“So no more feeling guilty,” she says. “Okay?”
I nod again, thinking that that is way easier said than done. And I’m beginning to see that I might be feeling guilty for more than bringing a man to a party.
* * *
eighteen
Jess is three days late getting her period and is vacillating between panic and jubilation. I know all about Jess’s pregnancy “scares.” She’s probably had about a hundred since I’ve known her. In fact, one of the first conversations we ever had was in the bathroom on our freshman hall. She emerged from a stall, pumping her fist, announcing, “I got my period!” I laughed and told her congratulations, feeling in awe of a girl who would be so open with a virtual stranger.
Jess has mostly been on the pill since that incident at Princeton, but she consistently forgets to take it. She’ll look down at her packet of pills and exclaim, “Shit! What’s today? Wednesday?” and notice that the last white pill to be poked through foil is marked “Sunday.” At this point, she typically swallows three down at once. I always tell her the same thing: Take the thing at the same time every day. Put it by your toothbrush. Leave a note on your mirror .
But she doesn’t. Or won’t. Instead, she carries the pills around in her purse, forgetting to switch them with her choice of handbag. Then there are the times when she fails to fill the prescription altogether. Or the times when she is, in her words, “giving her body a break.”
I think subconsciously, or maybe even consciously, Jess enjoys the drama. There is no other explanation for why such an intelligent woman would behave so haphazardly. She must thrive on our conversations about what she (we) will do if, this time, she really is pregnant. Will she have it? Will she get an abortion? Will she have it and put it up for adoption? The answer changes according to the guy, the time in her life, the wind.
Although I must say, this time seems different. This time Jess really wants the baby. Or maybe she just wants Trey. She continues to dance around a full-on confession, but all facts indicate that Jess tried to get pregnant. She apparently “forgot” to tell Trey that she hadn’t renewed her pill prescription. And she’s “pretty sure” that she had sex with him on day fifteen of her twenty-nine-day cycle.
I can tell that she believes that Trey will be with her if she’s pregnant with his baby. I, on the other hand, am absolutely certain that Trey is going nowhere. He will not leave his wife. Nor will he even tell his wife. In fact, knowing Jess’s luck (although it’s hard to use the word luck when someone is utterly self-destructive), it would turn out that Trey’s wife is pregnant also. I can just imagine the two babies being born in the same month. Maybe even on the same day. They will grow up on separate coasts with no knowledge of the other. Or at least Trey’s legitimate son will have no knowledge of his father’s illegitimate daughter. Jess likely will tell her daughter the truth about everything at a suitable age (an age we will debate for years). Then the two offspring will attend the same college and meet in their freshman composition class. He will fall in love with her, at which time she will be forced to tell him the truth about their father.
None of it would surprise me. Nothing ever surprises me when it comes to Jess.
On the third night of Jess’s missed period, we go get sushi at Koi, a restaurant on Second Avenue near her apartment, even though it is Friday night, and we both had planned to go to separate parties. I’m too tired, and Jess says she has no interest in partying when she can’t drink.
“C’mon, Jess. Do you really think you’re pregnant?” I say, as I break apart my chopsticks.
Jess rattles off her symptoms. She says she’s been exhausted and bloated. She says her boobs feel heavy and sore. She says she can just tell. She knows.
I look at her, thinking I’ve heard it all before. I say, “First, you know that those are also premenstrual symptoms. Second, you are a hypochondriac who wants to be pregnant. You’re going to feel things.”
“I’m not a hypochondriac,” Jess says indignantly.
“Yeah, you are,” I say. “How about the time we went camping and you just knew that you had Lyme disease? You actually joined an online support group for victims!”
“Yeah. I had all the symptoms,” she says. “That was so weird.”
“You thought you had all the symptoms.”
She dabs her napkin to her lips and says, “Well. I think we should get a test after dinner.”
I sigh and say, “How many dollars do you think you’ve spent on those tests?”
“I’m telling you. This time feels different.”
“Okay,” I say. “So tell me. What will you do if you’re pregnant and Trey still won’t leave his wife?”
“He will.”