Page 71 of Harbor Me

Oh, no.

Shit.

My pills. Covered in dust along the folded edge. I slide the foil card out of the sleeve, and the little printed letters under the blisters are right there. SUN. MON. TUE.

The last empty pocket sits over SUN. Every blister after it is still sealed. Two full rows, untouched. I didn’t take one today. Or even last Sunday.

The Sunday he fired me was the last time I remembered to take my contraception.

The packet must have slipped down behind the bed when I was tossing and turning that night, and in the state I’ve been in, it never crossed my mind again. Not once. Morning after morning of getting up and getting dressed in a fog and going into that office, knowing he’ll be there and I probably won’t get so much as a glimpse of him, and the word pill never once showed up in my head.

And on Monday he came inside me.

The marks his fingers left on my hips have gone yellow at the edges. I've watched them fade bit by bit all week, mourning the disappearance of the proof of the last time he touched me. Not once did it occur to me that there could be another form of proof taking root in me.

I’m not usually irresponsible. I’ve just been struggling so hard to look like someone functioning normally that there’s nothing left for things that go beyond survival.

I could be pregnant right now.

I sit down on the bare mattress with the packet in both hands. There's no way to know. It's too early for my body to tell me anything. Too early to buy a test and get a conclusive answer. And there's no buying one at Ellie's anyway without it being all over town by supper. I don't even know when my period is due anymore. The thing that decides that has been lying in the dust behind my bed.

He fired me for keeping the truth from him. If I walk up that hill and tell him I’m pregnant, he will never in his life believe it was an accident. He'll look at a woman he fired for lying, suddenly carrying his baby, and he'll think I did it on purpose. That I trapped him. One more thing I engineered and didn't mention, the biggest one yet. And the worst part is that I can follow his logic the whole way to the conclusion. I lied about so many things. Why on earth would he believe me about this.

I’m not telling anyone. If it turns out that I am pregnant, I’ll deal with it on my own.

Taking a pill today won’t fix anything, and it’s not like I’m ever having sex again. This shop is closed. I put the packet on the bedside table and stare out the window for God knows how long.

The bed is still angled out in the middle of the room. The bucket of water by the door has gone gray. In a daze I pour it out and fill it with clean water. Then I pick the rag back up and rewash the floor I've already cleaned, never even realizing it in my zoned-out state.

The knock comes while I'm on my knees behind the bed, startling me so badly my elbow catches the bucket and slops half of it across the boards I just double cleaned.

It’s probably Marcus or Carol, bringing more food. I know they mean well, but I have no appetite and the effort of pretending to be okay is worse than the loneliness. I’d honestly rather just be left to wallow and live off shredded cheese and blueberries. Which is all I currently have in my fridge.

"One second."

I toss a towel on the puddle of dirty water and grab the pill packet off the bedside table and push it deep into my back pocket. Then I wipe my hands on my jeans and open the door.

Nora Cole is standing on my landing in a Sunday cardigan, taking in the rag on my shoulder, my wet knees and messy hair, and the bed sitting diagonally across the middle of the apartment behind me.

This nice woman is surely here to tell me off for hurting her son, and I’m pretty sure this is the thing that’s going to push me over the edge entirely.

"You’re either spring-cleaning or moving out," she says.

"Cleaning." It comes out a bit slow, because the second option is the exact thing I've spent all day scrubbing my way around. At the end of the month, I’ll have to go. There’s nothing here for me. I can’t live in the same town as Aiden knowing he hates me.

She steps past me without waiting for an invitation, walks around the wet towel, and settles on the end of my bare mattress as if a stripped bed parked in the middle of a room is exactly where she intended to sit.

"I'd offer you coffee, but I’m out of milk. And sugar. And coffee."

"Water's fine."

She takes the glass and doesn't drink from it, looking at me until I stop pretending to tidy and lean against the counter with mine.

"I’m sure you’re wondering why I'm here."

"I’m pretty sure I already know."

"Friday I took your papers."