A/N:
I'm so grateful that people are still reading this!
Thanks to everyone who is persevering with this story - and for all of your lovely comments,
Much love!
LI – Blood
The shrill ring of the phone causes him jump out of his seat. He snatches the handset from its cradle.
"Yep," he spits.
"Ok, there are two pink crosses," she says, "according to the instructions, that's a positive result."
It seems too good to be true.
"You should get the blood test," he says, "I want to be sure."
"Ok," she says, "You know best. I don't want to make an appointment here, I want to come home early."
"Good," he cannot argue with this, "when?"
"I'll catch the next available flight. Hopefully I'll be back tonight around seven-ish."
"I'll make an appointment for you at a 24 hour clinic," he says.
"Ok…good…thanks."
There is a temporary silence. Empty, but comfortable.
"Greg."
"Yeah?"
"I spent years trying not to get pregnant… I never ever thought I would be so happy to see two pink crosses on a pregnancy test."
"I never ever thought I would be so pleased at the prospect of having knocked someone up."
She laughs.
"So I'll see you around 7:30ish?" she asks.
"I'll pick you up from the airport and we can go straight to the clinic."
"Ok.'
………
On the plane, for some of the time she sleeps.
Odd – she has never been able to sleep on planes – it is the most unnatural, curious environment – to be sleeping in the presence of so many other unknown primates.
She dreams about water and sky and something – something to do with the trip.
Endless blue.
The dream is disconnected, hazy – just a serious of random images, colours and shapes.
She jolts awake suddenly, startling the woman beside her. She has felt something. Something familiar.
She recognises the soft flutter in her womb.
"Are you ok honey?" the woman asks, peering over her thick framed reading glasses, concern evident in her expression and her voice.
"Ah, yeah," Lee replies, smiling, "I'm good."
The woman nods and returns her smile.
Lee settles back in her seat, rearranging the wool blanket, pulling it up to her shoulders, turning on her side and continuing to smile to herself.
………
At the airport she spots him immediately, standing tall above everyone else, leaning on his cane. He is unmistakable, a real character – her Greg. Messy greying hair, bright blue eyes, three day growth of whiskers. Unshaven, unkempt. He scrutinises the crowd, meticulously eyeing every passer – watching for her.
Her smile comes uncontrollably, spreading across her face. She loves seeing him waiting for her at the airport. She feels like she is home even though she is in a public place. He smiles knowingly and wraps his arms around her – his heavy black coat opening with his arms, almost hiding her completely from the crowd.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"How are you?"
"Well I vomited about five times on the plane – and I slept a lot."
"Good," he says enthusiastically.
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah Great – they actually had nice food this time around, and I couldn't even keep it down."
"Hmmm," he mutters, and his expression tells her that he has gone into doctor mode again, "I guess any turbulence would have made it worse… a virus would have only lasted about 24 hours…"
"I am pregnant," she announces, interrupting his spiel before he is able sprout any more medical jargon or differential diagnoses, "I can feel it."
He regards her doubtfully.
"Well let's find out for sure, huh?"
She nods and bends to retrieve the handbag she had taken into the cabin as her carry-on luggage, but he swoops down, playfully slaps her hand away and snatches it from her. She giggles and allows him to take it.
"No heavy lifting," he says with a wink.
………
He holds her hand tightly in the waiting room of the clinic.
She doesn't know whether she is happier just to see him again, or whether it is the thought that she may have his baby growing inside her. She never imagined herself in this position, at one stage she even thought of it as her worst nightmare. She had been in love before and yet there had never been a man whose baby she would consider having. She imagined that if she ever fell pregnant, it would be an accident. She never imagined actually planning to get pregnant. The thought had once filled her with fear, but now she only feels a warm, glowing contentment. The way she feels about this pregnancy reflects the intensity of her love for him. She knows it is not just the biological urge that most women have. She thinks less of woman who want a baby simply as a play thing – just for the sake of it. Her elation about this pregnancy is more to do with the fact that it is his baby. She feels as if it would be a privilege to have his child. Sometimes the intensity of her love shocks her – it feels unnatural, a force to be reckoned with.
He has a 'Time' magazine propped on his right knee, and he flips through the pages quickly with his free hand, seemingly uninterested in its contents.
She turns her hand over, the fingers of his left hand still tangled with hers. She lifts their joined hands to her face, inspecting his wedding band.
The ring – simple, plain, platinum, symbolic.
It is unpretentious, strong, real, like their relationship.
She kisses his hand and he turns to her and smiles.
………
He is his usual rude, pushy self as they are paying at the counter.
"How long til you call us?" he barks at the receptionist.
"Twenty-four to forty-eight hours," the woman replies.
"Twenty-four…" he starts, "no, that won't do. You have no idea of what an arduous task it's been for me to try and knock her up!"
The woman wrinkles her nose in disgust and Lee simply grins, prodding at the cotton-ball taped to the inside of her elbow. She is amused and not at all surprised by this comment.
"We need to know as soon as possible," he adds.
"We can put a priority notice on it, but it will cost an extra forty-five dollars," the woman says.
He opens his wallet and places a fifty dollar bill on the counter with a slap of his hand.
"Do that," he says.
………
She settles into the passenger seat, adjusting her seatbelt over her shoulder before gently rolling the sleave of her pale lemon coloured v-neck sweater down over the cotton-ball bandage and her forearm.
She watches him, staring out through the windshield, one hand gripping the steering wheel in that lazy cool way he drives.
She recognises the expression on his face – pensive, broody, dark.
She knows this all too well. He is over thinking, over analysing, imagining the worst. She knows that next come the cold stares, dismissive grunts and the distance between them.
But knowing his moods – being able to predict them, puts her one step ahead. She has the chance to intervene before things get out of hand.
"I know what you're thinking," she says and he turns to her immediately.
"Oh?!" he snaps, narrowing his eyes at her.
Sure enough, there is a viciousness to his tone, an iciness to his piercing stare.
It is as if the temperature in the car has dropped – suddenly and dramatically.
She proceeds, nonetheless.
"You're thinking: what if the test comes back negative," she says.
She realises that while she has already accepted that she is pregnant – and has begun to think and act accordingly, he will not accept the notion. He needs facts – evidence. It is as if he believes that it is too good to be true.
There is a long pause before he sighs and turns to her.
"What if you're not pregnant?" his voice is soft again, "or what if something goes wrong again? What if we can't have a family?"
She smiles and reaches across to place a hand gently on his knee.
"Then it will be ok," she says, "we already have a family – it's just you and I, but we are a family."
He nods and stares out through the windscreen again.
……….
"Oh I missed home!" she exclaims, throwing her handbag onto the sofa and kneeling to accept the smelly messy greeting from the dog.
"You mean: you missed House," he says, discarding her suitcase by the door and holding her arms as she stands in front of him.
He is smiling again and it makes her incredibly happy.
"Yes," she says, sinking into his embrace.
She leads him to the sofa and sits beside him and then her lips are pecking at his cheek, his forehead, his nose. Her fingers are tracing his ear and playing with his earlobe. He turns his head to catch her mouth with his.
"You know it's been exactly two hundred and forty three hours since I last saw you," he mumbles against her lips, "two hundred and forty nine since we last had sex…"
"Well that's not exactly true," she corrects him, "we had phone sex last Wednesday – don't tell me you forget."
"Oh, I remember," he says, "you had started without me and so you practically came as soon as I answered the phone."
"I couldn't help it," she giggles, "I bought new lingerie and I started thinking about showing it to you – next thing I knew, I was on the bed touching myself and I just had to hear your voice."
"Oh god," he moans, dragging his lips over her neck, "you can show me now…"
She moans into his mouth as his hands dip under the hem of her sweater, fingertips making patterns around her navel, while her own hands are at his back – making circles on the fabric of his shirt.
They are rudely interrupted by the phone, and at first they both choose to ignore it, continuing with their rigorously enthusiastic kissing.
After a moment, a sudden realisation hits her and she pulls back from him.
"The results!" she exclaims, and his eyes widen before he reaches behind the arm of the sofa to answer the phone.
"Hello?" he says, eagerly waiting for the caller to identify themselves.
"Yes," he says, nodding, his eyes fixed with hers.
Her hands clench into fists and her entire body becomes tense. She has already guessed the results, but she is awaiting confirmation for his sake, so that it may put his mind to rest.
"Yes," he says, "yes, what is her current beta HCG level?"
She raises an eyebrow.
"Ok, what about her progesterone levels?"
She feels the unpleasant sensation of anxiety beginning to creep. This conversation is taking too long, the expression on his face is too sombre, he is asking too many questions.
"Ok good," he says finally, "thank you."
He replaces the phone on its cradle and she grasps his arm.
"What did they say?"
"Your beta HCG and progesterone levels are good…" he starts.
"Lay language Greg," she pleads with him.
"Ah, beta human chorionic gonadotrophin and progesterone are two hormones detected to increase in pregnant women," he explains, "the progesterone helps to build the lining of the uterus for the fertilised egg to implant into, and the HCG hormone starts to be released into the woman's blood stream soon after the zygote has implanted into the lining of her uterus."
She stares at him blankly.
"Ok," she says, "what do my HCG and progesterone levels tell us?"
"Yours are good. HCG is 10 and progesterone is 23 – that's nice and stable, good high numbers. It's regarded as a positive pregnancy test, but…"
"But?!" she demands, feeling the palpitations of her heart.
"I think you should get tests over the next few weeks – every 2 or 3 days. We need to monitor the levels. If they continue to increase, it's likely that the pregnancy will continue, if they start to decrease, that's a sign that pregnancy will, or is in the process of miscarrying."
She releases a long shuddering sigh, holding her hand to her mouth – hot tears burning behind her eyes.
He watches her reaction, obviously aware that his 'physician-to-patient' style delivery has frightened her.
"Hey," he says warmly, smiling and kissing her forehead, "don't worry, this is all standard procedure, the most important thing is that you're pregnant!"
His apparent joy is all she needs to recover her own.
She slings an arm around his shoulders, burring her face in the crook of her neck.
"Come here," he says, standing and taking her hand.
She stands and follows him to the bookshelf on the far wall. He rummages through their CD collection, tossing cases aside, finally selecting one.
He opens the lid of the stereo and drops the CD into place.
An electric guitar riff and the strong backbeat of a punk-rock song begins.
"What's this?" she asks, grinning.
"Celebratory sex music," he replies, brushing her hair from her shoulder so that he is able to swoop and kiss her neck, "'Penetration,' by Iggy Pop and the Stooges."
"Ah," she responds with a laugh, "very appropriate."
He advances on her, backing her through the open door of their bedroom until her legs bump against the bed and she jolts and falls back to sit on the mattress.
He gestures for her to raise her arms and pulls her sweater over her head, swiftly discarding it on the floor. She reaches up, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him into a deep, open mouthed kiss. He leans into her and they fall back on the mattress together, shuffling to lie straight with their heads on the pillows before continuing their enthusiastic groping and kissing. The movements match the pace of the music – a steady, dirty rhythm.
His hands fumble down between their bodies and he manages to pop the button on her grey jeans and ease the zipper open.
She clutches his thick upper arms – his flexed biceps, and gasps against his mouth as his hand slips behind the gaping fly of her jeans and his fingers press at her clit through the thin cotton material of her white panties. She grinds herself against him, moaning and flicking her tongue into his mouth and all the while their activities are narrated by Iggy Pop screaming: "Penetraaaaate, penetraaaaate me!"
"Oh my god!" she exclaims.
"I know," he moans with delight – one hand groping her breast, the other inside her jeans, "this is way better than phone sex."
"No," she mutters, clutching his forearms and pulling back from him abruptly.
The colour appears to have drained from her cheeks – her skin has a distinctive pallor and her brow: a sheen of perspiration.
"I think I'm going to…" before she is able to finish the sentence she turns and leaps from the foot of the bed. She launches herself into the bathroom, catching her hand on the door frame and swinging around to drop on her knees in front of the toilet.
He raises a brow as he hears the inelegant sounds of her retching echo in the small tiled bathroom.
Sighing, he straightens himself out, eases off the bed and hobbles – sans cane, nursing a throbbing erection – to join her in the bathroom.
"Well I've been rejected once or twice in my life," he says, watching her heaving and gasping, embracing the bowl, "but this is the first time a woman has vomited at the prospect of sleeping with me."
Slowly, she raises her head to look at him. Her eyes seem dark and her lashes are heavy. She blinks at him – once, twice, and then her expression cracks – her bottom lip quivers and she begins to sob.
"Hey, hey, hey," he coos – surprising himself with the softness of his tone, "it was just a joke."
With great effort, he kneels beside her, draping one long arm around her trembling, bare shoulders. She is dressed only in her jeans and white lace bra.
"I know," she wails, hiccupping and wiping her nose with a square of toilet paper, "but we haven't seen each other for two hundred and something-or-other hours and I really wanted to…"
"You know those flannelette pyjamas of yours – the really hideous hot pinks ones with the rabbits?" he says, interrupting her.
She nods.
"I'll go get them – you run yourself a bath, and we'll have Vegemite toast for dinner, ok?"
She smiles. "Ok."
