizarre silence, Clarke asks, "Where did you go to medical school?"
"Johns Hopkins. I did my residency in Auburn. Now I do family practice with a specialty in obstetrics and gynecology," Dr. Woodward says calmly.
Clarke gives a vague nod, as though she knew anything about medical school or residency. Then there's another moment of awkward silence as the doctor continues to stare at Clarke.
"So do I need to do anything, or…"
The doctor reaches for a pen. "Yes. It would appear that you are indeed pregnant, so I'm writing you a prescription for some prenatal vitamins. My assistant will give you a list of good and bad foods, and we'll need to draw some blood. Take it easy with exercise, and as long as you're comfortable, sex is fine. Other than that, call if you have any questions or concerns."
Clarke sighs, thinking of the weight that will soon be upon her. Not just in her body, but in other ways.
She takes the prescription and stands, heading toward the door. When she reaches it, she turns back. "I do have one question."
The doctor looks up, a sudden look of hope on her face.
"How pregnant am I, exactly?"
"All the way pregnant." It's deadpan.
Clarke rolls her eyes. "I mean how far along am I?"
Clarke thinks she sees the doctor blush a little.
"Oh. About eight weeks."
Clarke sighs. "Yep. That's what I thought."
The doctor just stares, unsure how to respond.
"Thanks for your time, Dr. Woodward," Clarke says.
"Be sure to call-"
"-if I have any questions or concerns," Clarke says in annoyance. She leaves the room, closing the door behind her, wondering what kind of bizarre disaster she's fallen into now.
A/N: I've decided to permanently relocate to Archive Of Our Own, so I WILL NOT BE POSTING SUBSEQUENT CHAPTERS HERE. Please head over there and subscribe. It's a much cleaner, easier platform, and chapter 2 is already posted!