One Way or Another by Nikki McWatters Page B

even my own. What a bizarre arrangement, I thought, replacing the mirror on the dressing table. I stared ahead into the larger mirror and tried to look within myself. I leaned forward and studied my face. Did I look different? Yes. I looked ... I looked … terrified.
    All I knew of pregnancy I had learned from the gestations of my two youngest siblings. Rachel was born when I was ten and David when I was twelve. I had enjoyed the days before their births, sitting on the end of Mum’s bed, going through baby-name books. As a little girl I’d had Barbie dolls, but I’d never been charmed by baby dolls or cribs or bottles and nappies. I used to chop my dolls’ hair off, subject them to tragic deaths and bury them in the backyard. Our back lawn was littered with Barbie carcasses. I was appalled by baby poop – that orange mustard – and had worn my fair share of it during my little siblings’ first years. I remembered warmly my dad’s ecstatic reaction to the birth of his only son. The two of us had sat up in the wee hours after Dad returned from the hospital. We ate half a pig of bacon and Dad told me how brave Mum had been and how beautiful David was. I had changed nappies. I had held bottles. I’d cuddled and loved my little siblings and I’d always assumed I’d be a mother one day – but I hadn’t planned for that day to be in 1983.
    My first line of defence was denial. Any twinge of pain in my gut must be an early sign of menstruation. I did fifty star-jumps a day, hoping to shake something loose. I checked the gusset of my knickers like a woman possessed, inserting a testing finger at every opportunity. My finger came up clean and the fabric remained unstained. I tempted fate by wearing white pants and leaving the house without tampons. Pale blue veins appeared on my breasts and I began to spend more time in the loo – not just for checking purposes, but because my bladder seemed suddenly to have the capacity of a thimble.
    Fear began to take hold. This was one situation I could not just ignore away. I scanned the back of the Poet’s LP, searching for a way to contact him. Rock stars did not give out their phone numbers. I scribbled down the names of managers and record company executives, having no real idea how to track him down. Besides, I didn’t want to tell him the news until I knew for sure what I was dealing with. A trip to a doctor seemed unavoidable but I was fearful that my parents would have to be told. My life was an elevator and the walls were closing in.
    I confided in Sam. Her blue eyes gaped and her mouth contorted like a giant clam.
    â€˜Tell me more … ’ she whispered, although there was no-one within earshot. She held my hand as I cried silently, searching for words.
    â€˜But you’re not sure?’ she prompted gently.
    I shook my head, noisily sniffing back tears.
    â€˜Well, let’s find out. I’ll wag English and buy you a test from the chemist. I got paid yesterday,’ she offered. She had a part-time job, cleaning the offices of the Gold Coast Bulletin . A reluctant smile was all I could muster by way of gratitude.
    Although I was not quite two weeks overdue, we took a chance on the test. Pale yellow urine sloshed about the bottom of a Styrofoam cup and we waited, both of us, watching the tiny plastic window of the tester. No positive plus sign and I will go back to church. I will never have sex again. I’ll give all my allowance to the poor or to Annie. I will never, ever crawl out my window again. I will become a nun. Anything.
    But no. The universe was a bastard and the blue cross blinked back at us. We looked at one another. Time stood still. Slowly I emptied the cup into the basin and gave it a rinse, staring at the water gushing from the steel tap. At that moment I wished I could be swirled away along with the condemning juices from my bladder.
    Out in the blinding sunlight, Sam put her arm