But Maggie Jones said, It happens. For all kinds of reasons, for reasons you can’t anticipate or expect or know about. It could be something else. You just don’t know always what’s going on. You want to be sure.
Even though she felt in herself that she was sure because for one thing she had never missed before. Until the last months she’d always been as predictable as clockwork, and because for some time she’d been feeling different, not just the way she felt in the morning when she was still at home and could feel it rising even before she was all the way awake, or when her mother came in and made it worse smoking, standing over her in the bathroom watching her, but other times too when she had a private feeling that she didn’t know how to talk about or to explain to anyone. And there were still other things, when she was feeling tired and about to cry, having to cry for no good reason. Or her breasts feeling too tender, she’d noticed that sometimes at night when she got into bed, and look at her nipples, how they were now, all swollen dark.
But Maggie Jones said, Still you want to be sure.
And so she, Maggie Jones, had brought the kit home from the store one evening. They were out in the kitchen. Maggie Jones said, At least try it. Then we’ll know for sure.
You think I should?
Yes, I think you should.
How do I? she said.
It says here, you hold the absorbent tip in the urine stream. Hold it under you while you go. Then you wait for five minutes and if both lines turn red in the viewing window, then you are. Here. Take it.
You mean now? the girl said.
Why not?
But Mrs. Jones, I don’t know. It seems strange. Deciding about it this way, so definite and you here knowing what I’m doing.
Honey, Maggie Jones said. You’ve got to wake up. It’s time for you to wake up now.
So she took the small flat box with the kit in it and the picture on top of the young honey-haired woman with the look of religious exaltation on her face and the sunshiny garden stretched out behind her, full of what could have been roses though that wasn’t clear, took it into the bathroom and locked the door and opened the kit and did what it said, holding it in place under herself while she spread her knees, dribbling a little on her fingers, but she couldn’t be bothered by that now, and afterward she set it out on the counter and waited thinking: What if I am? But I might not be, how would that feel after these weeks believing I was, that could be worse, the loss of that after already beginning to wonder about it and plan on it a little, thinking ahead. But what if I am? Then she knew it was time enough, more than the five minutes required, and she looked inside the window and both lines were colored, so she was. She stood up and looked in the mirror at her face. I knew I was anyway, she said to herself, I felt sure, so why should this be any different, that already it would show in my face, it wouldn’t, it doesn’t, not even in my eyes.
She unlocked the door and took the kit out to the kitchen and showed it to Maggie Jones who looked inside the little window. Well, honey, yes, she said. Now we know. Are you all right?
I think I am, the girl said.
Good. I’ll make you an appointment.
You have to do that already?
It’s better to go right away. You don’t want to be careless. You should’ve gone before this. Do you have somebody you go to?
No.
When was the last time you saw anyone? For any reason.
I don’t know, the girl said. Six or seven years ago. I was sick then.
Who was it?
It was an old man. I don’t remember his name.
That would be Dr. Martin.
But Mrs. Jones, the girl said. Isn’t there a woman doctor I could go to?
Not here. Not in Holt.
Maybe I could go to another town.
Honey, Maggie Jones said. Victoria. Listen to me. You’re here now. This is where you are.