Chapter 2 - The Clock
I was nice and warm, with my arms wrapped around Al, with the duvet up to our necks. Lord I should have Al have a look at the heating plant because it was cold in the bedroom. The clock showed it was 6:30. Too early to be awake. Suddenly I had to sit bolt upright, and started to hiccup.
"Mor? You okay?"
I needed to get up and quick! I tossed the covers off, bolted out of bed and ran to the loo down the hall. I slammed the door behind me and fell to my knees in front of the toilet. God, I felt sick. Then I started to throw up.
In a little while I heard Al outside the roor. "Uhm, you okay in there?" he asked. The door creaked open and he looked in.
"I feel awful." I must look awful too, crouching on the floor, with my hair hanging down over most of my face.
He got down on the floor next to me. "Flu?"
I wiped my mouth on loo paper. "Been going around."
"Maybe something you ate? You do look awful, Mor."
"I feel terrible. Bad stomach..." I said, "Water."
He filled the tooth glass from the tap and gave it to me. I sipped from it then spat into the toilet bowl. "Ugh. God, I hate that taste." I drank half the glass down. "Better. Maybe those prawns we had last night?" Before I could say anything more I had to have another go, heaving my guts up into the loo.
When I got a break, Al started to rub my back. "Stop. That doesn't help."
His arm fell away. "Sorry. What's wrong? Call the Doc?"
An little alarm bell started to ring in my mind. "Al, go get the calender. The one in our room." I was mental reviewing the last few weeks. When did I last have it? Oh no. Could it be?
Al dragged himself back to the loo, after I threw up again. That last time I was tied up in knots, my guts in turmoil.
"Calender, Mor." He was pale. "Maybe..." he stuttered. "Uhm, look..."
With shaking hands, I fliped over the pages, seeking information. I compared today's date to the tick marks I had made over the last two months since Al and I moved in together. Every 29 days, and I was regular; I was as regular as a... "Al... uhm..." Regular as a clock; always had been.
He took my hand. "What you think it is?"
The last little tick mark was six weeks ago. Maybe it was... or, I forgot to mark it.
Al peered at me. "Mor, what's wrong?"
I put my hand on my right breast and rubbed it. It was sore and had been for at least a few days, if not two weeks. And my nipples were really sensitive. And I was vomiting - in the morning. Oh my God.
My clock had stopped. I looked at him and tried to smile. With shaking voice, I told him, "Al, I'm pregnant."